B is for Breath

I have been experiencing shortness of breath lately. My older sister had a work engagement in my town last night, so I took her out to dinner. We had a good time, and when we got back to my place, stood in my front yard and talked for almost an hour. I don't remember why it came up, because we don't normally talk about serious things, but I told her I used to get scared when Ex came home from out of town.

"Really?" She was incredulous. She says her husband is abusive and yet could not imagine being scared of him. Yes, Sister, really. Now tell me some more about your horrible husband...
                                          
I have been stuck in therapy lately, so my therapist suggested I write things down and bring them in. I wrote things down and then left it at home. So when I got back home from my last appointment, I asked her if I could email it to her, which she said yes to, and I did, and she immediately read, and now my appointment is tomorrow and I am experiencing shortness of breath.
                                        
Chest pain, shortness of breath, headache, and nausea. I wrote stuff about Ex. I wrote stuff about my childhood. I wrote stuff about my sex life. And I gave it to her. What the hell was I thinking?

A is for Appl

I don't know why I haven't thought of this before, but maybe an explanation of my name is overdue. My little sister is seven years younger than I am, and I used to tell her stories when we were going to sleep. Most of them involved Potato Cake, our protagonist. Don't ask me why. I don't have a clue. Another recurring character was Marcy Appl. Hence the pseudonym.
                    
I have changed everyone's name in this blog, mainly to protect the innocent. Or, in Ex's case, to protect me from being sued. I have not painted him in a flattering light, but I am definitely telling the truth.

Today, as I was driving to work, a flash of him came to me. They were talking about prom on the radio, and I remembered that, when I returned Ex's tux a few days after the wedding, the guy at the tux shop made a huge deal about Ex not picking up the tux until the morning of the wedding.
                                    
At the time, it didn't occur to me that Ex probably wasn't planning on showing up. Oh, how I wish he hadn't. I think I could have gotten over being left at the altar way faster than living with a sociopath for two years. Living through that has irrevocably changed me.

So now I am Appl. Marcy Appl.
                      

Z is for Zip

I tend to keep my mouth zipped shut most of the time. I listen way more than I talk. I think that may be why people like me. I am a really good listener, I don't usually interrupt, and I do genuinely care. Well, most of the time.

Zipping it shut hurts me sometimes, though. Like what I wrote last time, about not being able to talk to my therapist. I did some soul-searching and remembered when I was about four and told my mom something my dad did and she said I shouldn't say things like that and made me go apologize to him. For abusing me. This is why I don't talk.
                      
But yeah, keeping my mouth zipped is bad sometimes. There is a person in my life who tends to say really hurtful things, and I say nothing. Just let it slide. Maybe I should have spoken up and told her I didn't appreciate her rude comments, but instead, I choose to distance myself. I mean, I have friends who are nice to me. I don't need to hang around the mean ones.

The scary part is, what she said to me was almost exactly what Ex said to me on the fateful New Year's Day about if I would only try harder, I could get more done. This, when I had three part-time jobs, a foster dog, a cat, and was in my last semester (so super-hard classes) of my chemistry degree. Now, when I have two part-time jobs I'm quitting (so I'm in two-week notice stage), one full-time job, two dogs, a house that needs a ton of work, and three classes at school.
                       
Maybe she's right. I mean, I'm sitting here writing, when I could be working. Although I just got home from one job and am about to leave for therapy and am sitting here holding my little dog while I type. And I worked all weekend. And I worked on a magazine project that is due Tuesday that no one else in my group is contributing toward. And I'm doing laundry.

Damn, I'm lazy.

Y is for Yuck

I had my therapy session last night and still feel entirely yucky. I told her that there a lot of things I don't tell her and that seems stupid to me. I mean, I pay her to help me figure life out, and if she doesn't have all of the information, how is she supposed to do that? Right?

                               
Things I don't talk to my therapist about:
1) My sex life
2) What my father did to me as a child
3) Some things I'm not even going to write on here
4) Details about life with Ex (She doesn't even know his name. That's how little I talk about him.)

Items 1-4 are important. They affect how I live my life. #2 dictates #1, and had a huge impact on #4. Who knows -- without #2, #4 may not have happened. I need to get these issues resolved and move on with my life, considering that even a concussion-causing car wreck won't have the decency to kill me and end my misery.
                                 
She suggested writing things down, which I did last night for a short time. That is why I feel yucky even now. My childhood was a nightmare. Ditto my marriage. Yuck. I feel like throwing up. Now if that isn't yucky, I don't know what is.

X is for Xenomorphic

Xenomorphic: in an unusual form.

Ex was xenomorphic in that he was unusual and did not fit into any form I had ever known. From the first date to our wedding day, he was different in a good way. And then from our wedding day until, well, now, he is different in a bad way.
                                    
Ex's pre-marriage form was solid. Ex initially showed up very late all the time, but when I told him it bothered me, Solid Ex began always showing up on time. Always. Solid Ex ate whatever I made and professed to love it. Always. Solid Ex loved my family and thought they were great. Always. Solid Ex was charming to my friends; even though some of them saw through him and didn't like him, he was still charming to them. If something went wrong with my car and I needed help, Solid Ex was there. Always. He was my rock.
                                    
Fluid Ex was the form I was married to. I never knew what form would be in charge when I was with him. I clearly remember the cold knot of fear every time I heard Ex's truck pull in the drive. Which Fluid Ex was coming through the door? Would this Ex speak to me? Would he completely ignore my presence? Would he get mad if I spoke to him? Would this Ex walk in and say, "Hey," and sit down and take off his shoes while telling me about his day?
                                   
Even when Fluid Ex was nice and spoke to me, I was scared, because anything I said could be taken the wrong way, or anything I didn't say could be attributed to me and make Fluid Ex shift to rage. I didn't realize Ex was so xenomorphic when I married him.

I hope the new wife is married to Solid Ex. I doubt it, but I really hope she is. Poor girl.

W is for Who

I don't know who I really am. I think I was so strictly raised as a child that I am not sure what I really believe and what/who that makes me now. Do I believe in God? Yes. Do I believe in a loving God? No. Does the one invalidate the other? I hope not.

I was raised to believe that sex is for marriage. You wait until you get married and then do it with him the rest of your life. Well, that didn't work out for me. I waited THIRTY-TWO long years and then found out that my husband lied about his libido. I thought he waited that long because he loved me. Nope. He waited that long because of two reasons:
 
1) He was most likely sleeping with someone else on the side
2) On a scale of 1-10, with 10 being high, his libido was about -12,214,659,925.

Where does that leave me now? As a divorced woman, too stupidly shy to talk about sex to my therapist (although I do discuss it with a few choice friends), not knowing if it is okay to act upon my sexual needs. I really don't know where the line is and if crossing the unknown line makes me someone who I don't want to be.

I don't know who I am. I don't know what I believe. I just know that, despite rarely having sex with me, Ex royally screwed me.

V is for Validate

I miss my mom today. Don't really know why, just know that I miss her. I had planned a trip to visit her and my little sister and her family, but had a car wreck right before I was supposed to leave, so that didn't happen. I was told not to drive because I got a concussion. Fine.
                           
So now how long will it be before I see my mom and sister? I'm guessing a long time. They currently live about twelve hours away and are about to move even farther away. I told my therapist that I miss my mom and she said to validate my feelings and that it is okay to miss my mom. Is it, though? I mean, I was in a car wreck, totalled my car and face, and my mom asked me how my car was. Really? Thanks for caring.
                         
I tried to validate my feelings but it feels pretty stupid to miss someone who doesn't give a damn.

U is for Undead

I have been absent from this blog for a little over a month now. Did anyone wonder if I had finally had the guts to go ahead and off myself? Nope. I moved and had no private Internet, and the public Internet I was using blocked this blog for some reason. Maybe because of the suicide rants such as this one.

I was in a car wreck ten days ago. I totalled my car and my face. My face is mostly healed now and my poor little car has been replaced. When I went to get my stuff out of the old car, I was shocked at the extent of the damage. It was a pretty serious wreck. I should have died.

Didn't. Damn the luck.