Living on my own as been a mixed bag.
In one week, I started a new relationship, contracted a UTI, went to urgent care twice and the Emergency Room once, and was misdiagnosed twice. That was fun. Happily things have been sorted out.
I really like my new boy, Yon Faire Newcomer. A boy I met when I met Mistah Jay, who apparently wanted to ask me out. But Mistah Jay I guessed dibs'd me or something, and YFN pussied out. Point being, he called me up and asked me out, and to my surprise, I said yes.
I said yes to someone who is NOT Mistah Jay.
Anyway, YFN is fantastic. I couldn't have made it through this month without him. Could not. His family adores me.
It's finally what I wanted.
Anyway. Living with Bubby and his finacee is coming to an end. She Who Must Be Kept decided that she isn't making Croc leave, like she promised me. In her words, she had a choice between me and her, and she chose herself. She said Croc makes her a better person and is saving her.
I told her that if someone is "making" you a better person, you're doing it wrong. You should do those things or yourself. Another person can inspire you, but shouldn't be your motivation.
People are not good anchors.
So now I'm moving in with Rosie and her sister. For free.
But I just want to go home.
Showing posts with label love. Show all posts
Showing posts with label love. Show all posts
Thursday, January 19, 2012
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Blood: A Love Story
It was my fault.
But I didn't mean to do it.
Intention doesn't erase the final result. I know this. Intention does not soothe the injuries. My intentions have never justified my actions.
I know this. I knew this before I began to act. And yet, I did so.
Her blood was the sweetest smell I had ever encountered. I wanted to lift her limp body to my face and inhale, to take in that smell. To bury it deep inside of me. I wanted to bury her deep inside of me, to carry her with me at all times.
She lay, limp and pale, still and silent on my floor. Her blood was making the slow journey from the pool beneath her body to my shoes. The red fingers were reaching out for me, to travel up my pants legs and cling to my ankles, to pull me down into wherever it was she ended up.
Slowly, I leaned over and touched that blood.
The warmth surprised me. The feeling ran like electricity up my body, stopping my heart for a moment. I felt the stumble in the steady pounding, caught my breath as the rhythm began again.
I brought my fingers to my lips and tasted the coppery sweetness.
Even as I turned to walk away, I felt the stickiness on my lips.
It had never been my intention. And yet it was the culmination of all my actions. So did my intention ever matter?
But I didn't mean to do it.
Intention doesn't erase the final result. I know this. Intention does not soothe the injuries. My intentions have never justified my actions.
I know this. I knew this before I began to act. And yet, I did so.
Her blood was the sweetest smell I had ever encountered. I wanted to lift her limp body to my face and inhale, to take in that smell. To bury it deep inside of me. I wanted to bury her deep inside of me, to carry her with me at all times.
She lay, limp and pale, still and silent on my floor. Her blood was making the slow journey from the pool beneath her body to my shoes. The red fingers were reaching out for me, to travel up my pants legs and cling to my ankles, to pull me down into wherever it was she ended up.
Slowly, I leaned over and touched that blood.
The warmth surprised me. The feeling ran like electricity up my body, stopping my heart for a moment. I felt the stumble in the steady pounding, caught my breath as the rhythm began again.
I brought my fingers to my lips and tasted the coppery sweetness.
Even as I turned to walk away, I felt the stickiness on my lips.
It had never been my intention. And yet it was the culmination of all my actions. So did my intention ever matter?
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Unsung Lullabies
Dearest Vivian,
You're haunting me again. It's a thought that makes me laugh and cry. Perhaps if I had kept you inside of me, perhaps if I had been strong enough, you would doing the same thing. You'd be about two months old now, I think. You would just be getting the hang of living, and I--I would still be so amazed at the fact that you existed.
Do you haunt your father? He haunts me top, although perhaps in a more tangible way than you. He has a hard time admitting out loud that you were ever here at all. You mustn't blame him, my darling one. I've ceased doing so. I think the thought of what we almost had and almost were hurts him so deeply he can't face it. He can't be strong enough, so you and I must do that for him.
Or perhaps I will do that for the both of you. I'm just fine doing that.
I would have been such a wonderful mother. I would never have let you see the things that we went without. I would never have put anyone or anything else before you. You would have been the most brilliant thing that had ever been mine.
Although, of course, that ownership would have been so bittersweetly temporary. Before I was ready, I would have had to surrender you to the universe. I would have only been caretaker and guardian to the most wonderful girl in the whole world.
It happened before you were born anyway, the surrendering. Although there was less surrendering and more of you being ripped away from me.
It's three thirty in the morning. It's nights like these, weeks like these, that I miss you the most. I'm listening to Ray LaMontagne, one of those gravelly voices with the guitar that I listen to when I hurt so badly. These are the lullabies I would have loved to sing to you. These are the things I would have whispered to you in the stillness of the night.
I think everyone thinks I need to let you go. But letting you go, turning my back on you... That's just something I cannot bring myself to do. I am not so naive as to think there wouldn't have been moments I would have resented you. There would have been minutes, hours, days, weeks perhaps, that I would have looked at you and felt something akin to misery.
But darling, I loved you. I love you. I fell in love with you the moment I knew that you were there. And then you were gone, but my love didn't seep away during all those hours when I was hurting. My love for you didn't melt away as I took the painkillers and laid my head, wincing in your father's lap. Your father's love for me, your father's gentle fingers in my hair, his tender words of reassurance--even these things which usually could calm me, did not quell the ache inside of me.
Nothing can.
Will you ever come back to me, I wonder? Will you come back and let me hold you, will you look up at me with wide eyes full of wonderment and trust? Mother is the word for God on the lips of all children. You are still my child, even if you are not here.
Your father left me too. Don't be angry with him, dear one. He does the best he can. We're both tormented. It's such a sweet hell, and perhaps the most gloriously tragic thing to watch. You would be the one to know.
I have such a hard time sleeping. I would if you were alive too. You'd be awake right now, I think, wanting to be fed. You would be in my arms, latched onto me, taking from me the most that I could give you, metaphorically and literally. I see you in my dreams, I reach out to you, but you--much like your father--are just out of my reach.
This can't last forever. I suspect that in time, I will learn to lift myself and carry on. I will always feel that missing part of me, that sense that I've lost something I just cannot find or replace... But I will carry on.
I do love you so.
-Mommy
You're haunting me again. It's a thought that makes me laugh and cry. Perhaps if I had kept you inside of me, perhaps if I had been strong enough, you would doing the same thing. You'd be about two months old now, I think. You would just be getting the hang of living, and I--I would still be so amazed at the fact that you existed.
Do you haunt your father? He haunts me top, although perhaps in a more tangible way than you. He has a hard time admitting out loud that you were ever here at all. You mustn't blame him, my darling one. I've ceased doing so. I think the thought of what we almost had and almost were hurts him so deeply he can't face it. He can't be strong enough, so you and I must do that for him.
Or perhaps I will do that for the both of you. I'm just fine doing that.
I would have been such a wonderful mother. I would never have let you see the things that we went without. I would never have put anyone or anything else before you. You would have been the most brilliant thing that had ever been mine.
Although, of course, that ownership would have been so bittersweetly temporary. Before I was ready, I would have had to surrender you to the universe. I would have only been caretaker and guardian to the most wonderful girl in the whole world.
It happened before you were born anyway, the surrendering. Although there was less surrendering and more of you being ripped away from me.
It's three thirty in the morning. It's nights like these, weeks like these, that I miss you the most. I'm listening to Ray LaMontagne, one of those gravelly voices with the guitar that I listen to when I hurt so badly. These are the lullabies I would have loved to sing to you. These are the things I would have whispered to you in the stillness of the night.
I think everyone thinks I need to let you go. But letting you go, turning my back on you... That's just something I cannot bring myself to do. I am not so naive as to think there wouldn't have been moments I would have resented you. There would have been minutes, hours, days, weeks perhaps, that I would have looked at you and felt something akin to misery.
But darling, I loved you. I love you. I fell in love with you the moment I knew that you were there. And then you were gone, but my love didn't seep away during all those hours when I was hurting. My love for you didn't melt away as I took the painkillers and laid my head, wincing in your father's lap. Your father's love for me, your father's gentle fingers in my hair, his tender words of reassurance--even these things which usually could calm me, did not quell the ache inside of me.
Nothing can.
Will you ever come back to me, I wonder? Will you come back and let me hold you, will you look up at me with wide eyes full of wonderment and trust? Mother is the word for God on the lips of all children. You are still my child, even if you are not here.
Your father left me too. Don't be angry with him, dear one. He does the best he can. We're both tormented. It's such a sweet hell, and perhaps the most gloriously tragic thing to watch. You would be the one to know.
I have such a hard time sleeping. I would if you were alive too. You'd be awake right now, I think, wanting to be fed. You would be in my arms, latched onto me, taking from me the most that I could give you, metaphorically and literally. I see you in my dreams, I reach out to you, but you--much like your father--are just out of my reach.
This can't last forever. I suspect that in time, I will learn to lift myself and carry on. I will always feel that missing part of me, that sense that I've lost something I just cannot find or replace... But I will carry on.
I do love you so.
-Mommy
Sunday, February 20, 2011
I Can Feel The Butterflies
I talk about butterflies a lot.
I'm getting pretty sick of them, though.
It's almost the end of February. I haven't seen one in months. But I've felt them. I've felt them under my skin, crawling down my spine, taking up residence in my stomach. I can feel them in the night, inside my scalp, creeping along the inside of my brain.
I can't sleep.
There's the bringer of butterflies, who used to be my confidence giver. The irreverent Mistah Jay.
Whenever he walks by me, they start up. I shake all over because of these butterflies. I imagine that they're green and silver. His favorite colors. Once in awhile, there's a red one, a black one. My own favorite colors.
I'm so tired of these butterflies.
There are days when I look at him with contempt and disdain. Days when maybe I feel like if I could chase him away, if I can convince myself that I don't love him. Maybe I can convince myself that this doesn't hurt half as much as it does.
But you know...
Anymore, I wouldn't know how to live without the butterflies.
I wouldn't know how to live without him.
I'm getting pretty sick of them, though.
It's almost the end of February. I haven't seen one in months. But I've felt them. I've felt them under my skin, crawling down my spine, taking up residence in my stomach. I can feel them in the night, inside my scalp, creeping along the inside of my brain.
I can't sleep.
There's the bringer of butterflies, who used to be my confidence giver. The irreverent Mistah Jay.
Whenever he walks by me, they start up. I shake all over because of these butterflies. I imagine that they're green and silver. His favorite colors. Once in awhile, there's a red one, a black one. My own favorite colors.
I'm so tired of these butterflies.
There are days when I look at him with contempt and disdain. Days when maybe I feel like if I could chase him away, if I can convince myself that I don't love him. Maybe I can convince myself that this doesn't hurt half as much as it does.
But you know...
Anymore, I wouldn't know how to live without the butterflies.
I wouldn't know how to live without him.
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Happy... Taima Day?
Perhaps I've gotten way more pathetic than previously thought. On Valentine's Day, even though I'm working on a present for Mistah Jay, I didn't think that anyone was going to get me anything.
I was clearly mistaken.
From my "school daughter"; two feather roses, an LED light up rose, a chocolate rose, a red stuffed puppy.
My BFF; a silver butterfly necklace with blue stones, lovely! And perfect for wearing every day.
My future roommate; a stuffed hippo.
My fake boyfriend; a bunch of carnations in a red vase with a white bear and red heart attached.
Why did I get all these things? Because everyone thought no one else was getting me something, and that I'd be sad. I've never really mentioned Valentine's Day, only bumming slightly that Mistah Jay wouldn't acknowledge me (and he didn't). Still working on his present.
Today, I reconnected with a friend. He had previously been a dick to me, and he did admit that today, and apologized. He said he had no idea why he said the things he said, and he was wrong. He hadn't anticipated me being mad for almost a year about it.
Anyway.
The most wonderful part? We both dressed up fancy (and I'm one of three people he does that for) and sat in the ice cream parlor, eating onion rings for three hours and discussing out lives. We talked about Mistah Jay, his last relationship, our friends, our lives.
It was great.
I was clearly mistaken.
From my "school daughter"; two feather roses, an LED light up rose, a chocolate rose, a red stuffed puppy.
My BFF; a silver butterfly necklace with blue stones, lovely! And perfect for wearing every day.
My future roommate; a stuffed hippo.
My fake boyfriend; a bunch of carnations in a red vase with a white bear and red heart attached.
Why did I get all these things? Because everyone thought no one else was getting me something, and that I'd be sad. I've never really mentioned Valentine's Day, only bumming slightly that Mistah Jay wouldn't acknowledge me (and he didn't). Still working on his present.
Today, I reconnected with a friend. He had previously been a dick to me, and he did admit that today, and apologized. He said he had no idea why he said the things he said, and he was wrong. He hadn't anticipated me being mad for almost a year about it.
Anyway.
The most wonderful part? We both dressed up fancy (and I'm one of three people he does that for) and sat in the ice cream parlor, eating onion rings for three hours and discussing out lives. We talked about Mistah Jay, his last relationship, our friends, our lives.
It was great.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
How Dare You Break My Lonely Heart
Today was a rough day with Mistah Jay.
I went to go hug him hello, as I normally do. He very violently slipped from my arms (he was sitting down in a chair) and turned to glare at me, tensing up his whole body. I almost fell down. I looked at him and just went; "Okay. That's fine." He remained in his dramatic frozen pose for several seconds.
Whatever. I don't have time for that kind of horseplay today. I sat down and got to my homework that was due before seven so I could participate in a live chat with my partner for English. It took me the better part of the morning, because I had to annotate.
Mistah Jay stared at me as I hugged my friend, went to the bathroom, got lunch, ate my lunch, got another friend's portable hard drive so I could have some new movies, and packed up for class. I didn't speak to him, even when he spoke to me.
I do realize this was petty as hell. I do understand this makes me a bitch. I don't disagree. I wanted him to be upset, because I was upset. I wanted him to understand that he doesn't get to be a jerk to me and then decide he's done with that, and I should just be okay.
So before I left, everyone was teasing me, as we do in our group. Mistah Jay wanted to participate.
"Hey, Tai!"
*ignore*
"Taaaai."
*ignore*
"TAAAAAAI. TAI! Taaaaaaima."
*ignore*
"I'll break your legs so you can't go to class!"
...Really? Okay. Whatever. At least I won't have to see him until Tuesday. I came back from class a little early, and realized that my lappity toppity box wasn't recognizing that USB cables were plugged in. I was messing with it when Mistah Jay came in.
"Oh! What's wrong?"
"A thing broke."
"What thing?"
"A port."
"I can fix it, let me see, hon." he was standing so close to me, so I could smell him. His cheek was right next to mine. I was so tempted to lean into him.
"No, thanks! I'm fine. Don't worry about it."
"FINE! I JUST THOUGHT I'D ASK!" he stomped back over to his half of the table.
I was rude. I own that. I was rude because what am I supposed to do? Just be perfectly fine when he decides it's time to be fine? I think he probably realized I was upset with him and felt bad. But he didn't apologize.
I finally went into the bathroom to cry while a couple friends tried to fix it. I'd had enough of this week.
I came back and turned the laptop off and on, and everything was fine. But one kid who doesn't come around a lot and is a dick went; "I stuck my dick in them!"
"Well, they're USB ports, and not micro USB ports..."
"Oh, I see what you did there." everyone laughed. Joke over, right? Nope. "Just so you know, you come off as a bitch."
"I know."
"You come off REALLY mean."
"I KNOW."
"Everyone thinks that about you."
"I DIDN'T ASK FOR YOU GODDAMN OPINION."
"Well we have free speech so I can say whatever I want."
Really dude? Mistah Jay looked at him and just shook his head, and the kid stopped talking. I left without saying goodbye. He looked heartbroken when I left.
I'm irritated. Why is it okay for him to just DECIDE when we can be close. If he didn't want to be touched, he didn't have to be an ass. And he wasn't just having a bad day, you know? It was more that he JUST treats me like that and he JUST does things that upset me.
One of my friends, Nandi, thinks that I should just "forget about him" and move on. It isn't that easy. If that was easy, I would have done it. I wouldn't be this hurt by the things that he does to me.
In BETTER news, yesterday I was out with my friend Something Mysterious and... I totally pierced my belly button. It hurts but makes me feel AWESOME.
I went to go hug him hello, as I normally do. He very violently slipped from my arms (he was sitting down in a chair) and turned to glare at me, tensing up his whole body. I almost fell down. I looked at him and just went; "Okay. That's fine." He remained in his dramatic frozen pose for several seconds.
Whatever. I don't have time for that kind of horseplay today. I sat down and got to my homework that was due before seven so I could participate in a live chat with my partner for English. It took me the better part of the morning, because I had to annotate.
Mistah Jay stared at me as I hugged my friend, went to the bathroom, got lunch, ate my lunch, got another friend's portable hard drive so I could have some new movies, and packed up for class. I didn't speak to him, even when he spoke to me.
I do realize this was petty as hell. I do understand this makes me a bitch. I don't disagree. I wanted him to be upset, because I was upset. I wanted him to understand that he doesn't get to be a jerk to me and then decide he's done with that, and I should just be okay.
So before I left, everyone was teasing me, as we do in our group. Mistah Jay wanted to participate.
"Hey, Tai!"
*ignore*
"Taaaai."
*ignore*
"TAAAAAAI. TAI! Taaaaaaima."
*ignore*
"I'll break your legs so you can't go to class!"
...Really? Okay. Whatever. At least I won't have to see him until Tuesday. I came back from class a little early, and realized that my lappity toppity box wasn't recognizing that USB cables were plugged in. I was messing with it when Mistah Jay came in.
"Oh! What's wrong?"
"A thing broke."
"What thing?"
"A port."
"I can fix it, let me see, hon." he was standing so close to me, so I could smell him. His cheek was right next to mine. I was so tempted to lean into him.
"No, thanks! I'm fine. Don't worry about it."
"FINE! I JUST THOUGHT I'D ASK!" he stomped back over to his half of the table.
I was rude. I own that. I was rude because what am I supposed to do? Just be perfectly fine when he decides it's time to be fine? I think he probably realized I was upset with him and felt bad. But he didn't apologize.
I finally went into the bathroom to cry while a couple friends tried to fix it. I'd had enough of this week.
I came back and turned the laptop off and on, and everything was fine. But one kid who doesn't come around a lot and is a dick went; "I stuck my dick in them!"
"Well, they're USB ports, and not micro USB ports..."
"Oh, I see what you did there." everyone laughed. Joke over, right? Nope. "Just so you know, you come off as a bitch."
"I know."
"You come off REALLY mean."
"I KNOW."
"Everyone thinks that about you."
"I DIDN'T ASK FOR YOU GODDAMN OPINION."
"Well we have free speech so I can say whatever I want."
Really dude? Mistah Jay looked at him and just shook his head, and the kid stopped talking. I left without saying goodbye. He looked heartbroken when I left.
I'm irritated. Why is it okay for him to just DECIDE when we can be close. If he didn't want to be touched, he didn't have to be an ass. And he wasn't just having a bad day, you know? It was more that he JUST treats me like that and he JUST does things that upset me.
One of my friends, Nandi, thinks that I should just "forget about him" and move on. It isn't that easy. If that was easy, I would have done it. I wouldn't be this hurt by the things that he does to me.
In BETTER news, yesterday I was out with my friend Something Mysterious and... I totally pierced my belly button. It hurts but makes me feel AWESOME.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Our Own Mad Love
My older brother put Batman: The Animated Series on my portable hard drive for me. When I first got the thing, I had loft goals of backing up all my novels, putting all the Louis Theroux (the most WONDERFUL documentarian, and I'm not just saying that because I think he's sexy) on it, getting maybe one or two movies...
But no. None of that happened. I've got got this nineties children's cartoon on it. I'm trying to get all the Miyazaki films I like on it. I'm nowhere near as sophisticated as I like to pretend.
I spent a lot of time when I was growing up watching this. I remember being stretched out on the futon in front of my baby sitter's television, one or the other of her dogs stretched out next to me as I watched. What's strange is that I don't really remember any particular episodes, I just know my brother and I watched this show.
I do remember Harley Quinn, but my favorite "bad girl" of all superhero--dom. (Is that a word? Oh well. For the purposes of my blog it is now!)She's funny, she's fake ditzy, and she's really adorable. Not to mention she wears red and black, both my favorite colors.
As I was watching the show, I watched her relationship with The Joker, Batman's arch nemesis for the purpose of this show. He could have been in the comic books too, but I never read many of them, so I can't say yes or no. I know he was highly feature, so take that as you will.
I've decided that the confidence giver is my Joker. He tries to ignore me, gets upset if I'm not fawning over him, loves the attention I give him, and sometimes pretends that he doesn't need me. But if I call his bluff, it's the end of the world.
I can't decide if that's healthy or not. I can't decide if this is the greatest adventure of my life, or the worst thing I've ever done.
But no. None of that happened. I've got got this nineties children's cartoon on it. I'm trying to get all the Miyazaki films I like on it. I'm nowhere near as sophisticated as I like to pretend.
I spent a lot of time when I was growing up watching this. I remember being stretched out on the futon in front of my baby sitter's television, one or the other of her dogs stretched out next to me as I watched. What's strange is that I don't really remember any particular episodes, I just know my brother and I watched this show.
I do remember Harley Quinn, but my favorite "bad girl" of all superhero--dom. (Is that a word? Oh well. For the purposes of my blog it is now!)She's funny, she's fake ditzy, and she's really adorable. Not to mention she wears red and black, both my favorite colors.
As I was watching the show, I watched her relationship with The Joker, Batman's arch nemesis for the purpose of this show. He could have been in the comic books too, but I never read many of them, so I can't say yes or no. I know he was highly feature, so take that as you will.
I've decided that the confidence giver is my Joker. He tries to ignore me, gets upset if I'm not fawning over him, loves the attention I give him, and sometimes pretends that he doesn't need me. But if I call his bluff, it's the end of the world.
I can't decide if that's healthy or not. I can't decide if this is the greatest adventure of my life, or the worst thing I've ever done.
Monday, January 17, 2011
I'm Getting Closer To Letting Go... To Letting Go of You.
Once there was a little girl. She had long hair and wore a purple bathing suit. She followed her big brother around everywhere. Her big brother had a friend, and they never let the little girl play. They pulled on her long hair and made her get Kool-Aid and cookies.
But they never did play with her, even when they promised.
The years passed by, turning pages in a book, the faded chalk likes from hopscotch. The girl was not so little, and her hair was not so long. And no longer did she let anyone walk all over her.
Until she saw the boy, her big brother's friend. He looked across the art room table at her and was taken in by the color of her eyes and the swell of her hips, not to mention her quick tongue and the way love flowed from her, like blood from an open wound.
And they fell in love.
And he left her.
And the years passed by again, and again, like drying river beds, like broken headstones. He saw her in math class applying clear gloss to her lips. He followed her out of the room, watched her bend over to pull on the laces of her high black boots.
"I am so sorry for everything."
These words would be repeated more times that she cared to count over the next year. He took her to his home, laid her in his bed and made love to her, ripping her apart on the inside. She didn't complain, because sometimes love hurts.
He mentioned his own little girl, and the girl plied him with hair ties, advice, movies, anything and everything.
But his own daughter left.
And he left the girl.
But he came back, like a bad penny or a good luck charm. He was always at the back of her mind, like a pebble in her shoe.
So they crawled through time together. She coaxed him through dark depressions. Coaxed him through alcohol binges and screaming matches. She flinched as he raised his hand to her more than once.
But he left again, the allure of the white powder and the places it took him too strong. He left her again, and she vowed that this was the last time...
Too bad his own little girl died.
She won't come and comfort him now. Even his heart break can't convince her that she won't be pulled into his web again. And if she does, she won't come out alive.
But they never did play with her, even when they promised.
The years passed by, turning pages in a book, the faded chalk likes from hopscotch. The girl was not so little, and her hair was not so long. And no longer did she let anyone walk all over her.
Until she saw the boy, her big brother's friend. He looked across the art room table at her and was taken in by the color of her eyes and the swell of her hips, not to mention her quick tongue and the way love flowed from her, like blood from an open wound.
And they fell in love.
And he left her.
And the years passed by again, and again, like drying river beds, like broken headstones. He saw her in math class applying clear gloss to her lips. He followed her out of the room, watched her bend over to pull on the laces of her high black boots.
"I am so sorry for everything."
These words would be repeated more times that she cared to count over the next year. He took her to his home, laid her in his bed and made love to her, ripping her apart on the inside. She didn't complain, because sometimes love hurts.
He mentioned his own little girl, and the girl plied him with hair ties, advice, movies, anything and everything.
But his own daughter left.
And he left the girl.
But he came back, like a bad penny or a good luck charm. He was always at the back of her mind, like a pebble in her shoe.
So they crawled through time together. She coaxed him through dark depressions. Coaxed him through alcohol binges and screaming matches. She flinched as he raised his hand to her more than once.
But he left again, the allure of the white powder and the places it took him too strong. He left her again, and she vowed that this was the last time...
Too bad his own little girl died.
She won't come and comfort him now. Even his heart break can't convince her that she won't be pulled into his web again. And if she does, she won't come out alive.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
When I'm Left to My Own Devices, I Go Fucking Insane
I was reading in one of my books today, and I came across a quote that resonated with me.
"We accept the love we think we deserve." I don't remember what book it came from. Nor do I care. It doesn't matter at this point. At that matters is I want to write it all over my walls, on the few mirrors we keep in this house, on the front of my file folder, and on the insides of my wrists.
Just so I don't forget.
This past five days has been--hellish, to say the least. I cried for fifteen hours straight after my confidence up and left me. I could, and did, sit and have a completely normal conversation, just be crying the whole time.
I cried when I laid myself down to sleep. I cried when I tried to pick up a pen to write in my journal. I cried when I tried on new clothes during a retail therapy shopping spree. I cried when I tried to drink a milkshake. I cried in the shower. I cried when I walked down to my lab and realized that I hadn't even changed and just could NOT face dissecting a cat.
But you know... I don't think I'm angry anymore. My confidence left for reasons that frankly, only he understands. I think it hurt me more that the whole time he was doing it, he was regretting it. He told me so.
So why do it?
I wish I could understand. I wish I could rationalize it, and explain it to the both of us. I wish I could just fix this for both of us.
He doesn't want to be fixed.
I know that now.
And though he thought he was saving me, he was really killing me just a little bit. It wasn't the first time, and it won't be the last.
I still pray for him every night. I want him to be happy, to be healthy, to be in that place called Okay. Because I can see now that he wasn't there. And he might not be there for a very long time.
But I can't save him. He doesn't want me to save him.
I dream about him. But the dreams are getting less and less vivid as the days pass, and I wake up with dry cheeks. I don't know if I like this or not. I don't know if I can count this as a triumph or as another loss.
Maybe both. Nothing in life is black and white, and I will be happier if I don't try and put it in places like that.
My point is; I don't deserve to be treated like that. I never did. I have committed no great sin that warrants me wishing I was dead.
And this is my pledge; I will NOT accept that love anymore. I will NOT be treated that way. I do NOT deserve it.
I will tell myself this even if it's through tears, gritted teeth, and depression. This is going to the be one thing that's going to save me. I will not accept the love that I don't deserve.
Here's another quote from the Sixx AM song Girl With Golden Eyes. It's from Nikki Sixx's journal as he was withdrawing from heroin, and relates to how I've felt:
Day Three-I haven't had anything for three days now. This withdrawal is killing me. It's like shock therapy to my guts.
Day Four-Last visit to the clinic. My whole body feels like it's cracking into pieces. Fragile doesn't even come close to describing how I feel.
Day Five- I'm sick as a dog, but this handful of painkillers and a lotta whiskey's going to get me through.
Day Six- When I'm left to my own devices, I go fucking insane. I'll never use heroin again.
Day Seven- I can't believe I'm clean.
Day Eight-Everyone says I look better.
Day Nine-The parasites are panicking.
Day Ten-They seem amazed that I'm alive.
"We accept the love we think we deserve." I don't remember what book it came from. Nor do I care. It doesn't matter at this point. At that matters is I want to write it all over my walls, on the few mirrors we keep in this house, on the front of my file folder, and on the insides of my wrists.
Just so I don't forget.
This past five days has been--hellish, to say the least. I cried for fifteen hours straight after my confidence up and left me. I could, and did, sit and have a completely normal conversation, just be crying the whole time.
I cried when I laid myself down to sleep. I cried when I tried to pick up a pen to write in my journal. I cried when I tried on new clothes during a retail therapy shopping spree. I cried when I tried to drink a milkshake. I cried in the shower. I cried when I walked down to my lab and realized that I hadn't even changed and just could NOT face dissecting a cat.
But you know... I don't think I'm angry anymore. My confidence left for reasons that frankly, only he understands. I think it hurt me more that the whole time he was doing it, he was regretting it. He told me so.
So why do it?
I wish I could understand. I wish I could rationalize it, and explain it to the both of us. I wish I could just fix this for both of us.
He doesn't want to be fixed.
I know that now.
And though he thought he was saving me, he was really killing me just a little bit. It wasn't the first time, and it won't be the last.
I still pray for him every night. I want him to be happy, to be healthy, to be in that place called Okay. Because I can see now that he wasn't there. And he might not be there for a very long time.
But I can't save him. He doesn't want me to save him.
I dream about him. But the dreams are getting less and less vivid as the days pass, and I wake up with dry cheeks. I don't know if I like this or not. I don't know if I can count this as a triumph or as another loss.
Maybe both. Nothing in life is black and white, and I will be happier if I don't try and put it in places like that.
My point is; I don't deserve to be treated like that. I never did. I have committed no great sin that warrants me wishing I was dead.
And this is my pledge; I will NOT accept that love anymore. I will NOT be treated that way. I do NOT deserve it.
I will tell myself this even if it's through tears, gritted teeth, and depression. This is going to the be one thing that's going to save me. I will not accept the love that I don't deserve.
Here's another quote from the Sixx AM song Girl With Golden Eyes. It's from Nikki Sixx's journal as he was withdrawing from heroin, and relates to how I've felt:
Day Three-I haven't had anything for three days now. This withdrawal is killing me. It's like shock therapy to my guts.
Day Four-Last visit to the clinic. My whole body feels like it's cracking into pieces. Fragile doesn't even come close to describing how I feel.
Day Five- I'm sick as a dog, but this handful of painkillers and a lotta whiskey's going to get me through.
Day Six- When I'm left to my own devices, I go fucking insane. I'll never use heroin again.
Day Seven- I can't believe I'm clean.
Day Eight-Everyone says I look better.
Day Nine-The parasites are panicking.
Day Ten-They seem amazed that I'm alive.
Friday, September 17, 2010
Happy Birthday Mutti!
Today was She Who Must Be Kept's birthday. She turned forty five today. This means she birthed me when she was just barely TWENTY FOUR and my older brother when she was TWENTY TWO! Sometimes it's shocking to me to think that she was having kids when she was a year freaking older than me. I mean, I still watch cartoons. Children? How is that even possible?!?
But, I told all my friends I was busy today since SWMBK took it off (which she never does). We had to go and get her plates renewed and she needed a new license. To my surprise, the Farmer's Market was still going on outside of the Secretary of State. By the way, there was a bumper sticker in SoS that said; Recycle yourself! Become an organ donor! Now, I'm all for organ donation, I even have the sticker on my I.D. But I don't really see how that is going to endear it to anyway.
I got some organic!fresh!local! tomatoes. Three bucks for bigass ones, two bucks for a basket of cherry tomatoes. I love organic!local!fresh! stuff, but I don't like buying it at the grocery store. It always seems to cost a little too much, and I never feel like I can believe them.
Anyway, SWMBK wanted to drive the thirty miles to her hometown so we could go to the tavern and buy pizza. And we did. And oh dear God, it was worth the drive, and the price. (For three people, that's three drinks, one refill each, mozzarella sticks, and one large four topping pizza at thirty dollars.) It was seriously the best damn pizza ever. Apparently they make all of it from scratch.
Also, it turns out SWMBK is really good at pinball. Like, scary good. Like, setting new high scores on the machine good. It turns out she and my father used to go to that same tavern when they first met every Friday to play. She played all through her pregnancy with my brother, until she was too big to reach the buttons anymore.
I wondered if she missed my father tonight. If she wanted him there to celebrate being forty five. But, in the end, when she said it was the best birthday ever...
...Maybe she didn't miss him.
But, I told all my friends I was busy today since SWMBK took it off (which she never does). We had to go and get her plates renewed and she needed a new license. To my surprise, the Farmer's Market was still going on outside of the Secretary of State. By the way, there was a bumper sticker in SoS that said; Recycle yourself! Become an organ donor! Now, I'm all for organ donation, I even have the sticker on my I.D. But I don't really see how that is going to endear it to anyway.
I got some organic!fresh!local! tomatoes. Three bucks for bigass ones, two bucks for a basket of cherry tomatoes. I love organic!local!fresh! stuff, but I don't like buying it at the grocery store. It always seems to cost a little too much, and I never feel like I can believe them.
Anyway, SWMBK wanted to drive the thirty miles to her hometown so we could go to the tavern and buy pizza. And we did. And oh dear God, it was worth the drive, and the price. (For three people, that's three drinks, one refill each, mozzarella sticks, and one large four topping pizza at thirty dollars.) It was seriously the best damn pizza ever. Apparently they make all of it from scratch.
Also, it turns out SWMBK is really good at pinball. Like, scary good. Like, setting new high scores on the machine good. It turns out she and my father used to go to that same tavern when they first met every Friday to play. She played all through her pregnancy with my brother, until she was too big to reach the buttons anymore.
I wondered if she missed my father tonight. If she wanted him there to celebrate being forty five. But, in the end, when she said it was the best birthday ever...
...Maybe she didn't miss him.
Friday, August 6, 2010
Shedding Skin
The skin I wear when I go outside isn't really my skin. Not really. I mean, physically, yeah. It's mine. I more mean it isn't---raw.
This false skin has layers. It starts when I peel off my super comfortable pajamas and ratty underwear. I put om prim, clean panties so I won't die of embarrassment if I get killed and the coroner saw them. I put together some co-ordinated, clear "outfit" so anyone who looks at me will think I'm a well put together, adjusted girl. I am not, of course, but not anyone should be able to tell just by looking at me.
Then, I straighten my hair instead of leaving it messy. I grab my purse. My cell phone so I can be reached at any point in time. I then put my headphones in my ears so that I cannot.
And then I feel "ready".
But you know, I'm not really. I think I'd only be "ready" if I could shed all this and expose my skin, raw and pink. I'd be ready if I could expose my own tenderness and vulnerability. I'd be ready if I could say; "I know it's not much, but it's all I have. Do you think you could love me anyway?"
There is, however, someone I am so naked for..
And I must confess, he appears to love me inspite of (or perhaps because of?) that skin that so few people have seen before.
It gives me confidence.
This false skin has layers. It starts when I peel off my super comfortable pajamas and ratty underwear. I put om prim, clean panties so I won't die of embarrassment if I get killed and the coroner saw them. I put together some co-ordinated, clear "outfit" so anyone who looks at me will think I'm a well put together, adjusted girl. I am not, of course, but not anyone should be able to tell just by looking at me.
Then, I straighten my hair instead of leaving it messy. I grab my purse. My cell phone so I can be reached at any point in time. I then put my headphones in my ears so that I cannot.
And then I feel "ready".
But you know, I'm not really. I think I'd only be "ready" if I could shed all this and expose my skin, raw and pink. I'd be ready if I could expose my own tenderness and vulnerability. I'd be ready if I could say; "I know it's not much, but it's all I have. Do you think you could love me anyway?"
There is, however, someone I am so naked for..
And I must confess, he appears to love me inspite of (or perhaps because of?) that skin that so few people have seen before.
It gives me confidence.
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