T is for Telling

I work with a girl who is 28 and single. She is starting to worry about dying alone, running out of time to have kids, and being lonely for the rest of her life. Her standards are, well, going down. She said she would take just about anybody right now, and this has been a recurring comment. I'm beginning to worry about her. Sometimes you just have to tell people what they need to hear. So I told her.
                         
I told her it's better to be lonely when you're alone than lonely when you are with someone. I told her Ex was a fantastic boyfriend and then tried to drown me on our first day as man and wife. And then he got mad at me and would barely speak to me for five days. ("P is for Pool") I told her he chased off all of my friends, although my best ones did come back after I reopened the door to them. I told her I wish I'd never met him. Writing this, I feel as if I told her too much.

I didn't tell her that I once spent a week living in my car because I was too scared to go home. I didn't tell her that there were many, many single nights when that happened, and I would creep home the next morning, only to find that Ex had ordered pizza. I didn't tell her that Ex raped me. I can't believe I just mentioned that again. ("N is for No") I didn't tell her that Ex abandoned his mother in a locked memory ward. I didn't tell her that we used to foster dogs until I realized Ex was hitting them. There are a lot of things I didn't tell her.
                          
Telling is why I write this blog. It helps to tell people what happened, but most of it is so shameful that I don't want people I know to know this stuff. I don't want pity. I want understanding. Oh, that explains why she flunked out of dental school. Twice. Oh, that explains why she will die alone. Oh, that explains why she slept on the floor for months and months even though she had two beds and a comfy couch. Oh, that explains why she was on anti-depressants and anti-anxiety pills for so long. Oh, that explains it...

S is for Scared

So, I'm packing for my big move on March 1st. I have nine days to finish and I'm not doing very well. Ever since moving out of Ex's house, packing has been incredibly difficult. I have moved a lot in my lifetime, and never had a bit of trouble before Ex. When he helped me move out of my house and into his, it seemed to be the easiest task in the world. Then I had to pack and sort mine and his and it was the worst task in the world.
                                    
I've moved twice since then. This will be my third move. The first time, I moved out of a two-bedroom apartment into a very small one-bedroom that was close to dental school. Um, THAT didn't work out, so when they kicked me out of school for the second time, I moved again. I currently live in a want-to-be slumlord's tiny house with a huge backyard. I chose it because I could afford it and my dogs have a huge backyard to play in, but the place is a mess and I cannot wait to get out.

I've lived in this dump for a year. Here's what's in the backyard: six broken lawnmowers, a pile of sticks, a pile of lumber, a broken refrigerator, two ladders, and various other crap. The pipes freeze, the drains don't drain, the siding on the back of the house is torn off, and the screen door doesn't shut. But I'm scared to move. I feel that all I deserve is this dump. I'll be honest - the inside of the house isn't much better. To say I don't clean often would be the understatement of the year.
                                     
My new house is a huge project. It was built in 1920 and the lady who sold it to me has lived there for 30 years. It needs a lot of updating and love, but I'm really excited about moving. So why do I need sympathy? Why do I need a shoulder to cry on? Why am I scared out of my wits?

Things have not exactly been going my way lately. Buying this house and moving is a huge step in a positive direction and I'm scared to death that it will blow up in my face. I'm scared to move up in the world. I'm scared to try again. I'm scared I won't make it. Again.

I'm finding it hard to breathe.

R is for Repentant

"I'm sorry." This is what I hear as I trudge through the snow at 2:34 AM, looking for something to stick under a tire that is stuck in the ice and snow mix on the side of my driveway. What? Tonight I learned my lesson: don't mess with assholes you meet on craigslist. This is the guy I posted about a few months ago; the dude I really, really liked and thought might actually turn into a relationship. HA!
                                 
Dude knocked on my door in the middle of the night. Tapped on it persistently, I should say, waking my poor dogs up and, through their barking, me. I wouldn't let him in and then he told me he was stuck. Stupid guy missed the driveway and hit the ditch. It took half an hour to get his car unstuck. I really should have called the police on his repentant soul. Let them deal with him and him with them.

I hate it when people repeatedly do something they need to apologize for. Just stop being mean, rude, thoughtless, whatever. I don't care if you're sorry. It changes nothing when you just keep doing it. Dude's favorite phrase, from previous experience of him being way too drunk and saying and doing rude things. He's sorry. I know. He kept saying he was sorry and that this wasn't my problem and to go inside. Well, you made it my problem when you knocked on my door, Dude.
                           
I'm mad at myself for getting involved with someone so thoughtless. Even without getting stuck - which of course I know was completely unintentional - why are you knocking on my door in the middle of the night when I haven't seen or heard from you for months? Go away and be sorry somewhere else.

Q is for Quadral

Quadral: in four parts. Irvin D. Yalom, author and renowned existentialist, created the four states of the human condition:

1) Meaninglessness: "Despair is the price one pays for self-awareness. Look deeply into life, and you'll always find despair." ~Yalom   
                        
     There doesn't seem to be much meaning to life. I've heard "great minds" say that nothing has meaning in itself, but that meaning must be attached by the individual. I can see that. Not much matters to me right now. I am just going through the motions and hoping something sticks. No luck yet.

2) Isolation: "To the extent that one is responsible for one's life, one is alone." ~Yalom
                       
     I was raised for a life of isolation. When I was a teenager, my dad made a little room up in the attic for me. It was a relief to get away from him (He used to sit in the room I shared with my little sister almost every night. Why?) but it was incredibly isolated from the rest of the family. I was so lonely up there that I used to call the radio phone line and listen to the Top Ten lists, just so I could hear a human voice. Then I married a sociopath who took great pleasure in ignoring my existence on the planet. My loneliest times were when I was with Ex. And now I live alone and am quite certain I will die alone. Thanks, Mom and Dad. Thanks.

3) Freedom: “The spirit of a man is constructed out of his choices.” ~Yalom             

                      

     At least in being alone, I can choose my own destiny. Although I have no heart and, as I said before, am just going through the motions. I must find some spirit in there somewhere. I can't possibly have given it all to Ex. Could I?

4) Mortality: "Though the physicality of death may destroy us, the idea of death may save us." ~Yalom
                        
     My rampant suicidal thoughts have quieted themselves for a long time now. There was one brief moment a few days ago in which I was quite angry that someone else had died and I can't. My friend told me of a doctor we used to refer patients to. He was found dead in his apartment and they think he died of influenza. I was instantly angry that things like that don't happen to me. Then I felt really sad, because this guy lived a very solitary life. He worked alone. No receptionist, no assistant; just him. He lived alone. He died alone.

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

I am alone now but I am not lonely. I am choosing isolation most days. I just want to be left alone. I don't know why. I don't know if this is something I should allow. I do get out and see friends, but all I really want to do is lie in bed and cuddle with my dogs.

Therapy has been really rough lately. I am attributing this current wish for isolation to my rough therapy. It's not easy when you go back and look at how, in each stage of growth, your parents went the wrong way. How can I hope to be "normal" when I have no base for that? Every major relationship in my life has just furthered the proof that I am unlovable and not worth time and attention. I am worthless. Hopefully, there will be a breakthrough soon, because I can't take much more of this.

P is for Painkillers

Hi, I'm Marcy, and I'm addicted to painkillers. (Hi, Marcy)
                         
I've taken hydrocodone in the past, but it never seemed to work, so I never took it very long. One or two days, maybe. Well, it helps a LOT with my thumb pain. I have taken it every night since I sliced halfway through my thumb at the deli, and 45 minutes later - boom - no more pain. It's not just my thumb that hurts, either. My entire body aches at the end of a long day. I literally hurt from head to toe.
                      
Somebody call me the waa-mbulance. I need to complain. It makes me feel better. On the inside, at least...

I decided not to take any painkillers last night, since it wasn't hurting too bad and I'm down to three pills with little chance of getting more. I thought it would be smart to keep them for the end of a long work shift, when I really needed them. So I spent all night last night tossing and turning. Couldn't get comfortable. My poor dogs ended up sleeping on the floor because I kept moving. Well, they slept on their beds. Just not with me. I missed them.

                              
I sought the advice of a friend who is a medical assistant, and she said to taper by taking half a night until I'm out. So that is what I will do tonight. My body is crying for it. My thumb is a plethora of pain - the actual incision stings like ice, the entire thumb feels like a taut balloon that keeps getting filled with more and more air, my whole hand throbs, and my entire right arm aches.

I'm a mess. I want my painkillers.

O is for Orange

It took me five tries to type the title. Amazing how you don't realize how important a thumb is until you injure it. I sliced the tip of my thumb to the bone on the meat slicer in the deli last Sunday. This is why I have been slow to post - because it hurts to type. One would hope this post means I'm feeling better but no, it just means I needed to vent.

I just got home from work and did a little Self-Soothing. That is a Dialectical Behavior Therapy skill I learned that engages one or more of the five senses and is a Distress Tolerance skill. I put on some orange-scented lotion and am currently lying on my couch, typing and breathing in the good smell.
                       
Why do I need orange lotion and Self-Soothing? Well, I was informed that my boss told my co-worker that she doesn't understand what the big deal is. She cut her thumb a long time ago, too. The store director (the big boss) has seen me almost every day and not ONCE asked how I am doing, but apparently went into the deli last night and was saying it was my fault for holding the slicer that way. My friend stuck up for me and said she demonstrated how it happened and how holding it that way is the only way to slice the meat. After that, the director agreed to get the slicer fixed.

It took my blood sacrifice to get them to fix the slicer. Great.

N is for New

This is the first time I have put in pictures before I write the post. I normally finish writing and then find pictures to complement the story. Not this time! This story is written in a new fashion in which the story must complement the pictures. Why? Because the pictures are of my new house!
   
                          
Yay! I live really close to a state line and am moving to the other side of that line. The house is in a pretty decent neighborhood. It has four (!) bedrooms, three bathrooms, two kitchens (?), and a huge attic that I plan to make into a great studio space. I may post before and after pictures once I get to take possession of the house. (Ha, my house will be possessed as soon as I move in.)
            
It isn't really a duplex, but there are two kitchens, so I plan to get a roommate who can have his or her own living space. They would still have access to the entire downstairs, so it will have to be someone I can live with. With whom I can live. I'm taking English classes in school again, so I guess I should always use proper English, yes?

I have big plans for this old house. I can't wait. New classes, tutoring at a new location (in addition to the old one), newly off of my medication, and buying a new house. New to me, that is. Isn't that the best kind?
            

M is for Medication

5mg Abilify
40mg Prozac
350mg Wellbutrin
50mcg Levothyroxine
                                          
I just stopped taking everything except for the thyroid medication. Cold turkey; didn't even taper. And I feel better than I have felt in a long time. I feel more awake than I have in years. I cry more often. I laugh more often. I get irritated at things that are irritating rather than just not caring. I was numb for so long, but I thought it was just the way things were because of depression. I didn't realize that it was a strong possibility that the medication was making me a zombie.

This is not the first time I have tried to quit. But I still had a lot of stress and was in school (or between attempts, that is) and just couldn't make it. I think I'm good this time. I've been "clean" for almost three weeks now. I have asked friends to watch for weird behavior and let me know if they think I'm not okay. I'm starting back to school Tuesday. Just taking some upper-level undergraduate English classes so I can apply for the Master's in English with a publishing emphasis. I would like to be an editor, I think. I don't know for sure, but it seems like a good path to go down at the moment. I'm a girl who needs a path.
                                   
So wish me luck - school, work, no medication. Here's hoping.

L is for Lost

I was a huge "Lost" fan and got Ex into the show, too. He got on Netflix and watched the previous seasons so he would understand what was going on, and then we watched the show together. Even when he was working out of town, he would call me when "Lost" was on and we would talk about it during the commercials.
         
 Life with Ex wasn't all bad.

K is for Knock

P.S. Writing this paragraph after I wrote the entire post, but think it belongs at the beginning - this one took a lot out of me. I enjoy writing and think it is therapeutic, but this post has raised my anxiety to a level at which it has not been for a long time. I'm borderline panic attack. After you read this, you will understand why my heart is still pounding and my stupid eyes won't stop watering. I haven't really dealt with any of this stuff. Just pushed it under the couch with the knife.
                       
That last winter we were together, Ex was working out of state. His visits home grew farther and farther apart as he became more enthralled with his life away from home. See "F is for Faithful" and you can guess why. Enough said. Ex had just moved his mother to our city and stuck her in a nursing home. I wanted her to come and live with us, but Ex was adamant that such a horrific thing would only occur over his dead body. So. Nursing home.

Ex's mom moved to town one weekend and Ex came home for the occasion. He was also back the very next weekend and then said he would have to stay out of town for a long time. He said maybe a month or so. I remember the mixed feelings of sadness because I wanted to be with my husband and relief, because I was scared of him. Oh, my.

We lived in a fairly decent neighborhood at the time, but, tragically, there was a serial rapist running rampant. A few weeks before all of this, he had started his reign of terror on my back deck, trying to break in through a window and running off when I turned on the deck light. I saw him jogging down the street, called the police, watched as they wandered around for a bit and then said they would keep an eye on things. The very next night, news vans were everywhere. He had come back and attacked the woman who lived on my corner.

I didn't think this would make me cry. Shows what I know.

Anyway, ugh. Haven't gotten it together yet. Wait.

I try to forget the sleepless nights on the couch, clutching a knife under the cushions and jumping at every sound. I installed one of those motion-detector lights that is on dimly all of the time and then brightens when there is movement, and we had big raccoons who could trigger the light. I jumped all night long until around 4:00AM, when I would fall into an exhausted doze. I didn't sleep for weeks. The guy was raping women all over the neighborhood and always struck around three in the morning. I was a nervous wreck.

(This is not the story of the hours that Ex spent yelling at me on the phone when I told him what was going on and asked him to come home for the weekend. I told him it would be nice to have a man around the house and he got extremely angry and yelled for over three hours. But this is not that story.)

Back to the main story - Ex, working out of town. His mom, recently moved to town. Ex, saying he would not be back for a long time and just departed. Okay.

So, I'm lying on the couch, jumping up every time the light brightens and peering out fearfully through the blinds. At 3:00 in the morning, someone knocks on the door. I almost died of a heart attack right then and there. I wasn't asleep, but I wasn't really awake, either, but I tell you what - I woke up fast. I ran to the door, phone in one hand, kitchen knife in the other, heart racing, eyes wide with terror, not breathing. Looked out....
                                
...only to see Ex standing there, scowling in at me. Wanting to know why the storm door was locked. Mad because the door was locked at three o'clock in the morning with a rapist on the loose. Had come home "to surprise me". Mission accomplished, fool. He really came home to see his mom. I'm not an idiot. (Well, maybe. You'll have to read the latest "I" post and decide for yourself.)

After Ex left that Sunday, I randomly checked doors. He had left the back door, garage door, and door between the house and the garage ALL unlocked. Doors that we never left unlocked. Unlocked. I love you, too.

J is for JPay

J-what? JPay. It's a web site that enables a person to send money, videos, emails, and pictures to a loved one in jail. Why, you may be asking yourself, am I writing about JPay? Are they a new sponsor? Ha. No. Not a bad guess, though. But the other way around. No, I'm writing about JPay because it seemed funnier than to just write about plain old jail.
                       
I know this guy. Met him about a year after my divorce. Never got attached, never wanted him to even be my boyfriend. Liked him, got along great, just kept it light. You know. Nothing serious. Then he gets himself thrown in jail. Starts writing me letters. Asked me if I ever saw us together. Wanted to know if I wanted to have kids. Said we would have really cute kids.

Um, excuse me? Kids? What exactly am I to you? So I ask him this in my return letter. A few letters go by before he responds to the question. He's had some really bad relationships and needs to get his act together before he can have anything serious with anyone. He likes me and wants to live with me once he gets out, but that's it.                 
                       
May I remind you, fool, that YOU are the one who asked ME if I wanted to have kids with you. That I was the one who never wanted a relationship. And now YOU are rejecting ME? I need to write him another letter and tell him he can go - well, there is just no nice way to tell someone to go fuck themselves.

I is for Idiot

I try not to be an idiot but it's hard sometimes. Dude wants to meet at a nearby dive bar and talk. Or come over. Um...let me think about this. Yeah, no. He keeps texting me and I keep telling him no. I'm sorry I'm a good listener and you have no one else in your life to talk to. I'm sorry you were such an ass last time you came over. I'm sorry I was wrong and you aren't the cool guy I thought you were. I'm sorry I ever met you.
                     
What an idiot. Don't come over here and tell me how much you want to sleep with a 26-year-old and then expect me to want to see you again. Idiot. I'm stupid, not desperate. Thanks, but no thanks. Idiot. And yet, all I want to do is let him come over and tell me what an idiot he was and how he really likes me and how he was drunk and stupid. I want him to tell me how great I am and how he can't believe how cool I am.

                           

Do I really need this validation from someone like him? Yes, yes, I do. Idiot. Me or him? Both. Well, since we have so much in common, what could it hurt to see him again and hear what he has to say?

H is for Her

I can't get her out of my head. The sheer joy radiating out of her smile that couldn't physically be any bigger is heart breaking. Her happiness illuminates everything around her. She looks as if every wish she ever had just came true all at once and every wish was a thousand times better than she expected.

Oh, how I hope her happiness lasted. I hope she is still at least a little happy. Thinking of the small possibility of her being happy six weeks after the wedding makes me want to cry. I don't care that Ex has moved on. He was looking for a new woman two days after I moved out of his house. I know he has been trying to find someone else before I even left. I'm not worried about him. I'm worried about her. The new Mrs. Ex.

Her facebook has pictures of him all over it. Google her name and wedding invitations pop up, wedding registries, deeds to land in Florida with his name added in October pop up. He is all over her life. His facebook registers one little sentence: "Married to Mrs. Ex". At least he finally removed the picture of me. That's something, at least, although the bastard has been married for six weeks and only modified the photo album one week ago.

She announced her engagement Sept. 25, 2013. Almost all of her friends who congratulated her also wanted to know who the guy was. Um, none of your friends know Ex and you are already engaged? And got married two months later? The facebook event page shows that she invited over 300 people and, according to facebook, 29 people went. Their Target gift registry is long and only four gifts were purchased from it. One friend asked how they met and she said he wouldn't believe it, but they met on craigslist. I believe it.

If there is one thing I want for her, it is for her to be happy. I want him to love her like he never loved me. At the very least, be a decent human being and not a sociopath. Is that even possible? I don't want her to go through what I went through. I don't wish her any harm or anything but happiness but I don't see that as a possibility with him. Evil can only be contained for so long.

If I could say one thing to her, it would be one word: Run.

G is for Groom

Groom, you say? Really? GROOM? Yep, Ex did it again. I don't know what my motivation was. I was on facebook and randomly, without even thinking about it, typed in Ex's name. And there it was - his profile was back. And there it was - he is married. Nov. 23, 2013.

I want to send her a letter and ask her if she is okay. I want to know if the same thing that happened to me happened to her. I want to know if her loving, caring boyfriend turned into a raging sociopath the day they got married. I hope not. She looks very happy. His body language pulls away from her in every picture. I hope he has spent these last three years becoming a decent human being and treats her nicely. I really want to send her a link to my blog...I won't. That would be too mean and eye-opening.

She looks about Ex's age. I wonder if this is her first marriage? I wonder if Ex tried to drown her yet. I wonder how many days of the forty-seven days they have been married he has not spoked to her. I wonder how soon they will have kids. I feel ill.

F is for Faithful

When Ex first started working out of town, his company put him up in a hotel. However, Ex got fired several times, so by the end of our marriage, he was working for a company that didn't want to invest much in him. They had a main office in Colorado and put Ex in a house with one of their managers and his wife. Ex said the house was small but cozy and had two bedrooms. He sent me a few pictures of it when he first moved in. 
                                   
Ex often told me how much he liked living there. Candy (the name I'm giving the wife) and Ex's boss were good hosts and Ex was comfortable in his room. Ex told me how laid back and open his boss and Candy were, and how they liked to try new things and welcomed him into their home with open arms. The boss did a little DJ work on the side and Ex brought me a CD of house music. Ex said they all spent a lot of time in the studio, making music and smoking weed.
                                   
Then his story got complicated. Ex was a horrible liar. For someone who did it all of the time, you would think he would be better at it, but no. He wasn't. Ex told me that his boss was working at another location, so it was just him, Candy, and another worker living in the house. Another worker? I asked, thinking that they were sharing the spare room. Ex began to stutter and told me that he was sleeping on the couch. Then he said he was sleeping on the floor in the spare room. I thought that was unfair, making poor Ex sleep uncomfortably, and I said as much. No, Ex insisted; he was fine. All was well.

Conversations between us continued to be stilted and weird. Ex told me that Candy showered every other day and used deoderant only on the days she didn't shower. Isn't that a little too personal of a fact to know about someone else's wife? There were other things. Discussions of dirty sheets that didn't matter because Ex wasn't sleeping in the spare room bed, anyway. Candy's undergarments. That sort of thing.
                                
To put the icing on the cake, it was very shortly after all this that Ex came home with warts on his penis. I've told you that before. So Candy gave him an STD, is what I'm guessing. He knew too many things about her, there were too many weird stutterings and lies, too many incongruities in his stories. And the worst part? Life with Ex was so bad that it didn't even matter that he was most likely unfaithful. Something that matters that much just didn't matter.