Writing (typing, whatever) has always been a way for me to weed out the demons I can dance with from those that try to devour me. I have not done a great job of exorcising those demons these last two years. I would claim an attempt to do better, but I know I will not. The urge to write is seldom felt these days, mostly due to egregious amounts of frustration and anger. I feed off my anger, generally, using it to provoke me in to bettering myself. That has not been the case these past two years. I’ve done well in reconciling my past with who I want to be, overall, but I have learned there is a “full up” point you can reach where you’ve just been through or seen too much. I seem to have hit that point last year and have seen no cessation in the feelings of melancholic apathy. I am angry over several things that have happened. I have two people in particular I wish to lash out at, to rain down wrath upon them such as they deserve. One is untouchable at the moment due to circumstance, and the other I refuse to contact because he does not deserve my time or effort or emotions. And all anger tends to stem from its equal counterpart at some juncture….that counterpart being love (or deep caring/respect/whatever..they all go hand in hand.) So to the person who ever wants an ex to “keep his [sic] name out of their mouths”, I give you this.
I have been a real slackass with writing lately. Nevermind that I write for myself and only share these posts in the hopes something I say helps someone.. These are my catharsis, my therapy, my healing on the path to self-enlightenment and happiness. The past (nearly) two years have been incredibly painful and stressful in multiple ways, and I am attempting to work through a LOT of pent up anger. Well, “anger” does not even come close to encompassing the depth of how I have been feeling, but it will do for now.
A common belief states there are five stages to grief:
In all times of loss, we experience one or more of these stages. I have found, for myself, I never experience denial or bargaining. Ever. I sometimes skip anger, but as that is my bailiwick, I skip it only rarely. My anger fuels me to do, be, experience, see more. When I lose, when I grieve, I generally stomp through anger, depression, and acceptance all at once. Very very rarely, I experience a brief moment of denial, but I generally just accept it and get angry and depressed. I highly dislike feeling or being helpless. I have been so too many times and now it simply pisses me the fuck off. I will find a way to do something about my situation, even if it is only to work towards a better next year. But I am also a worrier, and someone who clings to hurt so I can understand it. Which is rather stupid, really. How the fuck can you really understand the actions of another person without being that person? You cannot. I know this, yet I still have a pressing nearly all-consuming need to understand a thing before I can breathe it out and let it go. Which means I sit in the angry god damn depression for AGES sometimes.
Which brings me to my current (and recent) reality.
I was in a relationship for a little while, until the beginning of last year. Unlike my normal pattern, I feel hard and fast; I was breathlessly entirely in love. Having been through some incredibly painful shit in my past, I commiserate with and am compassionate regarding what others have endured. I am far too lenient with their negativity and bullshit and ashing out. Well, I was. If I cared, I would allow more abuse against my own heart and mind than is ever healthy. Because i understand. I know that pain. I know that anguish. I know that driving need to just get the fucking hurt out! and be done with it. However.. I don’t take my god damn shit out on others, especially those who repeatedly show they support me or love me. That seems a bit counterproductive to me, but I am apparently the exception here.
So I had this thing, with a guy. I met his folk, his grandmother, some cousins, etc. He met a few of mine. I met 3 of his friends, and he didn’t really meet many of mine, either. And not for lack of inviting him to a lot of shit. Hell, he wouldn’t even meet my siblings. Now, I know I have several (6), but when you’re constantly invited and you say no, don’t bitch abut the other person hiding you. Again, that is counterproductive, as well and incredibly puerile. Heh.. I was only invited to meet his dad and grandmother after he bitched about not meeting my family and friends, despite numerous invitations, and me finally getting exasperated enough to snap back at him about his lack of introducing me to anyone. After two years. He has a shitty past, this guy. He hasn’t been “lucky in love” any more than I have been. I get it. But I am no one’s doormat, punching bag, or back burner bitch. Verbally, physically, financially, whatever. There was real actual positive emotion there. But wouldn’t you know, he couldn’t let go of shit other women had done to him. Nope. I must be cheating. Fucking around. He went so far as to track down someone from my past to try to find out if I had been honest about a situation. And then, already knowing this dude was shady, at best, he believed what that guy said about me. Despite providing proof to the contrary. And fucking held that shit that happened years before him over my head. This dude.. he CHASES misery like a junkie chases that next high. He would apparently prefer to be hurting and absolutely miserable and dejected rather than give any sort of happiness a real fucking chance. Hell, he TRIED to get me to pop off at him, to make me angry so he could see how deep my cruelty could go. He actively TOLD me that. And when I’d had enough and gave him perhaps 10% of my anger, he got very quiet and finally said “damn.” I am quite good at destroying someone verbally when I so chose. It is not a point of pride, it is simply truth. I don’t revel in it, as I truly believe there is enough god damn misery and hurt and negativity in this fucked up world without me adding to it one iota. I fucking LOATHE doing shit like that now unless it is deserved. And holy fuck did he, does he, deserve it. Despite that.. That is not the person I want to be. It is inherently who I am at my core, but so is the selfless cunt who gives too much of herself and her heart to those she can, when she can. The cognitive dissonance is brilliantly blinding. But I am not just one side of a coin; I am the entire god damn coin. And I like that, because *I* get to choose who and what and where and how I am. Me. Just me. Only I am in control of me and my words and actions. Only I can be blamed for anything I say or do or am or was.
It got to a point where I was beginning to feel guilty about things I’d done well before I met him or even knew he existed. And when I realized that (quickly, thankfully), I quit taking so much of his shit. I told him I understood, but he needed to clean his shit the fuck up. He did not. We split about two months and I wrote him a letter two years and about two weeks ago outlining all the shit I loved about him. Pouring my heart terrifyingly on to crushed and soaked wood, physically writing and rambling all those things out. Which is a big damn deal for me, because I put everything in to those 22 pages. I type all day, so writing took me hours. I know I rambled. I know I repeated. I didn’t think; I just wrote. And wrote. And wrote. I let everything in me come out. People don’t write love letters any more..so I did. We got back together and things seemed to be honestly getting better. For all of about 6 weeks…then it got worse than it was before. We lasted until January, when i had enough. I stuck it out so he’d not be alone on christmas, which I knew he hated. We went to the beach on New Year’s day. Some sincerely terrible shit happened that I can honestly say I will never fucking forgive him for. He broke that last piece of me that held hope and promise and love, and I fucking let him. Well, not like inviting him in, but I stuck it out too fucking long and let it happen. No; it is not my fault for the physical assault. He took the action and that is something he will have to live with, if he even gives a shit. I fought him off enough that he gave up for whatever reason. But it still broke something in me. He knew my god damn past, and he ass fucked my hurt with no lube or consideration or fucking caring. Heh. And here I am respecting his privacy or whatever enough to not even say what the fuck he did. Why? Maybe because I believe in honour. I believe in not being an honourless fucking cuntmonkey just because the other person is. Maybe because I have genuine respect and maybe even love for myself. Because my god damn word means something to me, at least sometimes. I do not think I can say the same for him.
So I told him to get the fuck out, and he did. I dropped something off to him in February while I was in town and we slept curled up on his couch, one last time. And that is the last time I saw him. I’ve heard from him now and then. I haven’t answered in a long while, because he does not deserve my time or effort or heart or even consideration. To let him back in to my life in even the most minuscule of ways is more than his actions warrant.
And all of this fucking pisses me off. It makes me want to break shit and scream and bleed and fuck things up. It makes me want to put him through the hurt he inflicted on me. But how can you make someone hurt who doesn’t give a real fuck because his head is shoved too far up his own ass due to fear?? You cannot. You just cannot. So I stew in my frothy white-hot anger, still. Why angry? Because there was something real there. Something that could abide and grow and be .. Something that almost makes up for the horrific pasts we endured. There was a chance for us to correct our past fuck ups and turn the future in to something memorable and loving and enjoyable and RIGHT. And instead of even fucking trying, he sank in to his fears and bullshit. And tried to destroy someone who actually cared and tried to help. And yes, that makes me blindingly horrifically angry. Fuck, I am infuriatingly indignant. Livid. Irascibly fucking rancorous. It takes quite a bit of bullshit fuckery to make me full-on rancorous, yet here we are! How the bloody fucksticks can you waste love?? How can you be so sunk in to your stagnant fears that you absolutely throw away one of the few things that can bring a shining ting of happiness to everything you do? I simply cannot understand it.
But that is fine. I no longer want to feel or be loved or have anything to do with romantic bullshit. Or even sex. No fucking person on this shitass planet is worth going through that again. That sort of love is simply not worth the bullshit you must wade through. I have more money now, and less bullshit. I still have not been able to get back to the level of happy I was before meeting him, but maybe one day I will. When I can finally let go of this incredulous fucking ire I carry around with me every second of every hour of every god damn day. Maybe one day, I’ll be able to feel something again, to cry, to laugh and feel genuinely limitless, weightless. Maybe one day, I will once again smile just for the sheer soul-sucking pleasure of fucking smiling. I miss that. I miss waking up and just smiling because GOD DAMN it’s good to be alive.
This serves no other purpose than to be a place to toss down my thoughts and anger and hurt and genera malaise at the fuckery of the world, of people. If you have a shitty past, go cry me a fucking river in the god damn corner. Share your misery to let go of it, don’t inflict your god damn misery on another. Don’t make the world worse just because you’re a pussy motherfucker who can’t step past the fear long enough to give the world, a person, an experience a chance. Don’t cheapen someone else’s life by destroying them just because you fucking can, just because someone destroyed you. Don’t be a god damn shit. Don’t be a god damn soul-sucking fuck to anyone, but especially not to the people who genuinely care, be they friend, family, child, or lover. Don’t destroy someone’s fucking world or life just because you can’t get your own god damn shit together. Be a fucking adult. Be a GOOD fucking person. Don’t mouth platitudes, just fucking do.
It takes exactly zero god damn effort to not be a fuck.
I have been depressed this entire year. Yup; from before the first second until now. Through now.
I put chocolate syrup in my coffee today. I had a bitchin’ bowl of homemade stew. Callista is wearing a Hello Kitty nightgown while doing her school work. I have a mohawk I love, friends I love, family I love. I don’t live where I want, I don’t have everyone here that I want. The past year and a half has been incredibly painful and difficult in ways words cannot describe. But I am still here, I am still smiling (now with 100% MOAR TEETHS, as Scott put it), and every day is another chance to pick my stubborn ass back up, dust off, and keep skipping along with a twinkle in my eyes. Or crawling with a twinkle, on the bad days.
I may seem happy most of the time.. and once upon a time, I was. It is not easy maintaining a positive outlook, especially when I was 100% negative until 8 years ago, but I am positively sure I don’t give two shits how hard it is; this hooker abides.
I can’t explain it, but I feel yesterday and today are vital turning points in the struggle (I have partially subjected myself to) of the past 18 months or so. Hard days are inevitable. Depression, for me, is inevitable. ACCEPTING either without busting ass to change them are not. So bring on the bright sparkly whatevers, and bust out the toothy grins, bitches, and make today what you will. xo
PTSD is a bitch. It is a sickness that lives in your heart and mind and soul and there is no cure beyond time, understanding, compassion, support, and love…all of which are in too short a supply these days.
I have had a lot of time for introspection lately. Too much time, really. Between the wakefulness thanks to nightmares and my own general introspection any way, coupled with this year’s crippling events, I have had more than enough time to delve deeply in to all the things that make me who and what I am. This is rarely a good thing. I cannot say, yet, whether this has been a good thing recently, either. Though I have come to some conclusions.
I recently did something that has, to date, been one of the three hardest things I have ever done. I sat down and wrote all the things I could, at the time, think that I love about someone. It is much harder than it sounds. I have often thought about it before, and when I did, I often found myself snapping back to the present with my mouth agape, eyes unfocused and staring in to memories past, lost in the swirling swarming events I hold close to my heart. I can no more put in to words the emotions these memories evoke than I can adequately explain the emotions of giving birth, swinging from flesh hooks, adopting a child out, being beat by your spouse, escaping death. They are all things that have no words, in any language, to really explain. Though some of those I can explain better than others. Love, fear, loss..these emotions will never be adequately explained, and they are the three that make us do the most fucked up things. They make us stand when we should flee, they make us flee when we should stand. They make us give when we should take, they make us take when we should give. Or in my case, I don’t really feel fear so much, as I have written before. I have found my fear response tends to go in to pure on “fuck you, I survive” mode where I go incredibly cold and calculating or I skip right over fear in to straight up terror. Either way, I don’t run. Ever, so far. I face it. Then I face it again. And again. And again. And again. And again. And I keep facing it.
I am the type of person who, if I don’t want to do something, if I “fear” it, I have to do it. Period. Regardless the consequences, I have to do it. Yes, I know the consequences. I know the chances of me being hurt in some cases are pretty fucking ridiculously high, but I have to do it. Sometimes, as I told a friend last night:
I don’t care about much, but I’ve lost nearly all I DO care about this year. Sometimes you gotta throw it all out see what comes back.
I have read so much over the past few days about depression and suicide. It has long disgusted me how we, as a people, will band together over a situation short-term, yet go back to our petty ridiculous squabbles so quickly. I most certainly have my own very strong thoughts about both depression and suicide, as I have survived depression so long, and have known so fucking many people who have killed themselves.
I cannot tell you when I was diagnosed as bipolar, which used to be known as manic depression, which used to be known as blah blah what the fuck ever. A lot of people have it. So what? Every person on this planet goes through periods of depression. It is a part of life to have high and low points. Some of us are lucky/blessed/whatever to have more highs than lows, some of us are unlucky/cursed/whatever enough to have more lows than highs. Some of us are intelligent enough to realize our perspective changes the situation for our own good, regardless what happens. I cannot tell you when I was diagnosed because, as with most things in my life, I simply do not remember. Head wounds, what wonderful things.