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.
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.
My daughter, 8, asked me (via written message on a whiteboard, complete with yes/no check boxes) if I am going to marry a specific someone one day. Which she followed up with a note asking me to not be mad at her asking, she was just curious. (No worries, dear reader, I told her in no uncertain terms she can ask me anything any time and I will answer to the best of my ability…and I will not be upset over the asking of questions.) This got me thinking, as the topic of marriage usually does.
I am going to start this off by telling you I have a rather petite frame. Though I wear medium shirts in men’s sizes, my bone structure is on the smaller size. I have been known to find my jeans in the adolescent section of department stores by mistake, not knowing I was not in the adult section. Which has caused others to feel embarrassed, but it always amuses me. I wear medium shirts in men’s sizes (and usually large in women’s) because my shoulders, for my frame, are rather broad. I have great difficulty finding dresses that fit due to this, or long-sleeve shirts. Do not even get me started on jackets, as I also have incredibly long arms. Yes; I realize I am starting to sound like a lanky circus freak; I am not. Well, I mean, I AM, but not proportionately speaking. It is hard not to be considered somewhat freaky to many people when you have this many tattoos, stretched earlobes and unnaturally-coloured hair. And watches. I cannot buy a watch that fits unless it has a leather band and I cut extra holes in it. My wrists are so petite but attached to them are incredibly large hands, for a woman. I always have to buy large or extra large gloves. And extra large hats, too. My daughter has also informed me I have Vulcan ears. Aren’t kids sweet?
I swear, this has a purpose.
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.
…Or maybe, more to the point, making myself sing, even when everything in me wishes to scream.
Three days ago, 22July2014, I drove through a rainbow. Yes, through. This is not even scientifically possible, yet it happened. It happened quite clearly. I have never actually seen the end of a rainbow in my entire 34 years. Rainbows are the dispersion of light through water in the air, so you should never be able to drive through one, as your perspective would keep you seeing the rainbow ever in front of you. Even seeing an “end” is highly unlikely, though if you have a clear view for a long enough distance, it would be possible. Where I was driving, the visibility was .. let us say what happened should not have been possible, but happen, it did.
I have seen several things in my life that should not be possible. It does not really matter which things. They happened, they are done. I do not read horoscopes. I do not look for signs. However, I have noticed that sometimes things present themselves to us that seem to, upon later inspection, foreshadow later events. After driving through the rainbow, I texted someone who is, despite no genetic link, my brother. I told him after that, I was surely to die or win at life. Funny, that. I have not yet died, but the next day proved… another small death of sorts. And I have suffered so many of those in my life.
It’s funny how, being classified as bipolar, when I get stressed enough, I stim like someone with autism, asbergers, Tourette’s, etc. And yes, I’m spelling shit all sorts of wrong, and, at the moment, I could give two fucks or a shit less about that or grammatical errors. I have been having fairly intense stims somewhere around an hour. For those of you who suffer from any psychological prizes (hey, let’s call it something fun, instead of a disorder!!), you know how utterly motherfucking god damb exhausting they can be. Just…life-draining. And when I stim, I tic like a motherfucker. Scratching, rubbing my fingers, hitting myself, rocking back and forth,openingand closin gmy mouth,s ieltn screams, rapid blinking, rapid eye movement, tapping, sometimes sounds.. I get a nice lovely run of the stim spectrum. LUCKY ME. Thankfully, it’s only when I am incredibly super HOLY FUCKSHIT stressed the motherfuc out. And I have been..
This time of year is always pretty fucking tough on me. Starting at the beginngin of July through about the first week of August. I adopted a son out the day he was born, August 4th, 2004. And starting about a month before, I just………sink. I sink beneathe the waves of.. everything. Sounds, tastes, touches, feels. thoughts, breaths, leaves, colours, life itself. I have to keep busy. God damn, do I have to keep busy. I will cut a fuckin gentire yard with a god damn pair of scissors if that is absolutely all I have I can do to keep busy. Today, I rearranged my entire livibng room. That may not seem like much, but I had to vacuum and spray for spiders, too, because I have apparently gained an infestation of cute cuddly wolf spiders. Absolutely adorable, not lethal to most folks, but their bites suck big bulbous elephant balls. And I don’t like things randomly crawling on my face for me to squash. Yes, this has happened. And these motherfuckers are fast as hell. Look them up. Shoo, spider, you belong outside. Assholes. Anyw ay. This involved moving one 32″? television that is somewhere around 75-100 pounds off a 2′ high stand across the room.. rearranging 2 oversized loveseats and an oversized couch, moving two old-school studio speakers (the 4′ tall heavy as fuck type), the tv stand and putting a 42″? 75″ television back on the fucking stand. Alone. While dodging fucking spiders and keeping the kid busy. Whereupon I also found a tote I forgot about, seeing how it was cleverly disguised as a side table (don’t ask) and I found old birthday cards. And pictures.
Yes, readers, if I’ve any left, I am back. And the title of this particular blog could not be more apt had I dreamed it, woken and immediately started clacking away at this worn and near-broken set of keys.
I have many things I need to say, want to say, and none of which are likely to come out with ease, if at all. I have been silent, have hidden prior posts, due to the feelings of someone else. Due to.. stupid reasons of my own choosing. Hell, I don’t even feel like posting this now, but I feel I must. I have several anniversaries of high import approaching, and this time of year is always a very hard one for me. And always one I face alone.
My adopted son will be 10 August 4th. Not a day passes where I don’t think of him, and remember my failures. And also the likelihood of what would have happened to him had he not been adopted out.. I keep hearing “everything for a reason” and “your happiness is right around the corner..” And it’s all bullshit. All of it. I had as much happiness, more, than I’d ever had. I met someone, and had even more. For a while. That did not last. Of course not. It seems in my life, I only get a taste of what I truly want for just long enough to really start thinking maybe, just maybe… NOPE. then it all falls apart.
Then again, August 27th marks 5 years being divorced from an abusive alcoholic misogynistic worthless asshole, so there’s that. And he didn’t manage to kill me, OR our daughter. Hooray!
Aside from that, you’d think I would get used to the disappointment, but I don’t. I never do. And this time, I gave a bit too much. Figures. It comes down to me being a crazy bitch, I suppose. But aren’t we all?
I have learned that love is not a lie; love is a liability.
When you stretch out your arms, close your eyes and jump from that ledge, chances are damn high someone won’t catch you. And that is okay. But when you truly believe, you KNOW this person WILL, and they won’t.. It crushes some very special parts of you that.. Hell, I don’t know if they’ll come back. And I honestly don’t care. What’s gone is gone. And what this experience has left me with is.. little.
Yes, I have, Hatter. But I have come away with a soul that is slowly leaking away at the seams I can no longer sew together quickly enough. I cried out for help for once, and was answered “how”. I do not know. I only know I am mad, to the core, and sinking deeper in to a mire I’ve no strength nor motivation to climb from, because I gave my muchness to someone who did not care for it as he should have, because he was too worried about his past repeating itself, as opposed to happy I wasn’t his past. Only, now I am.. but his past didn’t repeat. I am a new past.
This is why I don’t ask for help. When the person people come to for help, to lean on, needs help, suddenly everyone disappears. Suddenly, no one knows what to do. And gods forbid they just sit, shut the fuck up, and listen. And since I would like them to just sit, not interrupting, shut the fuck up and listen, I have communication issues..no matter how many times I’ve done JUST that for them.
And this is why the strongest motherfuckers so rarely say a word, just end up found with a bullet through their heads. Because even when they said a fucking word, others just kept right on talking.
No, I’m not going to kill myself. I’m not a pussy. And no matter how hard or harsh shit gets, I’ve got shit to do. But seriously, motherfuckers, sometimes it’s YOUR turn to sit down, shut the fuck up, and listen. You’re not the only motherfucker who sometimes just needs a motherfucker to care, to listen.