For 14 years, I was the 4:00 p.m. appointment on Wednesday. Fourteen. Years. With insurance. Without it. With a job. With no job. Married. Divorced. Horrible weather. Pretty weather. Half sick. Tired. Depressed. Hopeless. Trying to hang on. I was there almost every single Wednesday of the year for all those many, many, many years.
When I finally got a job this January after 6 months of unemployment, it became evident very quickly that keeping this appointment was going to be a problem. They are attendance Nazis. I had a couple of doctor’s appointments already set up prior to starting work. I told them about the appointments before I started and got approval to go. But when the time came, I felt the cold, the nonacceptance and I realized I was clearly getting a black mark for taking time off work. When I had to have a follow-up appointment, I was afraid to say anything. I made it for as late in the day as I could. I fearfully told my boss. No response. Just cold. So, it didn’t take me long to figure out that leaving work 30 minutes early every Wednesday to see my counselor wasn’t going to be embraced the way it had always been in the past. I mean, it’s not like I only work 40 hours a week. I typically work 9-1/2 hours a day. That’s normal. So taking off that 1/2 hour weekly was very much a non-issue at any other place I had worked. Not here. Not with the attendance Nazis.
When you have been pursuing healing for 14 years…not just through weekly counseling, but when that has been an integral component…saying goodbye is emotionally wrenching. For me, it represented an acknowledgement that I am not going to get any better than this. No more support. No more encouragement. No more help untangling all the massively tangled thoughts. No more assistance uncovering buried feelings. No more intense work. It’s done. It is finished. And I know in my heart of hearts, it’s not good enough. I know I am still very broken and needy.
I also know I’m out of options.
Letting go of my appointment and discontinuing counseling was an admission of defeat. It was giving up hope. Giving up on life. On myself. I’m alone now; totally and completely. There is no one to turn to. No “maybe today will be the day I realize a breakthrough” moments in my future. Not even a sliver of expectation. I fought long and hard and I lost. I am not healed. Not even close. I’m unloved and unlovable. Too much baggage. Too much damage. There will be no rebuilding. No restoration. No happy ending. I have to let it go. I have no choice.
I started counseling a few months after my father died. I finally felt as if I was at a point where I could talk about what happened to me when I was growing up, under his control. I no longer had to protect him…he was dead. So I didn’t have to keep silent any more. I could try to figure out what was left of me, what the years of abuse had done to me and what needed to be done to put me back together into some semblance of normalcy. It was hard initially. I was so closed off. Took a long time to trust the counselor. But I finally started talking a little and then a little more. I had hope. Not much, but enough to keep going; to keep trying.
I kept trying even when my marriage fell apart. Even when I didn’t see results. Even when I tried to kill myself. I knew if I stopped trying, I would be giving up on myself completely. And I was afraid to do that. Afraid of what it would mean. What I would become. Without hope.
Saying goodbye was gut wrenching. It hurt. It was so much more than an end to a counseling relationship. It was utter defeat. Loss of the last thread of belief that my life could be better…someday…maybe…if I kept trying and working and praying. I had put a lot of time, effort and money into this endeavor. And now, it was over. I didn’t get the return I had hoped for. I don’t know why healing has eluded me and even my counselor has been perplexed at my lack of progress. In light of that lack of progress, perhaps I shouldn’t be so devastated to end the process. But when that’s all you’re hanging on to…letting go means a free fall. Nothing to stop you. No parachute. You’re a gonner.
That’s where I am now. Awaiting the smack of harsh reality when I hit bottom. Because I am falling. And there is no safety net or parachute. At the moment, I’m numb, suspended in this Netherland; a world between. Without anchor or rudder. Without direction. I am being thrashed by the storm, tossed about, slapped senseless, knocked around, beaten. I am utterly lost.
Sadly, it appears doubtful now that I will ever find my way. The howling wind throws back its head in manic laughter at my plight. The thunder claps in approval. My tears are lost in the endless rain. The darkness wraps me in its cold, unyielding arms. Alone, I fall. I reach out tentatively, but grasp only air. The lightening dances across the sky, rejoicing in my demise.
Wednesday provided a miniscule amount of shelter. And that small place of semi-safety is gone. That tiny light of hope has been extinguished.
My parents should be proud. I thought I could escape them. I thought I could overcome the damage of their touch. I was wrong. They have defeated me, even from the grave. What they began is playing out and nothing can stop it or alter the path. I have lost the battle. The storm, the darkness, my parents have won. My destruction is now but a matter of time.
Monthly Archives: May 2013
My Brother’s Father
My brother lost his father in 2010. And he’s still struggling with the loss today. This was the man he had always admired. Looked up to. Respected. Believed in. Wanted to be like. He actually died in 1998. But it wasn’t until 2010 that I had a failed sinus surgery, one that was a nightmare. And I just. couldn’t. do. another. one. alone. This, in turn, caused the demise of my brother’s father.
My brother and I didn’t talk much at all for years. Didn’t have a relationship. I was the black sheep of the family. The one who struggled. Who tried hard but failed. Who just wasn’t quite right. Mark, on the other hand, has worked at the same place for 33 years. He’s been very successful. He is happily married. He does well financially, especially with the combined income of him and his wife, who is a nurse practitioner. Nice cars. House paid for. Able to travel internationally a couple of times a year. There is a big contrast between us, and though he is younger, I’ve always felt “lesser than.” So perhaps you can get a small glimpse of how desperate I was for some help and what it took for me to reach out to him. To confess to my inability to go on any longer all alone. I was NOT making it. I had started to have horrible asthma symptoms as a result of all the sinus issues, almost dieing once, collapsing in the ER. I was constantly physically ill, having fought the sinus infection from hell for a year (my then doctor created a super-infection – long story) and the surgery had failed because when the specialist got in my sinuses to clean the infection out, he discovered I no longer had sinus bones. They had been eaten away by the massive infection – the worst he had seen in 23 years of practice. I had only a thin membrane between my brain and sinus cavities and my optic nerve and sinus cavities. He needed special equipment for this delicate of surgery. So he had to stop and he told me it would be bad. It was worse than bad. On top of all this, I was fighting an eating disorder. Having problems with electrolytes and had made a couple of visits to the ER as a result. I had been in counseling for 10 years or more trying to recover from the childhood sexual abuse perpetrated by my father and neglect and abuse from my mother, felt totally worthless, had been left by my husband of 22 years because he fell in love with another woman, lost my job, gotten in massive debt and couldn’t cope a second longer. I was alone, scared and freaking out. I needed a hand to hold. I needed some support. I needed my brother. Part of what made everything come to a head was being dumped by a friend at the door of the hospital the day of the first surgery. She was to come back and get me right away once the surgery was over, I explained at check-in. The nurses were not happy. Someone was at least supposed to come in and talk with them so they could explain what to expect and what care I would need afterward. They finally relented and called my friend to make certain she would, at least be available to come get me. So I sat in the waiting room alone, watching families huddle and hug and love. I watched a few pray together. I saw them surrounded by friends, family, church pastors. And I sat alone. Waiting.
When the surgery was over and my friend had been called, I was put in the outpatient prep room where I began the journey after my name was finally called. I lay there, miserable, bleeding, hurting, unable to breathe and scared, listening to the nurses talk about how my friend had said it would be an hour or two before she could get there, that she was involved in something else. They were throwing “well, I never” all over the place. I heard. It hurt. When she finally arrived, I still couldn’t walk to the car. She did agree to stop by the pharmacy so I could get my prescription filled and pick up needed supplies. Alone. I leaned on the cart and was grateful for it. When she arrived at my house, she didn’t even help me out of the car or to the door. I got out. She drove away. I struggled with my purchases, finally getting in the house where I collapsed on the couch. The night that followed was one of the most horrible of my life. It was so tormenting, I still can’t find words to adequately describe the torture.
Because of that horrible night, I e-mailed my brother the following day and told him where I was in life, what was going on and that I needed him. I totally expected the rejection I had encountered in the past. I was pleasantly surprised. He responded in a positive way. He reached back. After my father died, our mother started talking about how he had sexually abused me. In fact, she couldn’t shut up. She told EVERYONE. Without any discrimination, with no filter, no holds barred, as they say. Of course, she told my brother. He didn’t believe it. But for some reason – maybe a miracle – when I threw up all over him about the sad state of my life, he heard and he believed. He took me to the hospital for my 2nd surgery. He cleaned up blood, got me soup and talked me through the hardest part of the healing process. He also asked if he could visit with my counselor about me…what had happened, where I was, what I needed. I gave the counselor permission to tell him anything that might be helpful. And this is when his father died. I feel horrible about it. Mark had always seen what his father wanted him to see. He believed. He loved. Admired. Suddenly, the very word “father” was an oath to spit from one’s mouth. He was angry beyond belief…more angry than I have ever been able to even think of being. He despised the man he had once adored. He has told me repeatedly that it’s a good thing he’s already dead, because if he wasn’t, Mark swears he would kill him. I am totally confused by this. I don’t hate him…so why does Mark? It’s perplexing. It’s disturbing. And I feel responsible for taking his father from him. Because, you see, his father and my father, they are the same man. The one who sexually and physically abused me loved, cherished and cared for him. He was Mark’s hero. And I destroyed his hero. A hero I never had. For I lost my father long before he died. Mark didn’t lose him until years after death. I’m not sure which is harder.
Not that Mark blames me; but I do blame myself. I hurt for him. But I can never give him back what he has lost, because, in truth, he never had it to begin with. He loved an illusion. And sadly, that illusion has been decimated. Because of me. Being needy and selfish. And so, I have pulled back. And so, I try to not need very much at all. And so, I watch his pain as I drown in guilt.
I’m not sure if the loss of his father is a good or bad thing. But it happened because of me. Which may be yet another thing for which I can never forgive myself.
My brother and I didn’t talk much at all for years. Didn’t have a relationship. I was the black sheep of the family. The one who struggled. Who tried hard but failed. Who just wasn’t quite right. Mark, on the other hand, has worked at the same place for 33 years. He’s been very successful. He is happily married. He does well financially, especially with the combined income of him and his wife, who is a nurse practitioner. Nice cars. House paid for. Able to travel internationally a couple of times a year. There is a big contrast between us, and though he is younger, I’ve always felt “lesser than.” So perhaps you can get a small glimpse of how desperate I was for some help and what it took for me to reach out to him. To confess to my inability to go on any longer all alone. I was NOT making it. I had started to have horrible asthma symptoms as a result of all the sinus issues, almost dieing once, collapsing in the ER. I was constantly physically ill, having fought the sinus infection from hell for a year (my then doctor created a super-infection – long story) and the surgery had failed because when the specialist got in my sinuses to clean the infection out, he discovered I no longer had sinus bones. They had been eaten away by the massive infection – the worst he had seen in 23 years of practice. I had only a thin membrane between my brain and sinus cavities and my optic nerve and sinus cavities. He needed special equipment for this delicate of surgery. So he had to stop and he told me it would be bad. It was worse than bad. On top of all this, I was fighting an eating disorder. Having problems with electrolytes and had made a couple of visits to the ER as a result. I had been in counseling for 10 years or more trying to recover from the childhood sexual abuse perpetrated by my father and neglect and abuse from my mother, felt totally worthless, had been left by my husband of 22 years because he fell in love with another woman, lost my job, gotten in massive debt and couldn’t cope a second longer. I was alone, scared and freaking out. I needed a hand to hold. I needed some support. I needed my brother. Part of what made everything come to a head was being dumped by a friend at the door of the hospital the day of the first surgery. She was to come back and get me right away once the surgery was over, I explained at check-in. The nurses were not happy. Someone was at least supposed to come in and talk with them so they could explain what to expect and what care I would need afterward. They finally relented and called my friend to make certain she would, at least be available to come get me. So I sat in the waiting room alone, watching families huddle and hug and love. I watched a few pray together. I saw them surrounded by friends, family, church pastors. And I sat alone. Waiting.
When the surgery was over and my friend had been called, I was put in the outpatient prep room where I began the journey after my name was finally called. I lay there, miserable, bleeding, hurting, unable to breathe and scared, listening to the nurses talk about how my friend had said it would be an hour or two before she could get there, that she was involved in something else. They were throwing “well, I never” all over the place. I heard. It hurt. When she finally arrived, I still couldn’t walk to the car. She did agree to stop by the pharmacy so I could get my prescription filled and pick up needed supplies. Alone. I leaned on the cart and was grateful for it. When she arrived at my house, she didn’t even help me out of the car or to the door. I got out. She drove away. I struggled with my purchases, finally getting in the house where I collapsed on the couch. The night that followed was one of the most horrible of my life. It was so tormenting, I still can’t find words to adequately describe the torture.
Because of that horrible night, I e-mailed my brother the following day and told him where I was in life, what was going on and that I needed him. I totally expected the rejection I had encountered in the past. I was pleasantly surprised. He responded in a positive way. He reached back. After my father died, our mother started talking about how he had sexually abused me. In fact, she couldn’t shut up. She told EVERYONE. Without any discrimination, with no filter, no holds barred, as they say. Of course, she told my brother. He didn’t believe it. But for some reason – maybe a miracle – when I threw up all over him about the sad state of my life, he heard and he believed. He took me to the hospital for my 2nd surgery. He cleaned up blood, got me soup and talked me through the hardest part of the healing process. He also asked if he could visit with my counselor about me…what had happened, where I was, what I needed. I gave the counselor permission to tell him anything that might be helpful. And this is when his father died. I feel horrible about it. Mark had always seen what his father wanted him to see. He believed. He loved. Admired. Suddenly, the very word “father” was an oath to spit from one’s mouth. He was angry beyond belief…more angry than I have ever been able to even think of being. He despised the man he had once adored. He has told me repeatedly that it’s a good thing he’s already dead, because if he wasn’t, Mark swears he would kill him. I am totally confused by this. I don’t hate him…so why does Mark? It’s perplexing. It’s disturbing. And I feel responsible for taking his father from him. Because, you see, his father and my father, they are the same man. The one who sexually and physically abused me loved, cherished and cared for him. He was Mark’s hero. And I destroyed his hero. A hero I never had. For I lost my father long before he died. Mark didn’t lose him until years after death. I’m not sure which is harder.
Not that Mark blames me; but I do blame myself. I hurt for him. But I can never give him back what he has lost, because, in truth, he never had it to begin with. He loved an illusion. And sadly, that illusion has been decimated. Because of me. Being needy and selfish. And so, I have pulled back. And so, I try to not need very much at all. And so, I watch his pain as I drown in guilt.
I’m not sure if the loss of his father is a good or bad thing. But it happened because of me. Which may be yet another thing for which I can never forgive myself.
Time
Can I confess to you? Something that comes from a deep, dark place within me that I cannot deal with. It is a place of utter terror. The kind that grabs you by the throat and strangles the life from you. I need someone to talk to and I have no one but you, my few blog friends and followers. I know I am asking a lot from you. I know I am most likely asking too much.
It’s just that last night, I had a terrible nightmare. And at the point where I was about to sit up screaming, my husband whispered in my ear, “I’ve got your back…it’s okay. Go on back to sleep.” I had such a feeling of wonderful peace overcome me and wanted to snuggle up with him. But when I rolled over to nuzzle…of course, there was no husband. Hasn’t been for almost 10 years. But last night, for just a brief second before reality crashed back into focus, I felt as if I wasn’t totally alone. Which was especially special since I’ve been extremely and horribly sick this week. I have pneumonia in both of the right lobes of my lungs. I seriously thought I might have reached the end my time. I’m still very weak…a week after this started…and am only enough better to type, as of today. Initially, the doctor was going to put me in the hospital. She told me, “You are a very, very, very sick woman.” I knew I was. I had barely been able to drag myself from bed during the weekend to take care of my Schnauzers. I should have gone to urgent care on Thursday evening when my temperature hit 101.6. But I felt a little better Friday, so I kept going, thinking I would shake it off. I was able to work 9 hours instead of my normal 9-1/2…though I was exhausted. But my temperature spiked to 102 Friday night and I started getting a little scared. But not scared enough to cough up the $150 urgent care co-pay I would have had to pay for after-hours care.
I went to work on Monday morning because there were some things I had to do so that everyone could be paid. I only worked 3 hours. Made a doctor’s appointment. My fever was at 101.7 when I arrived at her office. It was 103.5 when I left. I got a mega-powerful-super-antibiotic shot…my first shot in the butt since I was a kid. It HURT! They even put lydocaine in it because they said the antibiotics do tend to burn going in. No exaggeration there…burned like fire! The only reason she let me go home, or so she said, is because people generally are able to rest much better at home (we won’t talk about how insurance companies bar this kind of care unless you are one step from death). But I was to call a friend to come over and stay with me. Uh, right. I can’t even get a friend to do something fun with me. But I simply nodded my head and left her office with an appointment for the next day. Feeling very lost and alone and unwanted. A discard. Being sick – and alone – has been humiliating and discouraging. Waking – alone – to realize it has been almost 10 years since there was anyone there to reach out to (though he didn’t love me) has been dehumanizing and painful. But these are not the thing that came from the dark place of terror. They simply cracked the door. Set the stage. The terror that takes the breath away happened this morning, the first morning I have felt a teeny, tiny bit better, as though I actually might live through this and feel okay again. It happened in an instant, when I least expected it. Looking at pictures posted on Facebook. My sweet ex-sister-in-law had posted a picture of herself, her middle daughter and her daughter’s daughter. She captioned it simply “Three Generations.” And in one flash, I crumbled, crushed, broken, buried alive, choking, strangled, my heart beating 250 beats a minute. Because I remember another picture of three generations. Her with her mother and her grandmother. IT WAS ONLY YESTERDAY! What has happened to my life? Where has all the time gone? Panic. Stark terror. Can’t survive this. Unbearable. Have any of your seen this place before? Where you look forward and there is nothing but darkness. You look backward and there is nothing but darkness. You look at today and there is nothing but darkness. Oh, God, if this is all there is, please end it now. If this is all my life will ever amount to, please let this pneumonia kill me. I can’t, simply can’t face it. I was young and there was hope. I am old and there is none. I’m so terrified. The pain is too much. I had nothing but a future and some dreams. Now, I have nothing, no future and no dreams. It is too much. It is overwhelming. I know I am sick in too many ways and worthless and despicable as well. But I need a companion. The God of the universe is just too distant. I need that man who whispers in my ear, “I’ve got your back.” The one who cares if I get better. Who will hold me when I’m scared and tell me I’m not alone…he’s there and we will face it together. God help me, I just can’t keep going forward into the darkness. Not like this. Not alone. Not any more.
It’s just that last night, I had a terrible nightmare. And at the point where I was about to sit up screaming, my husband whispered in my ear, “I’ve got your back…it’s okay. Go on back to sleep.” I had such a feeling of wonderful peace overcome me and wanted to snuggle up with him. But when I rolled over to nuzzle…of course, there was no husband. Hasn’t been for almost 10 years. But last night, for just a brief second before reality crashed back into focus, I felt as if I wasn’t totally alone. Which was especially special since I’ve been extremely and horribly sick this week. I have pneumonia in both of the right lobes of my lungs. I seriously thought I might have reached the end my time. I’m still very weak…a week after this started…and am only enough better to type, as of today. Initially, the doctor was going to put me in the hospital. She told me, “You are a very, very, very sick woman.” I knew I was. I had barely been able to drag myself from bed during the weekend to take care of my Schnauzers. I should have gone to urgent care on Thursday evening when my temperature hit 101.6. But I felt a little better Friday, so I kept going, thinking I would shake it off. I was able to work 9 hours instead of my normal 9-1/2…though I was exhausted. But my temperature spiked to 102 Friday night and I started getting a little scared. But not scared enough to cough up the $150 urgent care co-pay I would have had to pay for after-hours care.
I went to work on Monday morning because there were some things I had to do so that everyone could be paid. I only worked 3 hours. Made a doctor’s appointment. My fever was at 101.7 when I arrived at her office. It was 103.5 when I left. I got a mega-powerful-super-antibiotic shot…my first shot in the butt since I was a kid. It HURT! They even put lydocaine in it because they said the antibiotics do tend to burn going in. No exaggeration there…burned like fire! The only reason she let me go home, or so she said, is because people generally are able to rest much better at home (we won’t talk about how insurance companies bar this kind of care unless you are one step from death). But I was to call a friend to come over and stay with me. Uh, right. I can’t even get a friend to do something fun with me. But I simply nodded my head and left her office with an appointment for the next day. Feeling very lost and alone and unwanted. A discard. Being sick – and alone – has been humiliating and discouraging. Waking – alone – to realize it has been almost 10 years since there was anyone there to reach out to (though he didn’t love me) has been dehumanizing and painful. But these are not the thing that came from the dark place of terror. They simply cracked the door. Set the stage. The terror that takes the breath away happened this morning, the first morning I have felt a teeny, tiny bit better, as though I actually might live through this and feel okay again. It happened in an instant, when I least expected it. Looking at pictures posted on Facebook. My sweet ex-sister-in-law had posted a picture of herself, her middle daughter and her daughter’s daughter. She captioned it simply “Three Generations.” And in one flash, I crumbled, crushed, broken, buried alive, choking, strangled, my heart beating 250 beats a minute. Because I remember another picture of three generations. Her with her mother and her grandmother. IT WAS ONLY YESTERDAY! What has happened to my life? Where has all the time gone? Panic. Stark terror. Can’t survive this. Unbearable. Have any of your seen this place before? Where you look forward and there is nothing but darkness. You look backward and there is nothing but darkness. You look at today and there is nothing but darkness. Oh, God, if this is all there is, please end it now. If this is all my life will ever amount to, please let this pneumonia kill me. I can’t, simply can’t face it. I was young and there was hope. I am old and there is none. I’m so terrified. The pain is too much. I had nothing but a future and some dreams. Now, I have nothing, no future and no dreams. It is too much. It is overwhelming. I know I am sick in too many ways and worthless and despicable as well. But I need a companion. The God of the universe is just too distant. I need that man who whispers in my ear, “I’ve got your back.” The one who cares if I get better. Who will hold me when I’m scared and tell me I’m not alone…he’s there and we will face it together. God help me, I just can’t keep going forward into the darkness. Not like this. Not alone. Not any more.
Handwriting
I was looking for something in a drawer. Searching. Digging. And there it was…a note. Mundane, containing no special information whatsoever. But it was his handwriting. My ex’s. And suddenly, I hurt. Snake-bit. In the heart.
Started thinking about him. How special I once thought he was. How totally head-over-heels in love with him I was at the beginning. How many hopes and dreams died when he left me. And that’s when I realized. What really hurt. What I’m afraid to admit. It’s easy to look back on our marriage and, while not really blaming him, acknowledge that he never loved me. That he fell in love with someone else. Left me. Things happen…sometimes those things are bad and hurtful. But not technically my fault; more his responsibility than mine, even if it takes two and all that. Yet the truth is sometimes something you don’t see when you lightly examine facts and take them at face value. In this case, at this moment in time, a hidden truth (or what I perceive to be truth – a truth I am loath to admit) came at me from the side and mugged me. Couldn’t avoid it. Looking at his handwriting, feeling the sadness of the loss even after all these years, I realized the thing that hurts the most is that I probably never deserved his love to begin with. Being so screwed up and all. Being so broken. And him not loving me probably had a lot more to do with me, and with me being totally unlovable, than it ever had to do with him. I fear the failure of the relationship was probably more on me than on him because I’m such a mess…so who could love me? Really? Ouch. No little love notes in his handwriting were ever left laying around. Because he didn’t love me. It was always something practical. “Pick up milk.” “Combination to lock on gate.” “I’ll be home at 5:30.” Nothing tender. Because there was no tenderness in his heart for me. The note I found that sent me back in time was the gate combination. His handwriting was still so familiar. I loved his handwriting. It’s artistic and very stylish and neat; like a draftsman. I loved him once. With all of my heart. I loved his hands; those hands that wrote practical notes. I thought he was the most amazing person to ever walk the face of the earth. But he never, ever loved me back. And I can’t blame him.
He wasn’t a horrid person. He had good characteristics and bad ones, just like everyone else. He made mistakes. He did some things right. He failed a good deal too. Mixed bag. But aren’t we all? My problem is that my bag is mostly ugly and yucky and broken. Whereas your average person is a good balance of both characteristics, there’s not enough good in my bag to make me worthwhile. I’m not worth the trouble. And so I’ve never been loved. And my greatest fear is that I never will be. Ever. Because I’m not worth loving. That’s the reality I was faced with when I saw his handwriting on the note I found tucked away in the back of the drawer. The reality I have tried so hard to avoid. That I have run from. And it hurts more than I can bear. I am afraid I am 2BRKN2BLVD. And that the reason I can’t find hope is because I have absolutely nothing for which to hope.
Started thinking about him. How special I once thought he was. How totally head-over-heels in love with him I was at the beginning. How many hopes and dreams died when he left me. And that’s when I realized. What really hurt. What I’m afraid to admit. It’s easy to look back on our marriage and, while not really blaming him, acknowledge that he never loved me. That he fell in love with someone else. Left me. Things happen…sometimes those things are bad and hurtful. But not technically my fault; more his responsibility than mine, even if it takes two and all that. Yet the truth is sometimes something you don’t see when you lightly examine facts and take them at face value. In this case, at this moment in time, a hidden truth (or what I perceive to be truth – a truth I am loath to admit) came at me from the side and mugged me. Couldn’t avoid it. Looking at his handwriting, feeling the sadness of the loss even after all these years, I realized the thing that hurts the most is that I probably never deserved his love to begin with. Being so screwed up and all. Being so broken. And him not loving me probably had a lot more to do with me, and with me being totally unlovable, than it ever had to do with him. I fear the failure of the relationship was probably more on me than on him because I’m such a mess…so who could love me? Really? Ouch. No little love notes in his handwriting were ever left laying around. Because he didn’t love me. It was always something practical. “Pick up milk.” “Combination to lock on gate.” “I’ll be home at 5:30.” Nothing tender. Because there was no tenderness in his heart for me. The note I found that sent me back in time was the gate combination. His handwriting was still so familiar. I loved his handwriting. It’s artistic and very stylish and neat; like a draftsman. I loved him once. With all of my heart. I loved his hands; those hands that wrote practical notes. I thought he was the most amazing person to ever walk the face of the earth. But he never, ever loved me back. And I can’t blame him.
He wasn’t a horrid person. He had good characteristics and bad ones, just like everyone else. He made mistakes. He did some things right. He failed a good deal too. Mixed bag. But aren’t we all? My problem is that my bag is mostly ugly and yucky and broken. Whereas your average person is a good balance of both characteristics, there’s not enough good in my bag to make me worthwhile. I’m not worth the trouble. And so I’ve never been loved. And my greatest fear is that I never will be. Ever. Because I’m not worth loving. That’s the reality I was faced with when I saw his handwriting on the note I found tucked away in the back of the drawer. The reality I have tried so hard to avoid. That I have run from. And it hurts more than I can bear. I am afraid I am 2BRKN2BLVD. And that the reason I can’t find hope is because I have absolutely nothing for which to hope.
Hollow
Hollow. I feel hollow. Emptied out. Empty of dreams. Empty of hopes. Of expectations. Of goals. Of desires. Of wants. Like a gutted fish…everything inside is gone. Except for the pain. There is still a great deal of pain. And terror.
It became overwhelming, this feeling of hollowness, when I was driving to work the other day. It was as if my senses expanded, my reality opened, and I saw my bleak existence for what it is. I was no longer able to disguise it or push it away. Or make it pretty.
I get up. Take my dogs out to do their business, feed them, fix my coffee, get dressed, drive to work. I work 9-1/2 hours a day without a break. Then I drive home, let the dogs out, feed them, get something to eat myself, throw it up. Boot up the computer and check Facebook. Check Twitter. Have a cup of coffee. Eat more. Throw that up too. Have another cup of coffee, maybe, play solitaire, check my e-mail, which is mostly junk, let the dogs out a few more times (sigh). I think about everything I should be doing, but that I don’t have the energy for. Cleaning, organizing, or even being creative, reading, writing. Just can’t muster the mental wherewithal to make it happen. I hate living in the conditions I live in…such an out of control mess. So depressing. Which is part of why I can’t muster the mental wherewithal. And so the vicious cycle continues. And so it goes undone. And finally, I take the dogs out for the last time for the night, plug the phones in so they will be charged and ready to go the next day, figure out what I will wear tomorrow, get ready for bed and go to sleep. Next morning, repeat. And the next. And the next. Weekends aren’t much, if any, better. The dogs usually get me up at 4:30 or 5:00 and I feed them, then take them out. But I get to go back to sleep…a luxury. I get up whenever I wake up, which feels decadent. That is usually around 8 or 8:30. At which point…guess…I take the dogs out yet again. Then I get dressed and run errands. I generally visit a couple of grocery stores and get gas in my car so I’ll be ready for the coming work week. Sometimes I have to go to the pharmacy. Occasionally I run to the post office. Even more rarely, I’ll meet a friend for coffee. Then I’m home, unloading way too many groceries for one person, but this ED must be fed. Even if it all just goes in the toilet, the ritual continues and it is usually more active on the weekends. I eventually log on the computer. Check Facebook and Twitter. Read e-mail. Delete junk. Play solitaire. Drink coffee. Take a nap. Take my girls out a few hundred times (how DO they make it all day during the week when I’m at work?). Then I go to bed, usually crashing on the couch whenever I get sleepy. Yes, sleeping on the couch Friday and Saturday night is my big reward for making it through the week. I live such an exciting life…
Sunday, I may hit yet another grocery store because I get really insecure about running out of food. I take a nap; maybe two. Take the dogs out a few hundred times again. Wash my hair. Do my nails. Figure out what I’m going to wear to work on Monday. Feel the depression descending. Go to bed. Wonder where the weekend went. Hollow. Empty. Lonely. Meaningless. Hopeless. I tell myself that I need to do something fun every now and then. But what is fun? I have forgotten how to have fun. Can’t even imagine what I might do that would be fun. I don’t have anyone to call. My “friends” have families that they center their lives around – rightly so – and they have friends that they are much closer to; friends they make a priority. I don’t fit in well. I take work. So those get-togethers don’t happen often. I run from the stark emptiness of my reality. I pretend it isn’t what it is. But sometimes it sneaks up on me. Sometimes it gets in my face and I can’t avoid it. I’m so weary. So tired. Even when I wake up, I’m exhausted. True, I usually only get 5 or, if I’m lucky, 6 hours of sleep. But no amount of sleep can erase the weariness from my mind and soul. My weekend naps prove this. It’s not about sleep. I’m just worn out. Worn down. Broken. Defeated. This is my life. This is my world. If it weren’t for these two annoying little Miniature Schnauzers who have to go out SO MANY TIMES, there would be no life whatsoever in my daily sphere. Hollow. I have nothing to look forward to. Far too much to regret. Far too many things to fear when I peek at the future and catch a glimpse of what I can expect to find there. It’s terrifying. Thinking is dangerous. It involves seeing all of my bad decisions. How little I have to look forward to. How much I have to fear going forward and how unstable I am…mentally, emotionally, financially. I’m so broken, I can barely navigate the day. It’s all I can do to get myself to work. All I can do to take one step. Then another. If I’m fortunate, another. I live in the empty nothingness of the moment and the moment is endless. And Empty. And pointless. I am a shell. The pain echoes through the emptiness within me. The terror reverberates off my outer walls. Dead man walking. Hollow.
It became overwhelming, this feeling of hollowness, when I was driving to work the other day. It was as if my senses expanded, my reality opened, and I saw my bleak existence for what it is. I was no longer able to disguise it or push it away. Or make it pretty.
I get up. Take my dogs out to do their business, feed them, fix my coffee, get dressed, drive to work. I work 9-1/2 hours a day without a break. Then I drive home, let the dogs out, feed them, get something to eat myself, throw it up. Boot up the computer and check Facebook. Check Twitter. Have a cup of coffee. Eat more. Throw that up too. Have another cup of coffee, maybe, play solitaire, check my e-mail, which is mostly junk, let the dogs out a few more times (sigh). I think about everything I should be doing, but that I don’t have the energy for. Cleaning, organizing, or even being creative, reading, writing. Just can’t muster the mental wherewithal to make it happen. I hate living in the conditions I live in…such an out of control mess. So depressing. Which is part of why I can’t muster the mental wherewithal. And so the vicious cycle continues. And so it goes undone. And finally, I take the dogs out for the last time for the night, plug the phones in so they will be charged and ready to go the next day, figure out what I will wear tomorrow, get ready for bed and go to sleep. Next morning, repeat. And the next. And the next. Weekends aren’t much, if any, better. The dogs usually get me up at 4:30 or 5:00 and I feed them, then take them out. But I get to go back to sleep…a luxury. I get up whenever I wake up, which feels decadent. That is usually around 8 or 8:30. At which point…guess…I take the dogs out yet again. Then I get dressed and run errands. I generally visit a couple of grocery stores and get gas in my car so I’ll be ready for the coming work week. Sometimes I have to go to the pharmacy. Occasionally I run to the post office. Even more rarely, I’ll meet a friend for coffee. Then I’m home, unloading way too many groceries for one person, but this ED must be fed. Even if it all just goes in the toilet, the ritual continues and it is usually more active on the weekends. I eventually log on the computer. Check Facebook and Twitter. Read e-mail. Delete junk. Play solitaire. Drink coffee. Take a nap. Take my girls out a few hundred times (how DO they make it all day during the week when I’m at work?). Then I go to bed, usually crashing on the couch whenever I get sleepy. Yes, sleeping on the couch Friday and Saturday night is my big reward for making it through the week. I live such an exciting life…
Sunday, I may hit yet another grocery store because I get really insecure about running out of food. I take a nap; maybe two. Take the dogs out a few hundred times again. Wash my hair. Do my nails. Figure out what I’m going to wear to work on Monday. Feel the depression descending. Go to bed. Wonder where the weekend went. Hollow. Empty. Lonely. Meaningless. Hopeless. I tell myself that I need to do something fun every now and then. But what is fun? I have forgotten how to have fun. Can’t even imagine what I might do that would be fun. I don’t have anyone to call. My “friends” have families that they center their lives around – rightly so – and they have friends that they are much closer to; friends they make a priority. I don’t fit in well. I take work. So those get-togethers don’t happen often. I run from the stark emptiness of my reality. I pretend it isn’t what it is. But sometimes it sneaks up on me. Sometimes it gets in my face and I can’t avoid it. I’m so weary. So tired. Even when I wake up, I’m exhausted. True, I usually only get 5 or, if I’m lucky, 6 hours of sleep. But no amount of sleep can erase the weariness from my mind and soul. My weekend naps prove this. It’s not about sleep. I’m just worn out. Worn down. Broken. Defeated. This is my life. This is my world. If it weren’t for these two annoying little Miniature Schnauzers who have to go out SO MANY TIMES, there would be no life whatsoever in my daily sphere. Hollow. I have nothing to look forward to. Far too much to regret. Far too many things to fear when I peek at the future and catch a glimpse of what I can expect to find there. It’s terrifying. Thinking is dangerous. It involves seeing all of my bad decisions. How little I have to look forward to. How much I have to fear going forward and how unstable I am…mentally, emotionally, financially. I’m so broken, I can barely navigate the day. It’s all I can do to get myself to work. All I can do to take one step. Then another. If I’m fortunate, another. I live in the empty nothingness of the moment and the moment is endless. And Empty. And pointless. I am a shell. The pain echoes through the emptiness within me. The terror reverberates off my outer walls. Dead man walking. Hollow.
Broken Wings 