Posted on by She Never Sleeps

the heaviness

I started smoking again. Not like the pack I buy when I’m drunk just to have one cigarette and then toss out the other 19 several months later, after I find them sitting at the bottom of a switched out purse. No. It’s been 3 days and I’m down to 6 left.

My 10 yo told me I smelled like my chain-smoking grandmother’s house today. I should probably stop. But I also lied. I told he and his younger brother that it was just one cigarette and that I was only smoking because –

9: Because of him.

I stopped midsentence, unprepared for the straightforward comment from my baby. He wasn’t wrong. Lost in the graveness of that moment, I closed my eyes and concentrated on my breathing. I felt myself breaking. I couldn’t. Not in front of my boys. Especially not over someone they had only known maybe a month or so. It was too late. My heart had sped up, my cheeks felt flush and heated, slowly water creased my lids yet somehow fell with a quickness and often.

“Yes”, I barely muttered. “Because of him.”

As I wept, I explained the way of adults. Of how love is not always enough. Sometimes people have problems they need to sort through before they can be with someone else. I told them how you weren’t a bad person, you were smart, funny – Jesus, I was all of a sudden your PR rep. I told them that we loved each other, yes. We did. We loved each other and it made us both sad to not be together but that now was not a good time.

Then I saw my youngest boy, sitting next to me, silent but bothered, face pained, his own eyes welling up. Listening, nodding his head to indicate he understood, even if maybe he didn’t completely. Too young to understand the intricacies of addiction, but not too young to know his mother was heartbroken.

“Oh, no. No, love. Don’t cry.” I pulled him to me, still small enough to curl himself as close as he could without it being awkward, he did just that. “Oh baby, momma loves you so much. Don’t you worry about me, I’m okay. I’m only crying right now because love is sad sometimes. But that’s okay. I’m gonna be okay. This is just one sad day. And it had to happen, my love. I want to be the best momma I can be and I can’t do that if I’m with someone who has extra big problems. It’s okay. I’m okay.”

It’s okay. I’m okay.

It’s okay. I’m okay.

I know that this pain is temporary. All lost love is temporary. In some rare cases, it may linger. A faint echo of a familiar lullaby yet the name still cannot be placed. I also know that you will join a handful of names which the wind will whisper to me, like clockwork as it usually does, right before a storm. I know I’ll be nostalgic, maybe even a sharp stab of bittersweet sentimentality to cause me to flinch. I know that it hurts to let you go, but holding on will do so much more harm. I have been so afraid to walk away for fear of the loss, but to keep you has already proved much more detrimental.

I have been weighted and sunken, a cheap facsimile on autopilot has taken my place. No one knows where to find me, not even myself.

So, I’ve chosen to go searching for where I may have gone. Unfortunately, this is a rescue mission of One. I only hope one day that maybe you come looking for me, too.

After you have found yourself.

Posted on by She Never Sleeps

Lunch With You

We met for lunch.

I couldn't handle sitting in my apartment for one more second, piles of everything needing to be done, staring me down, sternly requiring my attention. I couldn't move. In a moment of desperation and loneliness, I asked if you were free.

You were.

I wasted no time, stripping my night clothes, jumping in the shower, attempting to wash away the hurt, the heartache, the heaving sobs. If I could have scrubbed the skin from my flesh, maybe that would help? 

   No. Morbid thought, though. And morbid thoughts always seemed to help me feel better with their absurdity.

I made short work of getting dressed and being on my way. I still had a schedule of sorts to keep. Time was a privilege, not a luxury. I arrived not too long after. You followed shortly, sat facing me. I felt calm.

There you were, my lifelong love. Everyone in our circle knew this. Relationships sometimes suffered because of it. The insecure ones demanded we cut contact, and we would. Every so often sneaking a message, an email, or phone call until a break-up would occur. The enlightened ones, very few and far between, understood albeit not without some reservations. Which was understandable. But through the years, with every old person out and new person in, there we were. Unfailingly available to the other if needed.

   And I needed you. Sometimes, I wondered if I would always need you. If there would come a point in my life when I'd hit an all too familiar low and I'd be able to traverse it all on my own. Sure, I had friends. Beautiful, amazing, strong, brilliant, and supportive friends. But they weren't you. They didn't know me the way you knew me. The way I knew you. We could bullshit everyone but never each other.

The dirty blond streaks in your hair were now dusty gray, Crows feet, laugh lines, age on both our ends. When did this happen to us? Older, more tired, not really any wiser, kindred spirits in our own fucked up, too smart for our own good, too blind to see the forest for the trees, kind of way. We didn't even talk too much, more eating and bitching about work than anything. But you were sitting across from me and it provided some comfort in an otherwise bleak and not so comfortable time.

We didn't stay long. Again... Time. You walked me to my car, gave a hug, and I broke down. I don't really remember when you last held me close like that. Yes, hello and goodbye hugs, sure. But this wasn't that. My world was crumbling and I didn't have one steady place to find footing. Vulnerable and broken, I sobbed into your chest as you held me tight. You gave me credit for never allowing cynicism to enter my soul, for continuing to keep my heart open to the possibility of love. My face, still pressed against you, didn't allow for much room when I spoke. Words, muffled and sad, "I really wish I was cynical. You broke me."

   You were the first person I ever genuinely fell in love with. That connection, that invisible tether never truly disappeared. This exchange was proof. I briefly recalled putting the last sturdy nail into the coffin of my already dead marriage by visiting you in the hospital years back. Or the fact that you once (or twice) claimed that you would drop everything to be there for me, if possible. You said it made you a dumbass. Yeah, well. Me, too. 

Eventually, I pulled away. You pulled me back. I cried some more. It was sunny and bright out, mid-afternoon, strangers going about their business pretending they didn't see the short woman bawling into the tall man. And as the tears set into your sweatshirt, as I gasped and exhaled short breaths, wishing I had never loved to begin with, I knew you were right.

   I had asked you earlier to tell me what to do. I have always done as I've pleased, regardless of consequence. This was a rare exception. I was so lost in the fog of my lovesick trauma I couldn't see what was right in front of my face. 

I finally left. We each had things to accomplish. Even if your to-do list was of the more mundane variety, the pursuit of all things Adult never stops. I thanked you for meeting me, all too aware that my weakly stated gratitude in no way expressed how appreciative I actually was.

Then I faced truth.

I knew that this break was actually a break-up. I had done enough crying and aching during the interim because of the Not Knowing. But now I knew. The man I let myself fall for, the man whom seemed to be at the epicenter of all the unrest, confusion, and my heart's disruption - I love him and I know I will always love him the way I have continued to love you. From afar and with the knowledge that they love me too. It's just not the right time and never will be. 

If I'm lucky, he will one day be just as an amazing friend as you have been, after we have let the years heal what it can. But I doubt it.

There is only One You.
Posted on by She Never Sleeps

Another Letter I’ll Not Send

I miss you.

Those are tiny words which do zero justice in describing the agonizing churning of my innards. I am incapable of faking joy and the general public has caught on that I’m Not Okay. I’m growing tired of the pep talks, the “You Made The Right Decision” speeches, the misguided attempts at cheering me up. I get through the social obligations only to hurriedly make my way home in order to escape all the Care and Concern.

I don’t want pity and I’m So Sorries. I want solitude. I want the comfort of my space so I can wail for hours into the night, alone and broken. I want The Hurt to FADE but it will not. It digs in its heels, grinding my heart beneath into pulpy slop. I want to fall asleep without tears, to wake up without dread.

I want to wake up Next To You.

I want you. I want your mouth on mine. I want your soft singing when you’re happy, your eyes gleaming with love. I want your hands gently roaming tender along my back. I want all the things we once had but without the bullshit which began tearing us down. I want to hear your voice, hold your hand, touch your face, have you close, FEEL YOU in any and all ways possible and my WANT for all of this is the worst kind of starvation my soul and spirit has ever suffered.

I stop myself again and again from reaching out because I’m told that is the wrong decision to make. It will just hurt you more. And I cannot do that, knowing how much pain has been caused as it is. I know my desire to speak to you is selfish. It is only for me, to quell the ache, lessen the melancholy. Or so I imagine. But then another wave hits and I am very much an angry petulant child who is not getting their way because I can never be what you need me to be and radical acceptance isn’t one of your personality traits. No amount of adult rationale or logic can minimize the paroxysm of my weeping and manic screams of IT ISN’T FAIR.

it isn’t fair.

I miss you. I still love you. None of this is fair.

Posted on by She Never Sleeps

A Letter I’ll Never Send

Everything here is a reminder and I can’t get away. Your art is on my walls. The necklace you gifted stares at me from where it dangles. Your mug is in the cupboard. Your toothbrush lays exactly where you left it. Your flannel, the odds and ends, the mix cd of music which I cannot bring myself to listen to… all needle pricks to the still bleeding bits of me which mourn your absence.

I changed the bed linen, tears trickling slow, my soul weighted with the memories of the last time we slept together. But I cannot erase you just by switching out old sheets for new. You still take up residency in my fractured heart and I just do not have the strength to boot you out.

I wish So Hard that it didn’t have to be this way. But I am the 24/7 train, going and going and going. Making stops here and there, picking up, dropping off, brief moments of respite for maintenance and diagnostic checks.

And you… were a passenger. Who rightfully grew tired of the long never-ending hours.

I lean on my friends who hold me steady. Reminding me of all the work I’ve done on myself, the progress I’ve made. Refreshing my memory in the knowledge that I am not responsible for someone else’s journey, only my own.

I sit in the silence and the image of your smiling eyes pops into my head and pierces me… it’s okay. I’m used to it. I cry off and on in between moments of keeping busy so that I don’t think of you. Still. You manage to appear. Sometimes, I let myself be slightly angry. You said you loved me. You said you didn’t want to change anything about me.

But after a while, it was those things which you supposedly did not want to change that drove you crazy.

The outrage is minimal and short-lived because I know that in your heart of hearts, you are just a wounded man who needed more than I could offer. A man who hasn’t recognized his true worth and value as of yet. And I’m not the one who can give it to you. You equate someone’s need for you as love. Your usefulness as worth. Your people-pleasing as value. But you are so much more and God, how I wish you could see and accept that. That I loved and still love the man you managed to become despite the fact that Life tried to tear you apart from the get go. You are so many things… and maybe one day I’ll have the chance to be with you again to celebrate them all. But if I’m not the one, I truly hope that someone else can and will be. That thought is it’s own special kind of heart-breaking.

I miss you. Terribly. Though I will not say so to you. That would be cruel. So I will cradle this pain and hold it tight to my chest. I will keep myself busy. I will cry in between making the kids lunch and washing dishes. Because … I am capable. It’s what I do. You loved and loathed that, though. Didn’t you.

Posted on by She Never Sleeps · 1 Comment

The Hope

It’s uncomfortable. This place I’m in.

It’s new and not necessarily good or wanted. But it’s a place I chose because I knew in my heart that it was the right thing to do, even if it broke me to do so.

Leaving someone out of love is not easy and yes, that is an exceptionally large understatement. I’ve left before out of resentment and anger. Out of hurt. Out of indifference. And people have left me for similar varying reasons. It’s always been a negative and bitter departure no matter who was walking out the door. Yet never in my life have I loved a person so much yet knew deep in my heart that Now Is Not The Time. Never have I had to force myself to walk away before it turned down the road of complete chaos.

Leaving out of love for myself. Out of love for him. Realizing that if I stayed, the problems would not recede, they would only accumulate. Understanding that he needed the time for himself to truly figure out and heal the things necessary in order for him to thrive in any future relationship, whether it’s with or without me.

And there’s the rub. I hold out the slimmest sliver of hope that we find our way back to each other. I am not an idealist. I know the chances of that are ridiculously low. I may as well buy a lottery ticket. But I am an optimist, though a pained one currently. I have the improbable dream that he and I will come together again down the road, with the same amount of love and want as we did when we first found each other. Yet, there’s always the chance that with time, he eventually comes to the conclusion that perhaps I really wasn’t The One. Just because I was the First doesn’t mean I am the Only. I know this because I’ve been there. Not every love is the same. And maybe that’s why I had the foresight to remove myself. Learning from my experiences, not wanting to make the same mistakes, not wanting to tarnish something which was truly beautiful with the things we couldn’t quite manage to see eye to eye. I wanted to keep that love intact. Hoping that at some point, we would once again fall asleep in each other’s arms.

A girl can dream.

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Rebirth

It’s been a good long while since I’ve published anything to this journal. Not long after my last post, there was a pandemic followed by the very real separation from my ex husband. And to be honest, a year ago this time, I was NOT doing well.

A year ago this time, I was depressed, heart-broken, apathetic. I wasn’t eating, drinking a bit too much to escape the long hours of the night, knowing full well The Dread would still be there when I awoke, sober and unwell. I cried a lot, face splotched, eyes red and swollen, stopping only to start again. Screamed into the gaping maw of the abyss, wishing I could vanish into The Aether, disintegrate into the culminated quintessence of the outer realms.

And then there were the moments of passivity. The lethargy keeping me in bed, unbathed and indifferent to the outside world.

At those junctures, I sat with the grief. It was uncomfortable. It was loathsome. It broke me in new ways which I had not before encountered. Were it not for the care and compassion of my roommate, I probably would have made some decisions of the Not-So-Great variety.

Time trudged. Wounds bled. Sleep rarely came.

Currently, I write this feeling quite disconnected from that place I was in a year ago. Though it didn’t originally feel like it, it didn’t take too long for the clock to pick up the pace. Hours turned into days, days into weeks, etc., etc. I eventually came to accept that what I was mourning was The Potential of What Could Have Been, not What Was. And that no matter what I did, no matter how much work I put in, no matter what I would sacrifice – it would simply never Be. We were two diametrically opposed people when it came to what was necessary for us to thrive in a relationship, let alone a marriage. And I could only be responsible for my part, not his.

I threw myself into work, art, pool. Finding things to fill the empty spaces in my schedule. Soon, solitude seemed like this girl’s new best friend. I could not and would not be emotionally available for anyone. I was an island. A Remote, smack dab in the middle of treacherous waters, guarded by jagged rocks, full of poisonous fruit and wildly violent animals, Island.

To say I was at peace with this would be a marked understatement.

****************************************************************************************

Over the summer, I slowly dipped my toes back into the dating pool. I went out for dinners. Multiples were duds. I questioned my worth. I considered a nunnery. I did manage to find a couple people I liked and were all around decent humans, but there still seemed to be an emptiness within. I was content with this, though. My Island approach was perfect in keeping myself a safe distance from any usurpers to my Peace.

During this time, I reconnected with an old acquaintance whom I hadn’t really spoken to in years. We always had a mutual respect for each other and genuinely found one another pleasant to be around in group settings, but nothing truly out of the ordinary. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t always felt drawn to his energy and person, but I knew nothing would ever come of that. A harmless personality crush of which I shoved to the back of my mind. And I knew nothing would come of it now as I was enjoying my life with zero romantic commitments or things of that nature. Bit by bit, we began to a build a real friendship which never had a chance to get off the ground because of life in general. There was an immediate comfortability, an unabashed openness in conversation, an exchange of the ups and downs we had both gone through in our lives.

A mutual understanding, empathy, and compassion for the traumas we suffered but survived. Devoid of pity or condescension. It was refreshing and ultimately freeing. No pretense, no facades, just two adults being straightforwardly earnest.

One day I woke up realizing… I had been usurped.

****************************************************************************************

It’s been a couple months now. I feel things with him that I never thought possible. A warmth, a genuine understanding of why I am who I am. We share knowledge of each other which has not been outwardly exchanged. Simply an unspoken comprehension of where we’ve been, what we’ve gone through, who we are at this very moment. I have never been as emotionally available and vulnerable as I am with him. Communication is constant and key. Neither one us has ever had the idealistic idiocy to believe in the romantic notion of “Love of My Life” but we cannot shake the kismet of our being together, considering the impressions we have made upon one another and all the ways we have come in and out of each other’s lives over the past decade.

“It was never the right time” is a phrase which comes and goes. We joke about the Universe and how we had to experience the things we did in order to find our way to This Place, where we both reside. We talk for hours and hours, late into the night, fighting through the bleary eyed arrival of sleepiness just to get in one last sentence. We are happy together, sad and “homesick” when we are apart.

It is all so vomit-inducing sappy.

I am okay with this. I am not who I was a year ago. I am new, I am open, I am reborn with all the enthusiasm and faith of someone who believes in Santa Clause and making wishes upon falling stars. I look forward to the future and whatever it may hold. I am in love with a person who loves Me. The Real Me, not the idea of or a projection of what they think I should be.

And it’s fucking beautiful.

Posted on by She Never Sleeps

Fuck You, Shop & Save

The day started innocuously enough. Busy but mundane, small victories (new washer! a surprisingly decent tax return!) peppered the afternoon and I was in good spirits. Picked the kids up from school and headed to the grocery store. My 6 year old was especially excited since he did really well that day and I told him he could pick out some cookies from the fresh bakery. Shortly after our arrival, cookies in cart, we headed towards the deli. I plucked my ticket and hoped against hope that I didn’t get the ONE employee who rubbed me the wrong way. The last time I had him help me, while I was friendly and polite, he rolled his eyes and acted as though my very presence was draining his will to live.

Holding my number between my fingertips, my chances looked good. Only the gaggle of kind and laughing Polish ladies seemed to be working and I relaxed.

Until he emerged from the back. All women were elbows deep in assorted meats and cheeses for various customers.

Being serviced: #24
My ticket: #25

So he called my number. But it had been a good day thus far and I wasn’t going to let that bring it down. I just shrugged my shoulders, “Eh, luck of the draw.” and decided to roll with it. Until he decided to try and make conversation with my son.

“What’s up four eyes?”

And I just froze. My son, who wears glasses, didn’t hear him. And I – I!!! – was not sure how to react. I lost my voice. My brain fumbled and I could only stand dumbly as he repeatedly tried to get my son’s attention and then followed with, “What’s the matter, you don’t speak English?”

Then, with utter lack of assertion, I spoke. “He speaks English. He’s just shy.” He jabbered on while preparing my order but all I could think of was how this asshole just insulted my child. And I said Nothing. He passed me my package of sliced ham and asked if I needed anything else. I did. I needed many other things but I was so upset, I shook my head no and with a tense grimace of a grin on my face, walked away towards the checkout.

I didn’t want confrontation. I didn’t want to make a scene. No. Nice women don’t do that. Your kids are here. Is this the example you want to set?

I was so warm. I could feel the sweat gathering around my brow, dampening the creases of my shirt folded into my armpits. I wanted to cry. I couldn’t think straight. I almost left but ultimately forced myself to make a complaint.

I spoke to one of the assistant managers. As I described him, she held up her hand and said, “Let me call the manager.” Apparently, this was not a new thing for the people he worked with. He had quite the reputation for being an inappropriate shithead. However, I was the first customer to say something about it.

Manager arrived, I again gave the details of what had occurred. And he apologized. Told me he’d give the worker a strong warning. He could see I was upset, No, don’t get upset, Don’t take it personal, He’s not that bright….

And I let him talk me down. Because I didn’t want to start bawling in front of a grocery store full of people. Because I knew I was letting him talk me down and I didn’t want the trouble and I hated myself for all of it.

Yesterday, I was upset.
Today I am angry.

I think of that deli worker and I am PISSED.

I am pissed that after years of stripping away the behaviors I was taught to use to handle awkward and uncomfortable situations, all that work was for nothing as I froze and fell into the waxed face armor of a polite smile and managed strained but weak laughter as he continued prattling on.

I am pissed that after a lifelong struggle of finding my voice, learning how to not only stand up for others but for also myself, finally realizing that decades of letting offensive jokes slide because “you don’t want to be THAT person” and not putting up with it anymore, I lost all confidence in myself to Speak Up and Say Something. Especially, for my own child, even if he didn’t hear any of what was being said.

I think of that manager and I am FURIOUS.

I am furious at his demeanor. I am furious that he didn’t march over there and tell his employee that you Don’t Say SHIT LIKE THAT to a CHILD. I am furious that he treated my visibly distressed emotional state in the typical fashion which all men have dealt with “those hysterical, frantic and fragile females.” A condescending “There There”, the eyes betraying the boredom of having to deign to bother with such petty trivialties.

But I am most incredibly furious with myself for Letting Him. For allowing someone to tamp down my rightful indignation. For NOT keeping quiet. For NOT making a scene. For NOT setting the example to my kids that yes, Women have a Voice and They Should Speak The Fuck Up. I am not only enraged but so disappointed in myself. While I have strived to be the kind of mom who would always have the backs of her children, quadruply so because it was something sorely missing from my own mother (she was and still is the exact opposite of that), I failed. I failed miserably. And I am having a very hard time with this, right now. I would easily give my life for any of my children, but I couldn’t call out an asshole. I couldn’t raise the biggest stink.

I am also lost in childhood revelrie.

I am reminded of every time my great-grandmother and I were out, how she’d be ignored when she was asking for help. After some time, she would then act like she didn’t need it anymore and we’d leave to go somewhere else. I am ankle deep in memories of my grandmother getting the wrong food, item, etc. and then laughing it off, saying “Oh it’s fine. I don’t want to make a scene.” And she’d just deal with whatever it was. Nope. No complaints.

How stoic.
How affable.

I am not those things.
And I do not want to be those things.
Ever again.

Posted on by She Never Sleeps

Splashes of People

Again, ruminating.

TLP – Transitional Living Program.

That’s what they called it. Before we could be trusted to be let out on our own (but still under the state’s supervision), before we could be even considered for an Independent Living Program, we had to prove that we were capable of being self-sufficient, functional, upstanding(ish) members of society.

We were in Wilson* House. Essentially a 4 unit apartment complex (each unit with 2 bedrooms, each bedroom had a bunkbed) which DCFS had given permission to rent out (i.e agreed to pay for) as a TLP for girls between the ages of 16-18. One unit was set aside for staff members to occupy, because after all, these girls were not yet trustworthy enough to be on their own. Anyway, the idea was to give the aforementioned wards a taste of adulthood and the accompanying accountability with which it came.

What it actually was… A 4 unit apartment complex with 12 teenage girls who gave zero fucks for rules and accountability.  A myriad of backgrounds, attitudes, gang affiliations, abuses, and overall baggage, not to mention raging fucking teenage female hormones – I carry the memories of that place with both hesitance and fondness. I could recount the numerous in-house rebellions, fights, and all the other related drama, but today I’m thinking of Aiesha.

Or “A” as she liked to be called. Understandably.  A couple years previous, the song, Iesha had been a huge hit and there’s only so many times a person can handle people rapping the same song again and again involving your name right at your face. In any case, A was the sweetest and funniest girl in that volatile environment. Such was her aura of genuine affability, not one person, staff or resident, ever had any ill thought or feeling against her.

I remember her tiny little body bouncing in, “Hey C!!!”, Backwards hat, oversized tee, basketball shorts, giant grin and smiling eyes. She was swimming in her tomboy clothing, but that was the style then and to her, it came natural. I liked her. I was sincerely fond of A’s happy-go-lucky demeanor despite the fact that she was in the same madhouse as the rest of us, sullen and sulking, hatching schemes on how to get away with breaking curfew, how to get out of this TLP bullshit and into our own ILP studios. We all felt like we were ready. We were “grown”.

We were fucking idiots.

But A, always the one At Her Own Pace, she wasn’t in a rush. Time and again, she’d nonchalantly advise against trying to leave so quick. “Ladies! The world will still be hungry for y’all ig’nant asses next week, too.” Always with a smile and a chuckle so it was never taken as malicious or mean-spirited. Because she wasn’t. We passed our time mostly playing Spades and joking about the one lesbian of the group who was trying to sleep with all of us, “Nah C, it’s been a long time, but I’m into dick!” and I could have died laughing at her delivery. I let her braid my hair once – and that was a particular torture which I will never forget. I taught her how to cook grits so they wouldn’t come out lumpy. Low heat, cream and constant stirring with that whisk, girl. She didn’t involve herself in the pettiness of the female shit-talking, which honestly is a rarity among women, teenage girls even moreso.

We eventually all got placed. One would leave, another would slip in and claim their bunk/room. A new girl to get used to. It was only a matter of time before A was gone, too. It was amazing to me the amount of change in the general atmosphere of the home when she left. Huh. I wasn’t there much longer. I just upped and left. I wouldn’t say her being gone was a deciding factor, it truly wasn’t. Though I did miss her brightness. I was simply a 17 year old girl who had enough of idling by. Funnily, my “going on run” actually got me placed – because the powers that were needed good numbers. (I would have made for a bad statistic.)

That is the summary of it. I think of many people often, but on days like this, days when I am lost in thought and I find myself slipping into some of the sadder and more painful memories of my past, it’s nice to have an Aiesha as a reminder that there were still good people who found their way into lighting the darkness for many. That there ARE still good people doing that presently. It’s a small blessing dropped into the larger cruelties of Life.

I hope A never changed. What a horrible loss that would be.

*name changed because reasons

Posted on by She Never Sleeps

Joe

Everyone has that one friend who knew you Before. Before you knew what you wanted out of life. Before you tripped over the pebbles of immature mistakes. Before you ran into the sharp jagged boulder obstacles of Adulthood. Before everything. If you’re incredibly fortuitous, you’ll have two friends like that. But usually one is enough. And for me, that is Joe.

My first high school boyfriend, he Saw me. Maybe because he recognized the same in himself. He knew my mom was a cokehead. Pretended he didn’t. I knew he knew. And was glad for the feigned ignorance. We each had our own dysfunctional backgrounds. We both managed to be the crazy class clowns despite that or maybe because of that. We had already broken up when I first started running away. We had remained friends though and he hid me in his basement so I wouldn’t have to sleep on the streets. Throughout the years, every so often we’d reconnect, catch up. Always a brief respite from the world and problems around us. We were both the family and life-in-general fuck-ups so sharing the pain and loneliness was easy, comforting. A few days ago, after 3 years of zero communication, I sent a short but familiar message.

Tell me everything is going to be okay.

“Everything is going to be fine.” The response came seconds later.

“You alright?”

I’m all kinds of fucked up. But thanks.

“Well I’m here for you.”

Thank you.

And that was all I needed for that day. Just knowing that there was still someone I knew who knew me. Because they knew themselves. I pondered how the most compassion comes from those who have been most persecuted. The least judgment from those who have been repeatedly judged. I was overcome with the sadness of it all.

Then today…

“Hey, just checking in on you. How are you doing?”

Ever have one of those months where there’s an ugliness inside of you, devouring everything which was once good? A simmering rage, a gnawing pain from which there seems to be no end?

“Several. But you got to be easy on yourself. You’ve got this. You’re not alone.”

Oh, Joe. If it were only that simple. I really fucked up.

“Okay. How bad did you fuck up?”

Cheated on my husband bad. Separated for the last two months bad.

“Well, shit.”

Yeah. Told you. Big fuck up.

“I ghosted someone who I was in a long term relationship with. It’s been 2 years now. I still cry about it. I have not forgiven myself. Not that it compares with what you’re going through, but I’m familiar with the ugly feeling inside.”

It’s in the same vein. Hurting someone you cared about. Breaking their heart. It’s a very unforgiving self-loathing.

“There is nothing new under the sun… we haven’t done anything that hasn’t been done before. We should show some restraint with how hard we are on ourselves. We are human. If the punishment doesn’t lead to a better self, then it is the wrong punishment. I forgive you. And I hope you make amends the best way you know how and can.”

Thank you for being my friend, Joe.

“Thank you for being my friend.”

It doesn’t erase what I did. Nothing ever will. It doesn’t negate the years of loneliness which led to my betrayal. It doesn’t magically fix everything. I am not being showered with rainbows barfed up by unicorns. But in times like these, when we hate ourselves, when we find no trace of goodness left in our souls, when we contemplate the world being a better place without us in it, having someone like Joe in your life is the smallest and biggest of blessings.

I have stumbled drastically. And before me, his own knees scraped and bloody, he is the outstretched arm offering a hand up. Thank you, Joe.

Posted on by She Never Sleeps

Miscarriage of Marriage

A year ago, I lost a baby.

Now, almost exactly to the date, I lost my marriage.

One could make the assumption the former might have something to do with the latter, and they’d be partially correct. But not even close to completely.

The longer I’ve dwelled on our past, as I cycle through the years we’ve spent together, I am seeing here and there, the spots we needed to nurture. The moments we had a chance to love and support one another, but instead shut down into silence and resentment. We should have… We could have… but all too cognizent of the We Didn’ts.

When I lost what would have been our third child, I did what I always do. I shrugged it off and continued on. Because that’s what Strong Women Do, right? We keep going. We shake that shit off. We straighten our backs, square our shoulders and with a head held high, just keep fucking moving. Time stand stills for no one, for no thing, especially the loss of life.

I kept the house. I minded our other two children, who were oblivious to the fact that they were swindled out of a third partner in crime. I had moments of severe heart-wrenching grief when the tears would just tumble out unannounced and unwanted and my sobbing became desperate gasps for air. They’d run to hug me causing my body to shake and convulse, for their love and concern was too much for my already broken heart to handle. Of course, this all happened when he wasn’t around. He was a hard-working man, already stressed about so many other things. There was no way he’d be able to handle this.

And the divide grew.  What was once a ravine, became a valley.

We were well on our way to becoming the Grand Canyon.

The disconnect had always been there. He equated love with sex. I equated sex with the previous abuse and long term wear of being a woman. I wanted kind words. Appreciation. Tenderness. He wanted physical touch. Blowjobs. Wild fucks.

I wanted to feel loved as a person.

He wanted to feel loved by being considered desirable.

And we never found a way to intersect. So, we drifted. And drifted. Until we were both two people who loved the idea of who we thought the other person was when we first met. But we obviously weren’t.

I felt he didn’t love me.

He felt I didn’t love him.

We both gave up.

Losing the baby was just the impetus towards the downward spiral. If there had been any chance for saving what was left our union, it was now gone. Yet, we went through the motions. After all, we had a new house needing attention. Two little boys we loved and were trying our best to parent without letting them see our lack of care for the other. I reverted to my failsafe shell of apathy. He started drinking more and staying out and away from our crap existence.

But eventually, it was me. I was the one who put the nail in the coffin. Self-preservation is cold. Heartless. Indifferent. Self-preservation is a wounded wild beast with only one directive.

Survive. It didn’t matter who got hurt or how, but survive. Get out, Get out alive and with what you have left.

I sit here writing this, the unfaithful wife. The woman who strayed. The disloyal. The selfish. The fork-tongued Jezebel. I blink away the wetness gathering at my eyes. Did I get out alive? Yes. Unscathed? No.

But what exactly do I have left.

The scraps and remains of something which was never real to begin with.