Posted on by She Never Sleeps

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.

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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.

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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

A banner year… Not really

I don’t even know where to begin. All of it seems almost surreal.

I’ve had friends die. Almost die. Find out they could die.
Hearts broken, relationships gone to shit, marriages end.

People I never thought I’d give a hundred and second chance, I’ve opened myself to again – hesitantly. Wearily. But with hope. Because I am a soft soul at my core and can’t help but think that there is a speck of good in everyone. That a tiny particle has the ability to grow and blossom if given the opportunity.

I’ve taken stock of the absurd, the unfortunate, the blind ignorance (and arrogance) of so many. I lose myself in contemplation often. I think too much. I always have, lately has not been any different.

I’ve finally come to accept that even if you’re direct and straighforward, others don’t necessarily feel the need to do the same.

Even if you give of yourself completely, that is not usually how another person operates.

That your own truth may not match the truth of someone else.

Sadly, I’ve also come to find that sometimes the best option is simply walking away. Not every battle is a war. That there will be moments in life when conceding defeat is a victory, even if it doesn’t seem that way at the time.

And right now, I really need to take that last part to heart.

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.

 

 

Posted on by She Never Sleeps

Armor

I have, for the most part, kept a fairly private life. I’ve shared what I’ve needed to share. I’ve switched skins in social groups. I’ve been who I needed to be in order to survive.

This lesson in self-preservation came early and often.

When I was teased relentlessly for not having a mom or dad, I learned how to make up stories to qualify their absence.

When I was raped at the age of 12 after the death of my only friend, my great-grandmother, and was whispered about in the neighborhood as the “slut” because who could ever believe that pre-teen boys were capable of such violation? I learned how to avoid the stares and fall into fantasy and daydreams.

When I went into high school and the rumors about my drug addict mom preceded me, I learned how to smile and joke and laugh because who could believe those rumors were true if I was just so goddamn happy all the time?

When I was a homeless teen runaway and I needed a place to stay, a meal to eat, some form of human kindness in general, I learned how to be charming to ensure another day of getting by.

When word got out that I was an escort and judgmental glares scorched my skin, “she’s a whore” being murmured behind my back, of course never to my face, I learned how to embrace that wickedness and use it as a weapon.

When women hated my existence and men lusted after me, I learned how to be cold and indifferent. Untouchable.

Time after time, each lesson another layer of armor against the world. I became an ever-changing chameleon. Carefree party girl for one, quiet and insightful confidante for another. Crazy but sane, logical yet irrational, emotional though apathetic – no one could ever give the same descriptors.

So now, more mutterings. More of the same peanut gallery gossip. I won’t deny the hearsay.  Though, everyone has their own version of the truth. While I am not innocent, I also carry the knowledge that not one person who speaks of me truly knows me. Or my heart. Where I’ve been. Where I decide to go. So, I’ll continue the same way I always have. Moving forward with my own brand of candor, nursing my pain and heartache alone as I always have. I am human. Fallible. Imperfect. Flawed.

But I’ll keep going.

Everyone’s your friend until they’re not.

In the end, we all die alone.

Posted on by She Never Sleeps

It’s Not About The Waffles

I’ve taken a step back from journaling my life. I do that every now and again. Depending on how badly I want to hide from reality at hand is directly related to how long my sabbaticals last. I’ve been trying to push myself more lately, delve into the things which are currently spinning my head and heart into debris flecked tornadoes traveling in opposite directions… despite my natural ostrich-like instinct to bury my head in the sand.

But that isn’t progress, is it?

So. Since my husband and I have been in counseling, I’ve dug my heels into my marriage and have been full throttle, “We’re Gonna Fix This!” Perhaps it’s just the Virgo in me. Or Oldest Child Syndrome. Or a smattering of this, that, and the other. Who knows, we are who we are. However, it hasn’t been lost on me that this has slowly turned into a one person effort and now I have been left to pick apart and analyze what’s worth fighting for and what isn’t.

It often helps to have a person to bounce such things off of. A living breathing sounding board to offer their own insight and perspective. I have long been a person who will come to my own conclusions on my own time, not swayed by others thoughts and opinions on how I live my life. ( Just picture the “I Do What I Want” meme and you’ve got a clear idea of my personality) However, this doesn’t mean that I don’t appreciate the input of others experiences. In fact, lately I’ve been seeking exactly just that – other people’s own struggles which I consider similar to mine, not for advice or definitive answers, but for some unconventional form of catharsis. I recognize and value the worth of their own encounters, their personal stories. I consider it an absract variation of education. Learning through the trials and tribulations of friends, family, and strangers by osmosis.

I met with a friend not too long ago. And this was exactly that kind of situation. Commiseration over food and coffee. (That always helps) During the back and forth, he shared a story from decades past, when his 3 yo child asked him if he’d like to sit and have waffles with her. He politely declined, saying he wasn’t very hungry for waffles. She responded, “It’s not about the waffles, Dad.” Aside from learning his daughter was a tiny Confucious, it also was a lesson in Basic Life Meaning. After sharing that very amusing and profound anecdote, we discussed how that is a general application to any close human relationship. A few more laughs, a bit more coffee, and I left having a touch more perspective than with which I had originally arrived.

We’ve had Therapist Recommended *coughassignedcough* Date Nights. I’ve attempted to include him more in the activities I enjoy. There have been more-than-I-can-count Days and Nights where the politeness and courtesy is suffocating and I would just like an ounce of genuine person to person interaction. And while driving yesterday, when I asked (since he wasn’t working) if he’d like to show up to my pool match this week, I half-hoped there’d be a Yes to quiet the volume rising truth which my Heart has already known. Instead, “No. I’m gonna stay home. Why waste money on a sitter.”

In the back of my head, as my eyes teared up behind (thankfully) shielding sunglasses,  “It’s Not About The Waffles” danced around all the fragmented bits of my rationale. My Heart kicked me in the shins, muttering “I told You so.” I remained silent for the rest of the car ride and felt the familiar vacuity of loneliness. Intermingled in all of that, a memory (one of the very few) of my Dad telling me about a breakup of his while imparting onto me some sageness which I did not fully comprehend until years later.

“I stopped respecting her time. She invited me to a party and I said, No. I didn’t feel like it. She’s a busy person and she didn’t have to include me in her plans. I clearly didn’t think that was important enough for me just to spend some time with her and I realized this wasn’t going to work anymore. When someone stops caring to make Time for You or to appreciate the Time you are making for Them, then do each other a favor and stop wasting each other’s Time.”

Cold. Very. But the truth is seldom warm.

Posted on by She Never Sleeps

Lately

It is May 21 and the weather outside could have me fooled into thinking it is October. I don’t mind it. I’ve always loved the damp and chill, an opportunity for big thick comfy sweaters, many mugs of steaming beverages brimming with warmth and the excuse for not having to travel out into world unless absolutely necessary.

Though, it would still please me if I had to.

The light drizzle dampening denim covered legs, sliding off muddy soled, screaming red red rain boots, misting my hair like tiny beads of early morning dew on wispy blades of grass… I enjoy these small details. I don’t even mind the cold which comes with it. There is a freshness, an awakening, something which just shouts in your face, “HEY! You’re Fucking Alive!” Nothing like the burning, lazy, heat soaked days which leave you sticky and stagnant. A sweaty mess of discomfort. No. Days like these, I cherish.

On days like this, I am reminded of Lancaster. And Bristol. And almost all of the rest of England and of the love at that time which took me there. I am brought back to a period of adventure and curiosity. Of passion for Life and Living. And while that former version of self has long since grown and become something other, there had long been many instances where I missed that part of Me. I had chalked it up to furthering myself into adulthood. Into a new 2.0 representative of who I had become. I was fairly certain that the Woman of the past was no longer in existence.

Yet, not long ago on a colder Saturday night, I found myself free of immediate obligations. No husband. No small children. I was able to just go out and wander a bit, if I wanted to. I, naturally, didn’t feel the urge. I wanted to drown in streaming programming while I knit and kept the company of my cats. Yet, appealing to the logic of when was the next time I’d have this kind of freedom, I headed out.

Deciding to meet up with some friends, I spent a half hour looking for parking in a part of town booming with Trend and Cool. I hated it. I was already rueing my decision to make the trip into the city. After that battle, I found them in the bar, already filling up with people. And I hated that, too. But I was determined to see through the evening, if anything for the novelty of something different. Oh but wait – there’s a band playing and you know the guys and we should go check them out? At this point, I was considering calling it a night, but no. I agreed.

Here’s where my heart had a change. Three of us, walking to the next place, and my two friends stop to talk to a guitar player and his girlfriend with the ukelele, both sitting on the sidewalk, guitar case open for monetary gifts. They have a dog and he looks sleepy, but loved. They offer up a song and my friends say, Sure.

It’s about 40 degrees out, give or take. And this thin, scraggly looking guy starts playing one of the sweetest songs I’ve ever heard. His girlfriend, reminiscent of free love and hippies, joins in with her ukelele and soft fairy-like harmonic voice. My friends begin to dance and I am moved to take some record of this occurence.

And I realized I was smiling. Happy. Relishing this presence of spontaniety and True Beauty. I held up my phone to capture the best I could what was transpiring before my eyes… I didn’t do too well because I, also, was wrapped up in the vibrancy of the moment. I was vaguely aware of cars driving by, everyone walking past rapidly, in a hurry to get to the next bar/club/whathaveyou. For a brief interlude in time, I felt like all 5 of us were in a bubble, some magical window into a mirrored dimension of being able to experience and enjoy the Here and Now with no outside interruption.

Nothing lasts forever. The song ended, my friends gave them some cigarettes and cash, we kept going to the next place – but my heart felt lighter.

Joyous.

Alive.

So.

Lately, this has been on my mind. Of course, days like these… Days which remind me of previous excursions, long past days of foolhardy carefree whimsy, days which bring to mind bits and pieces of  the romantic and idealist I used to be… I am encouraged to once again find the magic and wonder of Living as opposed to simply Existing. I know now that those fanciful qualities I thought I lost to youth have only been shoved aside, forgotten and unused. The older a person becomes, the harder that feat. With age also comes some cynicism. Some convenience. Comfortablilty. All things which would hinder the search and stunt the growth of a curious soul. However, nothing which has been worth having has ever come easy, or so I’ve been told.

*shrugs*

I guess I’ll see.

 

Posted on by She Never Sleeps

The Human Condition (pt. 112)

I sipped my bourbon. I was tired, I didn’t want to be out. In fact, I wanted to be home, in bed, surrounded by my cats, drifting into a comfortably uncomfortable sleep. I wanted my worn-in sweats, with the loosened waistband, saggy bottom, pilled fabric throughout, softened through multiple washes…  I lapped the Bulleit lightly wishing I was already under the fat knit blankets in my bedroom, falling away into unconsciousness.

Instead, here I was, listening to a man drone on about the artistic condition.

The Artistic Condition, the grueling self-doubt, the striving to be at least an equal to their peers in that specific field, the 24/7 struggle to be recognized – noticed, the sleepless 2 a.m. tossing and turning anxiety ridden nights, the booze and the drugs and the men and the women and some more of the booze with a side of drugs… just to take the edge off.

And I fiddled with my drink, swishing the amber liquid lazily out of semi-boredom and resignation. Why was I here? Because while I wanted the cozy comfy security of my bed, I didn’t want to go to the home in which it was inhabited. Problems were at Home. Fights were at Home. Anger and 7 years of built up Frustration were at Home. Things I was not overly eager to deal with. Yet, these all seemed like better options compared to the incessant droning of the gentleman seated to my left.

Finally, I said, “So, Human. You’re bitching about being Human.” He doubled back and looked as though he was going to argue the point. But I excused myself before we could go down that (I could only assume) long and winding road.

A short tumbler with a couple swallows left of liquor remained on the polished bar top. A man kept an eye on it, waiting for its owner to return. And I walked out into the night, head full, heart empty.

 

Posted on by She Never Sleeps

the balance of art and every day life in a dream

When the last things you do before bed is watch Hell’s Kitchen, look through your Instagram feed, comment about art, order slippers for your grandma online and curse to yourself that you didn’t do the sink full of dishes but fuck it, you’re tired so they’ll just have to be done in the morning…

You dream about sitting at your grandma’s table and talking to two local artists you admire, your best friend, Cortney and social acquaintance, Jim Terry about art and the creative process, but then the kitchen morphs into some crazy restaurant (who are all these people?) and wow all this food looks good and damn you’re hungry, but now you’re in some sort of barracks/cabin which you’re sharing with at least 6-8 other females (who the fuck are these chicks???) and you’re on a cot cuddling with the obnoxious lesbian from Hell’s Kitchen (her hair is foofy and her skin is soft at least) and you see piled Right Next to you dishes that need to be done, so you’re like Fuck. I can’t go to sleep with Soft and Foofy until these dishes are clean, so there you are… washing f**king dishes in your dream.