Moving on...or Redecorating With Pony Poop

When I first moved into my dated apartment, it felt like home - like magic - so did he. The fact that it was a basement level of an old farmhouse didn't matter, the dirty grout between crumbling tiles felt charming... or maybe that was just the mold talking. At the time, I was wearing 'new relationship glasses', so none of that mattered. It was our home - a home we started together. 

Little by little, things started to shift. He was working out of state, a six week job that would become six months - and I began to unravel due to a pituitary tumor. Imagine being bipolar and multiplying it by 100... that was my level of impulse.

I began to focus manically on improving the house. I spent two entire days cleaning and sealing the time-greyed grout. By the end of that disaster, my fingers and hands were numb for days. Come to think of it, I need to do that again. This time I won't be outsmarted - I'll get a can of paint and a small brush. Fuck you, floor. Not this time! I hung pictures finally, decorated the space - got curtains. It began to feel homier. Due to the lack of sunlight from the basement windows, it gets depressing as fuck down here. Sometimes decorating and cleaning helps.

We broke up during that time. When he finally came home, we still lived together. We were only supposed to overlap a month or so, but neither of us left. 

It stayed that way for a little over a year. Life moved on, sort of. We continued to behave like a couple - I'd make him lunches and do his laundry; he'd take care of my son and fuck me like a beast. It seemed to work, sort of. 

As winter turned to spring, when the house really began to feel like a prison once more - he moved out and we started to call ourselves a couple publicly again. Without him or my oldest to clean up after all the time, I began to beautify my space once more. My youngest was embarrassed to be living 'in a basement', but with the improvements we both began to feel more at ease with it. 

I bought a ten panel room divider and made him his own room. I put up more pictures, some art and more butterflies. I bought a gorgeous grey and white area rug that consumed the entire living room. The place became a home, an actual home, for the first time in 2 years. I actually enjoyed the space. The little guy wasn't embarrassed by it anymore.

We inevitably broke up again, of course. This time, somewhere between his moving out and his moving on, it stopped being 'our place'. It's almost impossible to recall memories or events that took place because it all looks and feels so different. It became a home for myself and my son. I don't think about moving all the time anymore. 

I mean, sure - it's still a shit hole, but it's a shit hole we've become proud of. It's our shit hole. 

I could have stayed all fucked up like I did the first time - when I busted my ass making improvements but keeping the space generally the same - like the shit hole and I were on pause until his return. I didn't do that. I mustered up all he unicorn glitter poop and fairy dandruff I could find and made it different. I made it better. (I also had the help of Amazon Prime, to be honest.) So different in fact it made him uncomfortable the few times he visited. 

In doing that, I moved the fuck on. I just got over it all. I didn't end it and I have no interest in fixing it either. I can sit in my unicorn poop hole and see how much less bullshit there is in my life now. I inflated him so much in my mind (which was not a smart move considering how big his stupid head was naturally - had it exploded, no amount of grout paint could have cleaned up that disaster) I created an ideal he couldn't possibly live up to. I projected all of the things I wanted onto him and was devastated when he wouldn't or couldn't be those things. 

We do normal things now at the unicorn poop hole. We do homework after school, watch movies on the sagging couch (365 days of a big ass man sleeping on a couch can really screw up some springs and framing)  We sing, we cook, we dream. We have established a routine.

I guess what I'm saying is no matter where you are or how hurt you feel, you CAN move on. Once you start, it's hard - if not impossible - to stop. Maybe I'm saying you should glue a waffle cone on a Shetland pony's head and let it shit all over your house. Who the fuck ever knows? I did tell you I'm nuts.

Healing From Your Past

I don't get emotional like I imagine normal people do. My ex used to say I was full of shit when it came to being depressed - I'm always smiling and joking...

I'm not always immediately affected... When it finally hits, it's a crippling surge of emotion that nearly incapacitates me. I either do nothing but sleep or simply not be able to sleep at all.

Right now I'm thinking of a bunch of unrelated moments an tearing up because I don't feel those things anymore. I don't know how to describe that better - literally just moments where I felt elated, felt an overwhelming love, even if the situation the moment sprang from didn't make feeling such a way logical.

I think there have been times that I wanted to feel a certain type of love despite the horrible circumstances. These mini snapshots may have been my means of survival at the time, however, when my mind dredges up these snapshots in the middle of the night, they are hardly helpful; they are manipulating and confusing at best.

In the past, analyzing little things like this would have made me crazy. I will not let them ruin my present.

I think it's important that i recognize these feelings for what they were: I am not remembering moments where I FELT loved, or the joy or elation that comes from someone expressing love, respect or adoration for me. In these moments - which notably took place during the middle of the night as well, while my then partner was sleeping. I dissect the moment in which the feeling took place - it's not hard to force the logical realization that it's very easy to look at someone sleeping and feel a tsunami of emotion for them. When they are asleep, they likely are not degrading, insulting, manipulating or abusing you. Perhaps those moments were how my abused mind justified the reason behind why I didn't leave. It turned these unreciprocated feelings (likely formed for survival) and manipulated the memory into something it simply was not. It was never a moment of true joy or bliss, nor any enviable feeling at all.

Now that I can see it for what it truly is...was - it's not joy I feel. It's sadness. The poor girl in those moments of misguided emotion was so broken and abused by the object of her affection, yet continued to project waves of love onto them.

Seeing it that way now, I am not sad or feeling jaded that I am not feeling those ways at all. Quite the opposite. I am proud that I have healed enough that I do not. I am over the moon that my current decision making has not created an environment in my broken mind that deems it necessary to feel a fabricated, unhealthy emotion onto a sleeping human being who hurts me as a means of survival.

Dysfunction can feel like home. I accept the love that others give me now because I am worthy of it. I accept that boundaries are healthy as well as necessary. I will no longer waste precious moments guessing the quality of my life by comparing it to my abusive past. I take people for face value when they take position in my life and if I find myself unable to do that, I will deny that person the position. I allow myself to receive love as strongly as I give it.

Recognizing these self destructive behaviors, being able to identify toxic patterns and the parallels in thought processes has taught me what they mean:

 They mean I have healed some...

They mean that the cycles and patterns in abuse are breaking....

They mean the people who have abused me no longer have the power to hurt me anymore...

They mean that I am setting a healthier example for my boys...

They mean I am winning. I almost lost my progress, that is, until this realization rocked me to my very core. Fuck that. He doesn't get to win  anymore. I don't allow him to hurt me.

Letter to my Abuser

Hello again.

I'm through with you twisting my mind - making me doubt myself and my sanity. It's only the projection of your own insanity cast upon me.

You lurk around like a pussy, biding your time until you know I am alone, attempting to discredit me, defame me, in the eyes of the people around me. I'm crazy? A drug addict? A slut? Worthless? Oh, I make you sick? Why don't you come back when you've got some new material.

See, you can't hurt me. You can't bend my mind anymore. I've gotten stronger over the years. You have no idea who you are up against now.

You didn't know me then - never got over yourself enough to try - you certainly don't know me now. I didn't even know who I was then. Back then I was weak, I was broken. Not anymore. I know who I am now.

Is there anyone more dangerous than someone who knows their own mind? Knows both their strength and their weaknesses? I don't think there is.

Thank you. Although what you did was inexcusable, painful, and sick... It changed me. It taught me how strong I could be. It taught me I could heal. Once that healing began and I began to trust the world again the most incredible thing took place: I saw myself the way the rest of the world saw me... I saw myself through the eyes of the people who love and revered me.

Thank you. By accident, you made me a better mother, better friend - better companion to the person who will take you place in the future. I'll bet that was never part of your plans.

I honestly wish you no ill will. I nether feel hatred nor pity for you. In fact, I feel nothing. The opposite of love is NOT hate. It is indifference. I have become indifferent.


Melissa

I just gotta get through today

I'm fucking sad. I'm sad for future plans that were taken away from me. I'm sad my friend was taken from his family so needlessly... And at such a young age. I'm sad I'm so alone.

I'm angry. I'm angry that I gave all of myself to someone who never gave any of their self back, I'm angry that although I have had so many other people's backs that I am alone in what I am facing.

I want to cry for all I've lost - My mother, my hopes, my security, my confidence - i want to cry and cry and not stop. I want to give up. I want to alternately go on a spree of self destruction so ridiculous that I go out in a blaze  so bright no one can bear to look at it - But then, I kinda want to sleep and just never wake, letting the euphoria of release take over every part of me as well.

But I can't really allow myself to do any of those things. I have to stay. I need to be here to how my youngest son what pure love is - the kind with no expectations. I need to be here to so my middle son learns how to not be so angry and keep coaching him on. I need to be here for to tell my oldest how proud I am of him for never giving up on himself - no matter how much easier it would have been.

I can't do those things in giving up on myself. I can't give them reasons to stop. I need to be here to prove to myself, to them, that it was all worth it. So I can see once and for all the storms have passed -that I can live in peace - actually live and not just survive.

That's my pep talk to myself. What's the point in cutting out now after all the hard work has already been put in?  What kind of idiot leaves just before the pay off?

I love these stupid kids - I have sacrificed more than I care to admit for them. I could have done more - been more - but that's all past. No point in dwelling.

I feel no guilt. I have put 190% of myself into everything I have ever loved. Regardless of how much more I could have done. looking back, I'm smart enough to know that ultimately it may have done more harm than good had I done it.  Most of us have survived with minimal scars.

When I look back over my own bruises, some were self inflicted, others showed up along the way... Bruises are like that, really - either from hard (or clumsy) living or just a product of being human. This brings me to the hard part - admitting that I am a mess... a self-destructive, beautiful mess.

I don't know how to do this, but I'm pretty sure I've felt that same way when any of the other shit I've made it through happened and so far, my survival rate has been 100%.

So today - I chose to get through it. It might change me a little - It's supposed to, I guess. I'll just get through today.

I'm not arrogant enough to say it will all work out how I want, but I have enough empirical data to conclude that I will, indeed survive. I'm just going to let tomorrow happen - in the meantime, I keep telling myself - you just gotta get through today....

Remember How You Loved Me?

Remember when it was all still magical? Even to this day, when I look back at that time I can't recall many moments where we weren't smiling. We went everywhere together, missed each other when we were apart... It wasn't even all that long a go.

Would you believe me if I told you I can't remember the feeling of being held in  your arms when I slept? Strange, seeing as there was once a time where I couldn't imagine their absence. I've forgotten the way you used to look a me - the way your eyes would change. You said "I love you" in a way I've never heard before... or since.

I can't stay in those memories too long before the lump in my throat forms again, threatening to unleash a river of tears.

We were everything to each other; the future, the answered prayers of our past.

How you loved me...

How I still do....

I may not remember the way your strong arms felt when they held me - but it's only because the pain of your absence consumes me tot he point of forgetfulness.

I may not be able to recall being short of breath - gasping your name - but I'll never be able to shake the stutter brought on by sobs when I try to speak your name.

I have to believe you simply stopped loving me one morning upon waking and seeing my face - because the thought of you still loving me while choosing not to be here is too much for me to comprehend.

One day it will be easier, I imagine. The nights and days that pass without hearing your voice won't kill a little more of my soul at a time.

But right now, I'm not sure how I might make it through he night. What a stark contrast knowing that the only way I could sleep at night was with the thought of your love in my mind, to the reality of now - where I try not to sleep least the dreams of you should come and break my heart into a million  pieces all over again.

You tell me you want to discuss it all, that closure will come of beautiful words speaking fondly of better times -you tell me you still want me in your life. Well, I won't. The pain is too much to bear.

Every time I see you, my heart breaks again, remembering how easy it was to walk away.

"I loved every stupid broken piece of you. I swallowed your badness an held my hand out for more. People thought I was stupid or heroic - I don't know which is better. Do you remember sitting on that mountain? I watched the moonlight stream through the cracks of your heart and I kissed them. Your sad was so big it took up my whole world. There was nowhere I could turn without wanting to hold your hand. There was never any hope for us, and you knew that, but I was the only light that never left, so your wrapped your hands around my warmth like you would have died without it. I could have lived on that mountain forever, you know... I could have washed myself after each dirty day with you and come up clean, I could have been the only good thing. We could have called it love."

The Obsession With Death

I have been obsessed with death as long as I can remember. When I was small, it was animals. It was mind blowing to me that something lying so still. so stiff, could have just moments ago been running free...

My mother called it a darkness... " You're got a darkness in you, that's for sure." she'd say...
 
As I got older, it was weird and random thoughts about dying - If I died right here, right now, would anyone figure out who I was? How would they know who to call?

Older still - a romance. Death ans I would flirt. I'd do outrageously reckless and impulsive things just for the thrill.

At some point, I even convinced myself I would die in a car accident. I've envisioned it, dreamt about it - nearly to the point it seems logical.

Once I discovered motorcycles it morphed into a different feeling. The feeling of power I possessed knowing that at any given time I could simply let go. At a speed of 90 mph on a bike there us nothing but the sensation of wind in your hair , rushing into your ears - the rest of the world is drowned out. The intoxicating feeling of knowing the ultimate freedom is just within your grasp, yet the power to not take hold of its' hand and escape.

Drugs, for me, was a subconscious game of hide and seek with death. Being doped out of my mind was as close as I could get to the euphoric numbness of snuggling deep into its' cold embrace - but without the commitment. That would actually be a damn good slogan for opiates - "death, without the commitment."

I don't want to die - but that doesn't make the feeling or experience any less fascinating to me.

What an unusual place to spend your life; drifting between the planes of a life I know I haven't lived as well as I could have - and sweet, euphoric nothingness. Total freedom.

I know i don't want to die. I knew it yesterday when I crossed the street. Before setting foot into the road, I looked to my right, then my left.

Looking both ways before you cross a street is not a survival instinct deeply ingrained in our DNA, it's a learned response. You have to be taught it. Consider a young child, recklessly darting through a parking lot, driven by excitement. Someone has to teach him. It's an act of self-preservation - a small, simple act that both goes unnoticed but yet screams out "I haven't given up yet!"

I looked both ways when I crossed the street yesterday.

Things are dark an uncertain in my life right now - I am unsure of my next move and at times, with all the loss around me like a cloak it's hard to even fathom moving - but nevertheless, I looked both ways.

I'm going to keep looking, too. I've got a lot of living to do yet.