The Good(?) Old Days

I know this needs to be written but I am not sure where to start. Over the last 12 days, almost to the minute, I have written parts of it in my head – in the shower, at night when I can’t sleep, when cooking dinner or doing dishes, driving. But putting it all together into one coherent piece, into something that makes sense to anyone other than myself, that is where I am lost.

But let me try.

Anyone who knows me, or who has followed me on social media, knows that I have some mental illnesses. PTSD being chief among them. I have not hidden that part of myself from anyone at all. It is a part of who I am, and to understand me, you must understand that. Most of my Traumatic Issues stem from my first marriage. Not all, but most. It was not a happy time in my life. As I told a doctor just this morning – I was 17, he was 20. We were, for all intents and purposes, children. We had no idea what we were doing, although we would never have admitted it at that time.

Yet as the years go by, as I get older, as I understand more, things hurt less. This is not a post about my PTSD. This is not a post about my victimization. This is not a post to attempt to make anyone feel sorry for me. Those things have passed. This post is a tribute to those days. This post is my way of getting it down – of trying to figure it out. Because as the years go by, as I get older, as I understand more, I realize that it wasn’t all bad.

When we portray ourselves as victims, we automatically turn those who have done things to hurt us, into Bad People. Sometimes they really are Bad People. Some crimes can not be forgiven. Crimes against children, for instance. I can not forgive a crime such as that. Rape. Murder. But there are other things. Things which can’t be categorized as black or white. My first marriage was Grey. Nothing was Black or White. I was a Victim. But who is to say that I was not also committing a crime, therein making him a victim as well? We can not come to these realizations until we can remove ourselves, take a step back, and see things from a different point of view.

I don’t remember much of my life. I believe I have mentioned this before. My doctor says this is because I have spent a lot of my years Disassociated, or living inside of my head. Now, the only way we remember anything at all is because it has an emotion attached to it. But I think for me, I either blocked most emotion, or it took a large amount of feeling for me to create any memory at all. Sometimes I remember things out of nowhere, or I have memories which seem to be insignificant. I have a lot of seemingly insignificant memories from my first marriage. But if I put them all together, it actually creates a bigger picture, and this picture is filled with such a raw, naïve emotion, that it makes me wonder how I could have ever even been the person who felt that at all.

It’s the smell of the air conditioner. The contrast of the hot, stuffy, suffocating air outside and the cool crisp deliciousness of the apartment. That throat-clogging chemical smell that permeates the air when the thermostat is turned too low. When you need to grab a blanket to warm up on the couch, even after a sweaty walk home from work. There is no worry about cranking it too low because your apartment is income-based and bills are low so you can be as cool as you want. Throw on the blanket, breathe in the Freon, and have no worries.

It’s your three favorite CD’s. You didn’t have Pandora or Amazon or Spotify. You barely had a CD burner. You also didn’t have much money. So you listened to the same three CD’s over and over on your boom box. And you knew those albums by heart. And you still do. Because life was simple and choices were easy and the music was good.

And while you were listening to those CD’s you were on your computer playing Mahjong on the Nabisco website. They had the best Mahjong.

And it didn’t matter if you stayed up late because you were 19 and if the baby woke up you would feed her and put her back to bed and get a little sleep and be fine for work tomorrow because when you are 19 you are invincible.

It was walking five miles in the heat to the grocery store with your last 5 dollars in your pocket to get one sleeve of orange rolls and a 2 liter of Coke and walking the five miles home in the middle of the night and cooking the orange rolls and eating them at 2 in the morning while playing a video game and listening to Blues Traveler.

It was having your days and nights mixed up and Conan was the first thing you watched when you woke up and you went downstairs to have a cigarette and watch the sun come up and the neighbor below you is on the front stoop sweeping and she says she can’t sleep either so she likes to work outside and you think it’s cool to meet someone else with insomnia and it isn’t until many years later that you realize that she was tweaked out.

It’s those times when the girls were playing on the floor and we were watching TV and all was well.

It was the time you thought you were pregnant again but you weren’t and even though you knew you didn’t need another baby your heart was still sad.

It was holding the babies and knowing there would be so many more in the future and that my world would be full of children and love.

It was being so young and full of hope. It was thinking that this was just the beginning of all things great and wonderful and I had the whole world ahead of me and I had no worries and the worries I did have were mine alone to bear.

I’m remarried now. We have been married for over 15 years. We are happy. But that feeling of freedom and naivety are gone. We have car loans and a mortgage and student loans and retirement accounts and savings accounts. My babies are 21 and 19 and we have a grandchild and in August I will have a hysterectomy and the dreams of having so many more children are so much dust.

I really do have a happy life. I want for almost nothing. My house is nice. My car is nice. My clothes are nice. My husband is wonderful. But I think nothing will ever take the place of that childish hope. The feeling of having everything ahead of you.

I used to think of black when I thought of my first husband, but now I just think of that hope. That hope I had of the future. Now I am trying to pass some of that hope to him.

My first husband is in the ICU. He has been there for 12 days. His heart stopped and he passed. They brought him back but it has been a struggle ever since. It serves neither of us for me to focus on the negative aspects of our relationship. If I can focus on the positive, that hope, that feeling of having a life ahead, and pass that on to him, maybe he can make it through this.

I hope he can.

Because bearing old grudges serves no one.

 

40

Yesterday I was 39.

 

Today I am 40.

 

It’s just one day, but those 24 hours span two decades in my mind.

Even in pictures I look older.

Last Day of 30’s (Yesterday):

First day of 40 (This Morning):

When did this happen? I know it didn’t happen overnight, but I thought the pictures were hilarious, because I always look terrible first thing in the morning. So when did I actually get old? When did I go from a desirable 24-year-old, to a used-up, tired-looking grandmother?

I really don’t know.

I’ve been thinking a lot about how fast time goes by. My husband and I talked about it at length not too long ago. We talked about it in terms of decades.

For example, in 1989, I was in 5th grade, awkward, pimple faced, underweight, only one of two girls in my grade who really needed to wear a bra. By 1999 I was already married with two girls.

Ten years makes that much difference.

When I was 10, I was supposed to get a bike for my birthday. I had just gotten my first radio/tape player for Christmas. I also got my first period. I listed to the local pop music radio station, and recorded songs to make my own mixed tapes so I could listen to them any time I wanted. I shared a room with my baby brother (who is now expecting his second child!) I still jumped on my bed when my favorite songs came on, and talked to myself in the mirror daily. I was allowed to babysit for short amounts of time. I was still a Shriner’s kid. I loved Weird Al. I had yet to do anything crazy to my hair. I wet the bed once. I had big dreams, and so many years ahead of me. I was excited about life.

When I turned 20, I was preparing to have my gallbladder out three days later. I was married with a nine-month old daughter. I had had a miscarriage the year before. My marriage was abusive, and I was miserable. I was still underweight, and felt like the ugliest person in the world. I no longer had any hopes or dreams, except that one day I would find happiness. We were beyond poor, and I now consider myself to have been Trash. My early 20’s are a blur. I don’t remember a lot of those years, and my doctor says it is because I disassociated myself; I lived in my head. I think living in my head is the only way I survived those years.

When I turned 30, I was divorced and re-married, and my two girls were getting older, forming their own personalities. My husband had a good job, and I was no longer poor. Or Trash. I was starting to feel a little old, and I had gained a bit of weight. I had realized that there was something wrong with me, and I didn’t know what to do about it. My second marriage was starting to fall apart already, and I felt like the brief period of happiness I had had when I first met my husband was too far away, and would never come back. I spent most of my late 30’s drunk. I made horrible decisions. I started self-harming, and dreamed of suicide. I spent two separate weeks in hospitals. I was on the brink of divorce, driving around with the papers in my car, unsigned, but otherwise ready to file.

Today I turn 40. I am happy again. My marriage is happy again. I am sober. I no longer cut myself. I no longer think about suicide. My girls are grown. My older daughter moved to another state to make a new life for herself, and seems to be doing well. My younger daughter is a mother now, and is in the process of finding her place in the world. My grandson is two and a half, and the most wonderful little human on the Earth. My husband and I preformed a miracle. One year ago we could not be in the same room of the house without fighting. Today, we can’t get enough of each other’s company. We both made steps forward. We both gave a little. We both apologized. We both became new people. Or maybe not new people, but better versions of ourselves. We may not be the Best Versions yet, but we are still working on it every day and that is what matters. I have hope and dreams again. I hope to be able to be the best wife, mother, grandmother, sister, daughter and friend that I can possibly be. I dream of a time when my husband retires and it is just the two of us and our kids and grandkids come to visit, and we sit outside drinking tea and the occasional beer, and talking about the old (good) days. I dream of growing old gracefully, and looking back and being proud of all I have accomplished.

Four decades.

Forty years of stuff…

…Only to end up right back where I started. I may not have a whole life in front of me, but I have the second half, the Easy Half. The Fun Half. The Downhill Half.

And I think back on my childhood, and my teens, and my 20’s and it seems like just yesterday. Just yesterday I went to my first day of kindergarten. Just yesterday I got my first kiss. Just yesterday I held my babies for the first time. Just yesterday I fell in love.

Just yesterday I was 39.

Today I am 40.

Bring it on.

 

Still Alive

I haven’t written in a long time.

Here’s a quick catch-up.

My husband and I repaired our marriage and I moved back into our home. My older daughter moved to Texas and seems to be doing well with her new life. It makes me sad, but I am still happy for her. My younger daughter left her abusive boyfriend, and she and her son moved in with us. Our oldest family dog passed away, and we have a new dog in the house. I don’t know how long he will stay, but while he is here, we give him all of the love he could want. I’m hoping he will stay for a long time. It’s been interesting having a puppy and a two-year-old in the house at the same time. But they fill the home with life, and that makes me happy. This house has needed life for a long time.

I quit my job, and started a new therapy for my PTSD. I have lost friends, but have also connected with old friends. (Sometimes you have to wonder what exactly happened to cause you to quit talking in the first place. Because, in my case, she is truly the best friend I could ask for. And it makes me sad that we lost touch for so many years. And I am more than ecstatic to have her back in my life.) I have lost 24 pounds since I quit my job. I can’t quite hit that 25 pound mark, but I am still working on it. Another 20 pounds, and I will be happy. Another 30, and I will be satisfied. Weight is important to me, especially now that I am getting older, and the grey hairs are starting to populate my head in larger and larger numbers. I still only have about 10, but at this time last year, I only had one or two. Getting old is hard.

All in all, you would think that I have a good, happy, satisfying life.

But you would be wrong.

I worry.

Constantly.

Is everyone okay?

Am I doing a good job at being a wife/mother/grandmother?

Am I sick? Can I really be fixed? Does anyone know how badly I struggle, because I try so hard to hide it from people? Does he really love me? Has he really forgiven me? Has anyone in my life ever loved me? Am I worthy? Am I broken forever? Was dinner good enough? Am I ugly? Am I really unlovable?

I still have a long road to travel before I am okay.

But I am getting there.

I have found that not having the structure of work and a career has caused me to flounder a bit. I have no sense of time. I have no sense of days and weeks and months. If I get tired, I take a nap. If I want to stay up late, I stay up late. Sometimes I don’t remember what month it is. Every day is a struggle to get done what needs to get done. Sometimes I can’t remember if it’s spring or fall, and if the holidays have already passed and I totally missed them, or if I still have that time to look forward to. I am seeing things. Nothing big. Just a flash here and a line there. But they all seem to be symbolic in some way. A broken life. The dreams are insane. Tornados and rotten food and dead people and feces and houses and houses and more houses.

On the outside, I like to think I am cool and calm. But on the inside, I am still such a mess.

And that is that.

My husband said I should write again, because he likes it when I write. So I am going to try to be more diligent about this blog.

This entry is dedicated to him.  He has tried very hard since I moved back. I can see him gradually falling back in love with me and caring more for me and helping me. So yeah.

Paul, this is for you.

I’m writing again.

 

 

I Want a Man

I think I have made a mistake.

I decided to meet my husband, and we, together, decided to try to work this thing out. Maybe pick up all the broken pieces. Pick up the pieces and see if we could find a way to put them back together to maybe make something that vaguely resembles something beautiful.

I was excited.

I felt like a teenager.

I took a shower and put on make-up and picked nice clothes to wear and donned my best big girl-I have changed-I’m getting better-attitude.

We ate and then we sat outside and talked.

I talked about how I can’t change who I am but I can change the way I handle situations. I talked about how I have stopped drinking. I talked about how I am taking better care of myself. I talked about how quitting my job will be good for me and good for us.

He talked about not trusting me.

He talked about how I need to get a job.

He talked about how the house is not in good shape.

I was still so excited to be talking that I overlooked this.

I had this idea in my head that we could talk for some time and then I would move back in and work part time and I would keep house and cook and do laundry and we could watch TV and movies together and talk and play and just be.

We could be like we used to be.

We could be happy.

But it didn’t occur to me until late that night what he had not said.

So we talked some more.

He said he can’t trust me. I told him I can’t earn trust unless he entrusts me with something.

He was reluctant.

Of course he was. I have become an untrustworthy person.

But he told me that, under no uncertain terms, would he give up the things that trigger me. He would not give. He would not bend.

Still I was hopeful.

Still I was blinded by what has been and what could possibly be again.

But now my stomach hurts every time I think of him. Not the butterflies I was hoping for. But this deep pain that starts in my gut and makes my hands shake and makes my heart hurt.

He will not give. He will not change.

Because he feels he has done nothing wrong.

This is not what I need.

What I need is a Man.

I need a man who is sensitive.

I need and man who cares about me, not just himself.

I need a man who is tender and gentle.

I need a man who understands, and if he doesn’t, he tries to.

I need a man who asks questions.

I need a man who can truly understand that I am hurt and damaged and worn out and tired all the way down to my soul.

I need a man who can take me in his arms and calm me when I think the world is too much to handle.

I need a man who can hug me

I need a man who can kiss me.

I need a man who can love me and help me feel beautiful.

I need a man.

I need a Man.

Maybe my husband can be this man. But I don’t know.

Maybe I should give up and move on.

Maybe I should stay and try.

It is just so hard to give up 15 years. Especially when some of those years were the best years I had to give and the best years I had to receive.

I think about the beginning.

Everything was new and fresh and exciting and amazing and the girls were still practically babies and we had a family and we ate dinner together every night and I did the best I could and we were happy because I loved him and I was committed to him and I didn’t want anyone but him and he loved me and he was committed to me and he didn’t want anyone but me and together we were a force that could never be stopped.

But then we stopped.

We. Stopped.

One event changed everything.

If I could go back and change that, I would.

If I could go back and stop myself from ever meeting that man.

If I could  go back and tell that man that I didn’t want to work for him.

If I could go back and change my clothes.

If I could go back and say No a little firmer.

If I could go back and summon just a little more power to throw him off of me.

If I could go back and change the looks on people’s faces when they found out.

If I could go back and change the way we both handled that situation.

If I could go back and change the aftermath.

If I could go back and erase it and make it so that none of that ever happened.

Maybe we would be okay now.

Maybe we would be together and be happy and be what everyone thought we were all along.

Maybe.

Maybe.

Maybe.

But now I am damaged. I have been through more in my life than I can even put into words. Even my doctor can’t explain some of the things that have happened to me.

Maybe someday a man will ask some questions.

Maybe some day a man will listen to what I have to say.

Maybe some day someone will try to understand.

And they will take me in their arms and hold me and tell me that the world is not all bad.

But I don’t know.

Maybe it will be my husband.

But I don’t know.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hate and Love and Love and Hate

This is either gong to be a very long post or a series of posts on the same subject. I haven’t made a decision. I am just going to sit back and see how this plays out. It is Sunday morning, and I am armed with a pop tart, and full pack of cigarettes, good music, and all the time in the world. I am awake and everyone else is asleep and the house is quiet. So you will be going on this adventure with me, possibly discovering things about me, as I also discover – or uncover – them about myself. Let’s do this and see where we end up.

Love is a very, very important subject for me, and I am not even sure where to start. There are so many aspects of love, and kinds of love, and levels of love.

Love for spouse.

Love for partner.

Love for children.

Love for Grandchildren.

Love for friends.

Love for family.

Love for nature and animals.

Love for books and movies and art.

Love for cheeseburgers and french-fries and pizza and cake and fried chicken and Dr. Pepper and steak. And mashed potatoes.

Also pie.

But I can feel the same amount of love for a piece of fried chicken as I can for my grandson or my best friend, or the sky on a perfect spring day. To me, Love is Love,

Is Love,

Is Love,

Is Love.

When I am myself, my true self – which does pop out of hiding sometimes – I feel intense love. I feel love for everything and almost everyone. It is sometimes hard for me to keep this emotion under control. When I see people working well together, making a team, being more together than their separate, individual selves, it makes me cry. When I see a random act of kindness, it makes me cry. When I see children playing with no worries at all, oblivious to the dark world around them, just being kids and playing and learning and enjoying the world, it makes me cry. When I listen to a beautifully composed piece of music, it makes me cry. The unconditional faithfulness I receive from my dogs makes me cry.

That is because, to me, these are all love. When something works. When something flows. When someone grows. When something is created. Love. It’s all love.

It feels like Love.

And I love that.

I haven’t done a very good job of letting myself out to enjoy love, or to give love. I have mostly blocked that part of me away. I still cry, but not for love. I cry because I Hate the world.

I heard someone say, a long time ago, that Hate is not the opposite of Love; apathy is the opposite of Love. I truly believe this. Apathy is a lack of caring about a thing. You don’t care. You just don’t give a shit. It just doesn’t matter to you. I believe that Love and Hate are closely related. Both are very passionate emotions. This is how I see it –

I love people. But I hate people. People can be rude and nasty and manipulative and negligent, and selfish and ugly. People can hurt other people. People can hurt animals. People can hurt nature. People can be horrible. I hate people. But at the same time I love them. I love them because of their potential. Almost every single human has the potential to be a loving, kind, caring, understanding, gentle person. It pisses me off that they aren’t those things. It makes me angry and it makes me hate. It makes me sad. I just don’t understand, being who I am and how I am, how people can be so ugly. That is why I hate.

I hate because I love.

I hate so much because I love so much.

It may seem to not make sense, but to me it makes perfect sense.

And I guess if it makes sense to me, and I understand where these emotions are coming from, that is what matters.

Something happened to me along the path of my life. Actually, it wasn’t just a Something. It was a Many Things. It probably started when I was two years old, (not talking about that) but definitely when I was three, and my dad left me. I think that was the beginning of the Black – the first spot that would grow and grow and eventually take over my White completely, at the age of thirty-eight. Thirty-five years of Many Things.

I have PTSD. I have many, many layers of PTSD. The most recent, and still the most painful layers, have occurred over the last few years.

There have been many things said and done between me and my husband over the years. We have both made mistakes, and we have both been hurtful. But being who I am, and knowing how I feel so strongly about love, there is one thing he said that hurt worse than anything before or since.

He said I was Unlovable.

He said I was Unlovable, and that no one could ever love me.

He told me he was sorry later, and that, perhaps, I took that wrong.

I did not take that wrong.

And the apology did not make it hurt less.

And I instantly believed that I was Unlovable.

I still believe it.

Because if my husband of thirteen years didn’t love me, who else ever would?

His apology also couldn’t take back what I had done to myself, after he left for work, in a fit of uncontrollable hurt and pain and blinded by tears of anger and deep sadness.

I did this to myself.

Nobody has ever seen that. I kept it covered, and I didn’t take care of it properly, and it became infected and took a long time to heal. He saw it later when it looked much worse, and the infection was already setting in. He told me very many months later, that he felt awful about it. That something he had said had caused me that much pain. But the first time he saw it, he asked if that was carved into my skin. I said yes. He said That’s Nice. It took him over a week to notice it was there.

How could this have even happened? How could someone like me, who cares so much about the world and people and animals and nature become someone who is described as Unlovable?

I think it is because I have become Unlovable.

The Black took over the White and I forgot how to Love.

I didn’t just forget how to love.

I forgot Love.

I would like to remember how to Love.

I would like to remember Love.

That doesn’t seem to be something that is going to happen.

I think I can, at some point, get back to loving some people and animals and nature and music and books and art. Also fried chicken. But not romantic love.

I don’t think romantic love is ever going to be there for me again.

And I think I will stop there, because I think Romantic Love should be a separate post.

I will say one last thing though.

There are many, many years of my life I don’t remember. My doctor says those are the times I Disassociated – I climbed into my own mind and lived there.

But something is happening to me.

It has been happening for a couple weeks now.

Flashes of memory.

Just little flashes.

Memories I have probably had buried for years.

Could this be my mind trying to come back to itself, after so many years of hiding?

And could this be the beginning of the White fighting the Black for it’s Rightful Place?

Could this be me getting back to Love?

I hope so.

-Malesia

Suicide Hotline

1-800-273-8255

 

 

 

 

.

 

 

 

 

 

The Crossroads

Those are my footprints. It was an absolutely beautiful day in the late spring of 2010, and my husband and I decided to go to the Azalea Path. I have many, many pictures from that particular outing. But this one brings that day back to me more than the photographs of flowers and lakes. I had put my feet in the stream and it seemed like the water took all of my troubles away. I would love to visit that beautiful, magical place again, for one more chance to let the stream wash it all away.

In early 2010, things were so much different. I still had issues, but I had waged a war against them, and it seemed as though I was going to win. I had beaten the Monster in my head…or so I thought…and I was feeling hopeful about the future.

I was so fucking naïve.

In late 2010, I was at a Crossroads. I took the wrong path, and allowed my family to follow me down that road. All the way from Indiana to California.

But that is a story for another day.

What it comes down to is that I made a decision and it was wrong. The path I took in late 2010 changed everything in my life.

I find myself now, at the beginning of 2017 at another Crossroads.

My life is an absolute mess. I have made it a mess. I can’t say that everything that has happened in my life is my fault. It isn’t. But I have made many decisions, before and since 2010, which have fucked my life up. Big, big.

My marriage has completely fallen apart.

I have fallen in love with a man who will never love me back.

My job is fun, and I love most of my employees and co-workers, but it is not at all rewarding.

I drink and smoke too much, and neither habit have I been able to break.

I have lost the core of myself. The core that is who I really am.

I have built a wall.

I can’t leave my room.

My brain has been destroyed from all of the medication I took to help my brain.

I am no longer smart.

I am no longer funny.

I am no longer sexy.

I

am

a

mess.

So I stand here at this Crossroads. What happens next?

I was chatting with my Cousin and Dear Friend, and she mentioned that it would be nice if we were closer. And I said…without really thinking about it…that a change of location might do me good. After I sent that text, I couldn’t get the idea out of my head.

A change of location.

A Change.

Change.

I keep thinking about how appealing the idea is. To just pack a bag and move. One bag is not too heavy. I could leave the rest of my burden behind. Start fresh. A new beginning. A place where no one knows me. A place where I can be myself. A place where I can rest.

A place where I can rest.

Rest.

Because right now, I am tired. I am tired all the way down inside. I am tired of fighting this battle. These Battles. I am tired of hurt and rejection and failure and apathy and nastiness and being alone.

I am tired.

I don’t have a lot keeping me here, after all. I have a stable job. I maybe could even call it a career. But I don’t have a lot of connections. Friendships have faded. I am not in a relationship. I will not be keeping this house after I leave. The hardest thing to leave would be my girls and my grandson. That would break my heart. But the girls are grown and no longer need me for much except support. Which can  be done, for the most part, via technology. I would have to settle for pictures and videos of my grandson, watching him grow up at a distance. But how many grandparents have to visit their grandchildren in that very same way? Many.

So yeah.

The Crossroads.

Stay or Go?

I wish I knew what decision to make. I don’t want to end up in another bad place like California.

But I really do want to go.

Go

Go

Go

-Malesia

Suicide Hotline –

1-800-273-8255

 

I’m Sorry.

That is a picture of me that a young man at a Chinese restaurant drew while we were eating. I had forgotten about it until I ran across it earlier today. It is little acts of random kindness like this that make me smile. I do have a heart, and I am not a mean person by nature. I do know love, and what friendship can truly be.

My post last night was mean and I was upset and full of rage. I feel much better today, because I have decided to forgive. However, I do owe an apology.

Not to her.

No.

I owe an apology to you, my friends.

My true actual friends.

After going back and reading what I had written, I realized that I made it sound like I have no friends. No one who cares. I made it sound like I had lost the world because I lost one friend in a bad way. That is not how I feel today. My mind has cleared, and I am seeing better now. The rage is gone, and the hurt feels better, and I feel more like myself.

And I am sorry.

I never meant to make my friendship with any of you seem trivial.

I never meant to alienate anyone.

I never meant to invalidate any friendship I do have.

I do have people who are there for me. I do have people to talk to, should I choose to. I do have people who call, text, message, to check on me. I do have people who care.

I am very sorry if I hurt anyone’s feelings.

No one has said to me – you made me feel bad. I just looked at it from a different point of view, and that is what I saw from the outside.

I work in extremes. I understand many, many shades of grey. But my brain works mostly in black and white. All or nothing. This is something I am working on.

Anyway, to those of you who are my friends, to those of you who are faithful, to those of you who have never hurt me – and there are many of you –

Thank You for being there.

And again…

I am sorry.

-Malesia

Suicide Hotline –

1-800-273-8255

Twizzlers.

I got hurt last week.

I got hurt big, big.

It was one week ago today that a friend betrayed me. I think I can say that. I guess she was my friend. But the more I think about it, the more I am not sure she ever really was.

I trusted her, and she betrayed my trust.

Over and over and over again.

She denied it when I found out, but proof is proof.

And I have proof.

And that hurts.

I don’t have very many friends. I find it very hard to get close to people. But sometimes a connection is made and I find myself interacting with someone I hadn’t expected to. And all of the sudden I have a friend. That happened with her. We knew each other years ago, but only recently reconnected. We hit it off, of course. We talked about the years that had passed and our lives and our problems and our men and we hung out and we had fun. I bought her a birthday present, and she bought me a Christmas present – a huge lot of Twizzlers. I liked her. I really, really did. Mostly.

Except for the warning light in the back of my mind.

The warning light I ignored.

The warning light I just chalked up to my own personal anxieties about getting close to someone.

I was so excited about having another friend. One that I saw on a regular basis. One who actually wanted to spend time with me. I ignored the warnings. The thing that told me something was wrong. The thing that told me to be careful. The thing that didn’t want me to look past her little white lies. I shouldn’t have done that. I shouldn’t have gotten close. I shouldn’t have ignored the warning.

And then maybe all of this wouldn’t hurt so bad.

What happened was going to happen anyway.

But I was personally invested in her, and that makes all of this suck so bad.

I cried. I cried hard.

I felt stupid and vulnerable.

I felt like a fool.

I felt exposed and naked.

The door to our friendship slammed hard as she walked away and got into her car. I just sat there. Wondering what the fuck had just happened.

What the fuck had just happened?

What. The. Fuck.

I still haven’t gotten over the hurt.

She gave me Twizzlers for Christmas. I took them out of the decorative wine box and put them into a clear container I keep next to me on the desk. I grab one every now and then, but have tried to keep my willpower in check. So there are still quite a few left.

I haven’t eaten one in a week.

They just sit there staring at me.

Mocking me.

I want to throw them in the trash.

I want to throw them across the room.

I want to take them straight to the yard can.

Maybe I should. I won’t eat any more of them, anyway. Maybe I should take them outside and roll them around in the mud and then throw them in the can and be done with them. Then they wouldn’t be sitting here next to me. Just sitting there. Mocking, laughing, teasing. I hate them.

Despite other people’s opinions that suggest that maybe she actually cared about me as a friend, and that her friendship was genuine, my own theory is that she never really cared about me as a friend. That she was using my friendship and my trust to get what she wanted. If we were friends, I might turn my head, look past it. She was very generous with her compliments and always knew the right thing to say to make me feel better when I was sad. She actually said things that made me feel better about myself as a person. No one has ever been able to do that before. I believe now that they were all lies.

How could only one person in the world think that I am worthwhile, when I feel like everyone else thinks I am a failure, or a defect, or a loser? The things she said to me had to be lies. Nice, pretty, beautiful lies.

How could only one person be such a fan of me?

How could only one person see the beauty in me?

How could only one person see the potential in me?

No.

Lies.

She told me what she thought I wanted to hear when I was sad.

That’s all.

None of it was true.

Because if you are someone’s friend, and you feel that strongly about them as a person, why would you ever take advantage of them or prey on their weaknesses?

Fuck that.

Lies.

And fuck these Twizzlers.

***

I thought writing this would make me feel better. Like bleeding the poison out of an infected sore. But so far I don’t feel better.

I feel shitty.

I feel so stupid.

Or maybe…maybe…I feel like the poison may be gone, but I maybe still need a Band-Aid. Or stitches.

The stitches is forgiveness. I think I will just forgive her and move on with my life. Why should I let this get me down? Why should I let this ruin my life? She is not the first friend who has betrayed me. This happened just a few months ago with someone else I trusted. I guess two hits in six months maybe just got to me. I’ve been feeling like I would never trust anyone ever again as long as I live. But maybe I will. Someday.

Maybe someday I will find a person and we will connect and they will be a true friend and never do anything to hurt me. Maybe that will happen.

But for now…

Forgiveness.

I think I am going to…

…yes.

This Twizzler is very tasty.

-Malesia

Suicide Hotline –

1-800-273-8255

 

 

Die Day.

I am obsessed with my own death. I have already established that. I think about it a lot. But mostly, that is all I do. Just think. But some days I just can’t get the idea out of my head. I call those days Die Days.

Today has been a Die Day.

Let me explain something.

Once the idea creeps into your head that you can kill yourself, it really does take over. Once you realize that your own life is in the palm of your hand, that you truly have control of how and when you die, it becomes part of your thought process at every turn.

The first time I thought about killing myself, situationally, was after I dropped out of college. My six months were almost up, and my student loan was coming due. I had no job, and I knew that we couldn’t really afford the extra bill. I felt hopeless in that situation. I had caused financial strain on my family, and I saw no way out. I started to think that if I didn’t pay, the government would take our tax check. I had nothing to base this idea on, but it made sense to me. For people who live mostly paycheck to paycheck, Tax Money is god. We had plans for that money. Fix this or that in the house. Buy new furniture. Birthday presents for the girls. Catch up bills. If they took our check, I would be taking all of that away from my family. I knew going to college was a bad idea, but I did it anyway. And now my family would suffer for my decision. There was only one answer.

I had to kill myself.

The moment the idea entered my head, I thought…really? Kill yourself over a student loan? It sounded crazy. But still enticing.

Since then, that has been my answer to everything.

Bad day at work? Kill myself.

I think my friend is mad at me? Kill myself.

Clothes don’t fit right? Kill myself.

I know all of this sounds ridiculous. I know it does. But I can’t help it.

Let’s have an example.

Take – Clothes don’t fit right. Why would that make me want to die? It’s all in the thought process. This is what goes through my head –

I can’t find anything to fucking wear. I have gained so much weight that nothing looks right. How about this shirt? Ugh, it shows all of my belly fat. Try another one. Okay. That one looks good. But it doesn’t go with those pants. Try another pair. Damn it. I can’t wear those pants anymore. I wouldn’t be able to breathe in them. Take off shirt and pants and start again. Shit, I am so fat fat fat fat fat fat fat fat. Fuck. I am fat. I hate myself. How did I let myself gain so much weight? How could I have let this happen? Not my fault the fucking medicine did it. I hate my life. Medicine to make my head better and destroy my body. It’s not fair. I’m so fat I can’t be attractive anymore. Look at my fat round face. So ugly. My belly is fat. My arms are fat. Fat Fat Fat Fat Fat. Now I know why he wouldn’t have sex with me last night. Look at my horrible body. He is going to find someone hotter, someone better. Someone without issues. Someone who isn’t fat fat fat fat fat. He is going to leave me. I am useless and worthless. Why would anyone ever want to be with me. He will leave me and I will be alone forever. I am just going to put my pajamas back on and lay in my bed and cry and cry and cry. I am not going anywhere tonight. I am just going to kill myself and end my suffering.

And there you have it. That is how something as mundane and routine as getting dressed can bring so much pain.

And this happens All The Time.

Mostly I make it though until bed. I usually cry myself to sleep and wake up to another day.

Today was a Die Day.

But today was a serious Die Day.

I had to sit through a meeting this morning while I got chewed out for things that were beyond my control. Not one good thing I have done was mentioned, (and I must say, I usually feel good about the work I do) and negativity, bullying, and downright nastiness was flowing hard. It made me feel like a piece of shit.

Then a bright spot. I got two unsolicited hugs today, one of which made me cry. It also made me feel better.

But, as I was wrapping up work, I got a text that brought up some negative feelings about my marriage. I realized that an opportunity had passed – one that would have given us hope – and had been passed up on purpose. I felt that I really didn’t matter to him so much. That his job and his ‘work family’ were, really, more important to him. He chose them over me. But he blamed me for it.

Everything always seems to be my fault.

Now I am sitting here just wanting to die. All of the excitement of the previous days, knowing that I will soon be on my own, doesn’t seem to matter. I am once again feeling worthless and useless and unwanted. This seems to be where I live now.

I don’t know how to get out of it.

I will not kill myself tonight.

I will not do it tomorrow.

Or the next day.

Or the next day.

I maybe never will.

But knowing that I can, gives me comfort.

And I need that comfort tonight.

-Malesia

Suicide Hotline –

1-800-273-8255