In Years To Come..

As I settle down into my bed, in the last hours of the first day of the new year, I think about where I was one year ago.

This same bed. Same heated blanket. Same comforter. Same pillows. Watching the same tv. Using the same cell phone, plugged into the same charger.

But I’m facing a different direction. I’m lower, underground. My children are asleep, above me. The walls are different. The sounds outside are different.

I bought a house. I am living in it. I’ve only been here for a few months, but it’s life, now. It’s routine.

I still miss the old ones. But there are days when I look around and think, “this is mine“, and it feels good. I feel…accomplished.

Where have I been, this past year?

I bought a house. I have a routine with my kids. I took a very difficult position at work, and I’ve survived for this long. I’ve developed new friendships, and strengthens some old ones. Some, have fallen away.

On the outside, if you looked at my life from January 1, 2018 to January 1, 2019, you would see tremendous growth.

But where have I been, this past year?

I have tried to grow, internally, as I have externally. I have tried to be stronger. More stern. Less naive and less of a pushover. I have tried to like myself again. To know myself. To be a person again, and not some empty shell that just…survives through each day.

I’m not sure how much I’ve succeeded in that. I think that I am developing into some version of myself again, though I still don’t know who that person is. Or if I like them. We’ll see.

I’d like to say 2019 will be the year that I focus on liking myself. On being a real person. On figuring out who I am now, after surviving all of the trauma.

I’m not going to hold myself to that. I know enough about whoever I am now, to know that I will most certainly fall deep into that hole again. Most likely multiple times. But…I’m going to try, at least.

And, hey. I spent the first day of the year with friends. Having lunch, an adventure that turned out to be a flop but hey…we tried. And ended the evening with one of the people that became family, playing super smash bros with the kids. Laughing.

I guess it’s starting off right.

I guess I’m growing.

I’m trying. Maybe I am still a person.

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Hey

I just finished off a bottle of whiskey.

I’m eating fried dill pickle chips and seriously sharp cheddar cheese.

My vape is filled with milk and cookies.

I’m catching up on greys.

I’m alone.

My car is struggling.

I really want a weighted blanket.

I need to get a tree for Christmas.

I have two gym badges in let’s go.

I’m alone.

Don’t do it, Richard.

Don’t do it, me.

Meredith Grey is so unattractive.

Oh, Richard Webber is a wonderful man.

I am alone.

Television is more real to me than my own life, sometimes.

Nothing is real.

I’m drunk.

I’m alone.

Cheese is so good.

Falling

They say that autumn is the bearer of change. But autumn is a deceiver. A trickster.

You wake up one morning, with the sunlight screaming through your window. The sky is as bright blue as the pacific sea, and everything looks crisp and clear.

But when you open that door, the wind assaults you with vigor. Biting at you, all over, through the skin and straight to your bones.

It is a harsh and bitter realization that no matter what you see, no matter how bright and sunny things look through your window, it isn’t real. None of it. It is a deception. And it’s cold. And it hurts.

And no amount of sunshine can change that.

You fall.

Gratitude.

Recently, I bought a house. I’ve never done that before.

I never really thought I’d be in the position to do that.

But I did it. Alone.

I’m supposed to feel really awesome, right?

Right now, I’m sitting on my porch, smoking a cigarette and drinking a corona. And partly, I do feel awesome.

A year ago, I wasn’t planning on being alive very long. I didn’t think about a future because I was determined not to have one.

I didn’t want one.

Even with all of my misfortunes, though, I somehow hit the emotional jackpot with a couple of people who care about me for some reason.

They saved my life. Jury is still out on whether or not that’s a good thing, but I credit my beating heart to them.

I credit my ability to sit on this porch and drink this corona to them.

I’m not any less depressed than I have been, and I’m still not sure about my future – how do you start planning a future when you spent so long planning not to have one?

But this post isn’t about me or my sick heart.

This is about gratitude.

And love.

Even though my soul aches for the love it cannot give, I do not discredit the overwhelming amount of love that does flow throughout my life.

So.

To the man who owns my soul and plays it like a yo-yo, sleeping it for days and then winding it back up into your palm, even though it means nothing – I love you.

To my friends, who are always there to laugh, to cry, to play video games, to help me move and encourage me – I love you.

To my family, who yell at me when I’m being too depressing, and carried me through my darkest times, who’s blood runs through me – I love you.

To my children, who always remind me that I need to stand up and keep moving, and that love can be as simple as saying goodnight and then good morning – I love you.

And to my roommate, who, even though I have my own house now, will always still be my roommate, who opened her home and her heart to me and made this life possible, who I could never be able to repay, who I miss every goddamn night in this new house – I fucking love you.

I am broken. I am lonely. I am strange and I am flawed.

But goddammit, I am so full of love.

And I’m goddamned grateful for it.

L. O. L.

It’s funny…nothing feels the same. Some things are tinged with sadness. There is music I cannot listen to, anymore. Places that I drive past, that make my heart fall to my stomach, like I’ve just gone over a hill on a rollercoaster. There are days of the week that feel hollow, no matter what I’m doing. Dinner feels unsatisfying. Kissing my children goodnight feels half-assed. I find myself watching television and looking over to an empty space, feeling that emptiness more than usual.

Other things are singed with anger. I congratulate acquaintances on their engagements and anniversaries with a bitter taste in my mouth. I see you smile, and I want to knock your teeth out. I think about my struggles, and my children’s. I think about the thirteen years of promises and lies, thirteen years of bullshit. I want to rip my hair out. I want to rip your tongue out.

I realized that I could not have changed your mind. I realized that what was, for me, was not, for you. You made it, for me. Made sure I believed it. I realized that I was lied to for over a decade. That the truth in my heart was not, in fact, truth. I realized that this story is one that only I know, and only I will ever know. Which essentially means that it did not exist. My life, my reality, my world, for thirteen years, does not exist. It made me insane.

I spent a year, struggling to find the will to live.

No, that is a lie.

I spent a year with no will to live. I kept myself going each day, with the promise of it ending with finality. There was a date. There was a plan.

Life After You.

So I kept waking up.

And one morning, I woke up and actually opened my eyes. I woke up, and actually looked at myself in the mirror. I woke up, and stayed awake all day.

I noticed that I could still find peace in the smiles of my children.

I noticed that I could still excel at my job.

I noticed that I didn’t have to feel alive, to live.

I have accepted that I could not have changed your mind. I have accepted that my truth for over a decade was not, in fact, truth. I have accepted that I was a number, and that you are a monster.

I will never “get over” you. I will never trust in love again, as you have made me distrust my own heart. I will never trust in happiness again, as you have made me distrust my own soul.

Thirteen years ago, I gave you my heart. Nine years ago, I gave you my body. Two years later, I gave you my soul. The scar on your shoulder was intended to be your promise of your soul, to me. It now serves as a reminder of how deep your lies can cut, and their permanence.

You gave me so many more scars, than the one we shared that day. Some will serve as a visual reminder. Others leave their mark on my soul.

There is no “getting over” that. I gave myself to you, willingly. I never lied to you, when I made those promises. They will not break – even if I beg for those tethers to snap. But I will stay awake.

I will continue. I will be as productive as I can be – and I will accept that some days, I will not be able to be productive at all. I will smile with my children – and I will accept that some nights will end in crying myself to sleep because I held in the pain for them. I will excel where I can, and push through where I can’t. I will keep pushing that date back. I will continue, dragging this weight with me as long as it takes. I will carry it. I will carry on.

Life Over You.

Clap Your Hands

Here’s a crazy concept….

….let yourself be happy.

It really is very simple. Be happy. Do what makes you happy. Chase your happiness.

Within reason, of course. Obviously, I’m not saying go out and kill people if that makes you happy. However, if killing people truly makes you happy, you should know that this is probably something you should get help for, and getting rid of that unhealthy urge would probably bring you happiness so…. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Seriously, though. Happiness is not some far-away concept that is unreachable. It’s right there, for the taking.

I have a very hard time understanding why people hold themselves back from their own happiness.

Sure, there are little unhappy tasks or moments that we all have to go through – waking up early for work when we really want to sleep in, doing the kitty litter, shaving – but no one said happiness was synonymous with easy.

There’s work to be done, and you’ve got to do the work to get to happy.

If happiness is having the money you want to spend on things, you get up with that alarm and get yourself to work.

If happiness is curling up with your cats and kissing their foreheads and hearing that cute little noise they make when they stretch, you clean their litter box when you need to.

If happiness is that amazing feeling of rubbing your smooth legs against your sheets, you shave your legs.

There is no need to keep yourself miserable for the sake of…what? Duty? Obligation?

No, sir.

Take a moment, and think back to a time where you were truly happiest. When nothing in the universe existed except for your moment. When your heart was full and your soul was singing, your mouth hurt from smiling and you couldn’t remember what pain or sadness felt like because you were just…so…happy.

Take it back. Figure out what gives you that feeling, chase that shit down, and tackle it.

There will be work, getting there. But happiness is worth fighting for, dammit!

So do it! Do the work and chase down your happiness!

Guess what? No matter what you think, you don’t deserve to be unhappy.

You deserve what makes you happy.

So. Get off your ass. Stand up. Remember your happiness, and go get it.

We all gotta fight. For our right. To party in our hearts (that’s happiness, y’all).

An Old, Beat Up, Open Book

I spent twelve years hiding, in one way or another.

For one reason or another.

Hiding is exhausting. Secrets are exhausting. Pretending is exhausting.

You know what else is exhausting? Depression. Heart-break. Stress. Pain.

I don’t have it in me, to add onto that exhaustion anymore. And I have no reason to, anymore.

I have nothing to lose, and nothing to gain. Therefor, I have nothing to hide.

I won’t sugar coat, or pussy-foot, or beat any bushes. Not anymore; never again.

I’m an open book, baby.

You want comedy? I gotcha.

You want drama? Oh, boy do I have you.

You want romance? You got it.

You want horror? I got that, too.

I will lay it all out on the table – whether you want it or not, there it is. Here I am. There I was. Here I go.

I have never been more stressed out at work than I have these past three months. I had never doubted my abilities at work until these past three months. Not a day goes by, that some new major issue doesn’t turn up. There’s always something that needs to get done, and it never gets done before three more things get thrown on me. I hate it. I love it. I’m doing the work.

I have never been more depressed (wow, I know. That’s saying something, right?) than I have been this past year. I saw someone post a pain chart on social media for mental health, the kind doctors use for physical pain. I have been steady at an 8 for all of these months, dipping into 9-10 every so often. I am not motivated to do anything I don’t have to do. I don’t want to be social. Being a “friend” is stressful and torturous at times. When I am not working, all I want to do is sit in my bed and binge-watch tv until it is late enough to take my sleeping pills, and then I continue to binge-watch until I finally fall asleep.

Being social is exhausting. And I apologize to any friendships I’ve neglected. Because I have, and I know I have. Yes, this is for you. I’m sure you will read this, so I want to make sure you know it’s for you. You’ve been nothing but an amazing friend, and I have been a completely shitty one. I don’t mean to be, and I know it’s not fair.  I just can’t. I’m sorry.

This blog is the best way I can be social, right now.

So lay it on me, if you want. Ask me whatever you want to know, and I’ll tell you the truth. Tell me all the horrible things you think of me, and I’ll take it.

I’m getting rid of my filter, and I’m stepping out of the goddamned basement. I am not hiding anymore.

I think this is going to be good for my mental health and well-being. Hell, maybe airing everything out here will make it easier for me to be social again, and actually function like a real human being again.

Hey! Maybe this blog will eventually become the blog it used to be – ranting and raving and puking (oh my)!

A message, to anyone who wants it, but especially to a particular so-and-so 😉 :

I’m letting it out, to try to begin some kind of recovery.

If you don’t like it, too bad. Covering your eyes doesn’t make something go away. The truth is there. And it’s painful. And it’s ugly. And it’s raw.

And it’s yours, just as much as it is mine. I’m facing it, embracing it.

You can keep living in the shadows if you want, and pretend that it’s not detrimental.

But I’m ready for some mother fucking sunlight.

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