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

The Last Sliver

Marriage counseling is the last bastion. It is the taut and tenuous thread.

And the weight of us might be just too much to bear.

You say you don’t understand why I’m still here. You expect I’ll leave.

I say, You said you wanted to try and make it work. If you have no desire or will, refuse to put in the effort, then tell me to go.

It’s a game of chicken.

This has once again become what our marriage used to be. I do a good portion of the emotional and mental heavy lifting. You stand idly by.  I step forward. You step backwards. I reach out. You pull away.

And it’s okay if you can’t forgive me for my transgression. It’s okay to be angry. It’s okay to look at me with the simmering hatred of someone betrayed. But it is not okay to expect only one person to mend the fence when it took the two to let it fall into ruin in the first place.

I am not the only person at fault. Yet, am taking the full blame. I am not the only one in this marriage. Yet, working double time to try to make things right.

As always, my thin sliver of hope eternal keeps me going. My preposterous belief in a new day, a better tomorrow. The idiocy of my idealism is transparent and laughable, especially when you have already left, years ago.

“I don’t expect her to wait around for me.”

But I did. For a long time, I did. And still am.

But only because you fed that thin sliver that had faded to near nothingness. You fed it enough so it knew it was hungry, but not enough to keep it full.

I/it … again wasting away.

 

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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.