Coming Down from Clouds

Listening to: Shannon Curfman, Linkin Park, The Red Jumpsuit Apparatus, Lucerene Blue, Dashboard Confessional, The Storys, Tori Amos, Christina Perri, Ed Sheeran, Papa Roach, Cash Cash, Adele

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Adele “A Million Years Ago” “…Deep down I must have always known, That this would be inevitable, To earn my stripes, I’d have to pay, And bear my soul…”

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One last phone call, not taken, because (without malice) there is nothing left to say, and nothing left to hear. At least not for me. And now, names written on dotted lines. A judicial “In nomine Patri et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti” and what once was a beginning, is ended. And its perhaps symbolic, and synchronistic, that it is also the first day of spring. The first day of new life, or life renewed, or something that if I was a poet, or lyricist,  I could capture, and express, with ease.

Today though, I’m “just” a girl in New Jersey. (Just, in quotes, because I KNOW my value, and worth, that I am intelligent, that I am beautiful, for whatever that means, that I am witty, talented, lovable, and worth loving.) So even though unicorn says “never just” to me, about me, when I say just about myself, I am today, just a girl in New Jersey, who has spent a lot of the day crying. I think my tears are similar to a person who is in pain, laughing. There isn’t really a reason to laugh when you’re in pain, but sometimes it happens. So today, I have no reason, really, to cry, in fact, there is real relief. But I’ve cried. It occurs to me that maybe part of the reason for the tears is that I have been in some ways, holding my breath, waiting for this day. So maybe part of the reason for the tears is that they are almost like an exhale.

I’ve spent a lot of time today, too, not writing, and thinking, while listening to music, and crying. Because I really want to feel this, to move through it, to put it absolutely behind me.

A very long time ago, I cried, a lot, about the thought of giving up on another human being. Of having to turn my back on someone, and not spend another minute caring about them, or what happened to them. It was utter heartbreak to me, the thought of doing that. In spite of all that went on, I thought that it would make me a monster to turn my back on another human. In particular a human whose fate is likely to find them in prison, or dead. That is what those of us who have loved someone with an addiction, married, family member, friend, have to contend with. Loving ourselves enough to walk away, and loving the other person enough that you allow them to be master of their own fate, no matter what that looks like. Those 2 things are mother fuckers. They eat you alive, until you erect impermeable fortresses around your heart, and soul, because you have to, to survive.

Today, I don’t feel like a monster for walking away. Maybe because its my nature, I find myself wanting to believe that he isn’t a monster either. I want to believe that he will be able to get his shit together, and stop hurting himself, and other people. I want to believe that it makes me a normal, healthy, semi-decent human being to feel that way. To have finally found the balanced level of empathy which allows me to feel for this soul that has been so damaged that I send nothing but love, without allowing any harm to come to myself.


Now Tuesday, the 2nd day of spring. I read a news story earlier about a woman, who was pregnant, whose husband (or perhaps boyfriend) killed her, and their unborn child, and then himself. She had a son, who is now left without a mommy. After reading the story, I began to shake. Because I don’t know, nor do I think anyone else does, what that line is, where beating your “girl” turns to killing her. I don’t know if any man who beats a woman is capable also, of killing her. I do believe though, that I could have been accidentally killed, or paralyzed, easily.I think it is by the grace of God/whatever, that neither of those things happened. When his rage was in charge, whether i fought him back, tried to run, or just let him do whatever he was going to do, there was no “right” response. And that last time he beat me up, or what I think was the last time punching, and/or kicking occurred, he left me alone for a bit, curled up on the floor, unable to move for the pain, crying, phone hidden from me so I couldn’t call for help, and after a bit, he came back to the room I was in, and punched me, and kicked me some more. …

Enough of that memory though… all I meant to say is, I am lucky, or whatever.

So now the tears of  yesterday are just that… None of this belongs in my today, or my tomorrow.

…Let me photograph you in this light
In case it is the last time
That we might be exactly like we were …


I don’t wish to write poetically of how much love there once was. I don’t wish to write poetically, or of love, at all. My singular wish is that I could give to you, that which I always sought to give. The ability to see yourself, through my eyes, as I once saw you, so that you would know how much more you are, than you allow yourself to be, should you ever choose that to be your reality. Unless I’m wrong, because certainly, I have been wrong, about a lot, in life. But just in case I’m not…

This is not about love, this is not about love, this is NOT ABOUT LOVE. This is about one soul to another saying; I believed in your ability to be everything you once said you wished to be. Your ability to overcome the past, handed down to you. There is no singularity to mates of souls, in my way of thinking, in my heart. Which is to say I have encountered more than one mate of my soul, to greater and lesser degrees in this life. But you will forever be, for me, the twin spirit I saw next to me, in utero, during a past life regression, in which you do not believe, who didn’t make it out that time, but then found it’s way back to me. (This IS NOT ABOUT LOVE) I hope that wasn’t, for you, in vain. If my voice is ever in any moments, still in your ear, it is my eternal hope that something of what you hear lifts you, strengthens you. For you. For her. For her daughters. Or for any “her” who might come after your current “her.” Mostly though, for you.

I don’t know if you’ll ever see this, but I leave it here, just in case. Because here it may help you, but here, you cannot harm me, even if harm “only” means to attempt to again use me as your ego’s masturbatory tool. This is NOT about LOVE. As in, not about “in love.”


For anyone who may have just read this, who may have been in, or who is currently in, a relationship with an addict and/or in which there is domestic violence, if what I’ve written above illustrates anything, it would have to be that I am fucking bonkers. Haha. Not really. Except sometimes a little. Occasionally a lot.

“For realsies” though, for me I needed to get on “paper” the extreme, and unexpected tears brought about by divorce papers being signed. I process by writing. I remember a few years ago, sitting in a counselor’s office. A lovely woman, who wanted me to cut straight to forgiveness. I kept telling her that I had to get into my anger first, sustain it Pavarotti belting a high-C, style, until I was out of breath. And then hold it a few more seconds. And then let go. She kept telling me I was wrong. So I told her to suck it, and peaced the fuck out. I then found my anger, held it until I didn’t need to, and a few months ago, stumbled my way to forgiveness. I’ve seen many women go immediately to forgiveness. I don’t know how that ultimately works out for them.If it’s really forgiveness, or if it is repressing what they really feel.  And I’ve seen many go to, and stay in, anger, indefinitely.For each of us, all we can do is find our own way, but I (still) don’t think anger, or remaining in it, is beneficial to anyone.

I’m 100% not going to be some preachy pretend guru, ’cause really, I have no idea at any given moment what the fuck is going on. Except for, I know for myself, I had to return to a place of kindness within myself around this whole thing if I was ever going to return to what passes for sanity in my world. And for as non-linear a person as I am, I had to take a pretty linear path this time, from anger, to really fucking enraged, to feeling the pain, to vocalizing the pain, to letting it all go…., and to now sending love (NOT IN LOVE) on a subconscious level, from a distance.


And now its Sunday. It’s been a busy, crazy, weird week, and each time I started writing here, I had to walk away. Sometimes because of me, and sometimes because of things outside of me. And I’m still just a girl in New Jersey, feeling her feelings, and trying to figure things out.  I really thought I wanted to finish this on the 1st day of spring, but, I guess I “needed” more than one day for it. By it I mean, the emotions, and blah blah.

So back to you, those for whom I have chosen to break my silence; you’re not crazy, even when you cry about signed divorce papers, when you no longer are in love with, no longer want to be married to, no longer miss, no longer think about, no longer have anger toward, your ex. You’re just someone who has been through at least a little bit of hell. You’re also not alone.

Listening to: Van Morrison ” Into The Mystic  “…I want to rock your gypsy soul
Just like way back in the days of old, Then magnificently we will float into the mystic…”

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Triggered and Release

Listening to: Ed Sheeran “Save Myself” “…I gave you all my energy and I took away your pain, Cause human beings are destined to radiate or drain…So before I save someone else, I’ve got to save myself But if I don’t then I’ll go back to where I’m rescuing a stranger
Just because they needed saving, just like that Oh I’m here again, between the devil and the danger But I guess it’s just my nature…

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trig·gered
ˈtriɡərd/
adjective
adjective: triggered
  1. (of a mechanism) activated by a trigger.
    “a triggered alarm”
    • (of a response) caused by particular action, process, or situation.
      “a triggered memory of his childhood”

A friend posted on Facebook a few days ago, an article originally from Time Magazine several years ago, which contained pictures of a woman being physically abused by her boyfriend. (I’ll link at the bottom of the blog) Not reenactments, but actual photos. The why is explained in the article, so I won’t go into it. I clicked the link posted by my friend, wondering what would be my reaction to seeing a woman abused, as not so long ago I had been. My only real reactions were to feel sad for the woman in the pictures, and of the abusive man to think “wow, I know him. That posture, and ‘poses’ are so familiar. What a fucking asshole he is!” Other than that, there was nothing. Which didn’t really surprise me because the physical hits were always easier for me to take than the mental/emotional hits, so it stands to reason now that I’m healing (was always so fucked up?) that seeing the images, didn’t trigger me.


What had happened was…. A few days ago something was said to me, that in the moment I had questions about, which I didn’t ask, and I have since then (unintentionally?) ruminated on what was said. Or on the story behind what was said. And I held my past against it, but not in the accidental good way that I discovered those words can mean, but rather in the “here is what my truth has been,” and I decided that a something that is happening now is a lot like something that had happened then, and I (subconsciously) started to hold my breath, and get scared, and decide what is going on, is what had gone on, and that everything beautiful is blurry. And maybe its not beautiful. And maybe this, and maybe that. And the bottom line is that I fucked up, because I didn’t ask the questions. And I’m not sure why I didn’t ask. Except the thing about questions asked is that they get answered.Sometimes answers are “nothing you wanna hear.” Also, I have (had) been conditioned to believe that it was not OK for me to ask questions. That I was a crazy bitch for thinking questions needed to be asked, or just trying to start fights, and rock boats for the sake of it.

So the triggering thing for me, (what has triggered me) is a scary closet monster, that also has an equally scary Siamese twin attached to it.  I’m triggered by a something, and I’ve also “reverted” to a response which is familiar, and painfully comfortable/uncomfortable, in it’s familiarity. And I’m really, really hard on myself, so, healing isn’t supposed to be in total a process, it’s supposed to be instantaneous, and I’ll never again feel anything like I’ve felt before, and I’ll never fuck up again. But I am, and I did, and here I am.

This is all written for me, and you…(the person who will one day, and unexpectedly, find themselves triggered as fuck)  because I fully plan to be one of the human beings who radiate, not drain! Its not the words that were said to me, or the story behind them, that matter, at all. It is my reaction to any, and all of it, that matters. Had I taken a beat, and in the moment, asked my questions, I wouldn’t have had the opportunity to get spun out. I also though, could have chosen to not get spun out. I could opt to be one of those brilliant, beautiful creatures who always remembers to breathe all Pranayama style, through everything, instead of being spun girl, even with unasked, and unanswered questions floating about in the ether.

Its been several days since I started this writing. I’ve revisited it several times, but couldn’t quite pick it back up. What I have done though, is step back from myself to remember that I spent a good 10 years having my head fucked with in really major ways. I do not play the victim card here, or ever. Because fuck that. But also a little bit, go easy on yourself girly, its not even been a year, and you weren’t that “normal” to begin with! Add to that the last week saw too much interaction with the ex, again for purposes of getting the divorce mutha-fuggin DONE, and having to deal with his – interesting version of everything -. Try as he might, he doesn’t hurt me anymore. He does exhaust me though, and I can’t wait to never have to deal with him again.

Something else has been hitting me the last week or so, in spite of being triggered, (read: a little bat shit crazy) and that’s how lucky/blessed or whatever it is, that I am. (I get very confused about the blessed thing, because that almost implies to me a deity on high, choosing like some omnipotent, omnipresent, Oprah, who gets good shit, and who doesn’t.) Anyway, long before I started talking about the domestic violence, I started joining groups for those who had experienced it, and while I don’t wish to minimize anything, I also have to say, all things being equal, my ass got lucky! Some of the women who share their stories, they are still running, and hiding, from these crazy fucks trying to kill them, AGAIN. They have children with their abusers, and they have to allow their children to spend time with these thugs. Or they were stay at home wives/mommys, who now have to figure out how to support themselves, and their kids, without their spouse. So I’m lucky I didn’t have the baby I wanted, with the ex, and that he never was the sole bread-winner in our marriage, and that even in his abuse he is apathetic, and won’t exert the effort it would take to do to physical harm to me, now that I’m far away.

Those are of course not the only reasons for which I consider myself lucky. Right now, as I type this, I am listening to the sound of a (beloved) beautiful voice singing brilliant songs, trying to figure out how I got so lucky/blessed, to be listening to them. Don’t get me wrong, low-self esteem girl has been kicked to the curb. I actually do know that I’m a pretty cool person, and that, just as I am lucky (that fuckin word!) to have the people in my life that I do have, they too are lucky to have me. But that being said, the confluence of stars, and planets, or spells cast, intentionally or otherwise, or whatever it is the magick that has made it possible for me to be hearing this music right now, is mind boggling to me.

So anyway, I’ll sort out the what triggered me, Don Miguel Ruiz, Fifth Agreement style – “Be skeptical, but listen,” and the conclusion of that situation doesn’t actually even matter. What matters is the awareness I have of everything in this moment, and the really real emotions which accompany the awareness. I’ll at least try to remember to go a little easy on myself, as I walk through this process, for whatever that means. If I start to spin again at some point, I’ll try to get myself to stop, the moment I become aware of it. And I’ll ask questions in the moment, instead of delaying! I really DON’T think there is anything to lose by being exactly who, and how I am, so I’m just going to keep putting my me out there, and trust that all is as it should be, whatever the fuck that means.

Last, because yesterday I found out a former co-worker, and long time friend, passed away, much too young, younger in fact than I, I wish to commit myself to remembering to tell people I love, that I do in fact love them, while I have the chance to. And to say kind things to people, even total strangers, just because. I WILL radiate, in every beautiful way possible. I will also keep releasing to the past, and to the winds, all that does not serve

It’s 4am, I’m sick again, and clearly in the throes of a great bout of insomnia, so I will NOT be proofing this before publishing, because I’m lazy and need sleep. Hopefully something of it makes sense. And to my friend Adam Andrews, I will dedicate this writing. You never did tell me what it was that I had done for you, so many years ago that touched you so deeply, but, whatever it was, I’m glad I did it. Rest in Peace friend, free from the pain you fought here. I’ll see you on the other side.

Portrait of Domestic Violence

“…I guess this is growing up…”

Listening to:  “Poems, Prayers, Promises” – John Denver “…And talk of poems and prayers and promises and things that we believe in. How sweet it is to love someone, how right it is to care. How long its been since yesterday, and what about tomorrow….”

…And now when I start to write I find myself wondering how to honor my desire to reach out to, and be a voice of encouragement for, those who are or have experienced domestic violence/abuse, who may read what I am writing, and may find something of it value in it.

It is 6 days to the date of the one year anniversary of when I moved to New Jersey, putting hundreds of miles between myself, and the life formerly known as mine. With the exception of the on-going legal stuff, nothing about that life seems real.  Or at least it for the most part doesn’t. I am very far removed from the feelings I had while living in that ridiculous hell, kind of being in labor with a child, or at least my experience of it. I have a distinct memory of how intense was the pain. I know it was painful, but I can’t FEEL that pain anymore, and that for me, is the key to moving forward.

For most of my life, I have been comfortable in my own skin, (well, except for body image issues which have always plagued me, and my loathing of my distinctly Roman nose) other than that, at some point in my life, I became pretty cool with me. Right up until, whenever it was, that I started to question everything about me, and how I am, how I treat people, what I look like, how I dress, speak, walk, think. And then decided I had nothing of value to offer the world, and that there was nothing beautiful left for me, to include nothing about me being beautiful. My own skin, then, became my prison, as did my life. And how  unfathomable to me now that I was broken down to that point. I’m obstinate as fuck, so I really don’t know how someone managed to get so far in my head… or why I’d stay in that ridiculous hell for so long. It took me a long time to realize how far-reaching were the effects of the ridiculous hell.

A little over a week ago, I celebrated my 50th birthday. It exists in the realm of possibility that had I not been through the ridiculous hell, and the subsequent transformation to a person who is happier than I’ve ever been, that I might have approached that date, and that number, with some trepidation. Maybe I’d feel OLD, and the desire to hide that number from the world. Instead of that, to me it is just a number that doesn’t signify much, except for 51 times around the sun, and 51 years of experience as this person known as Michelle. And MAYBE, because of the ridiculous hell, and current happiness, I feel the most remarkable sense of freedom to be just exactly who, and how, I am. Where in the past I might have felt the need to justify or explain who I am, while being who I am, now my attitude is much more fuck it, I dig me, and if you don’t, that’s cool. I’m, just…. me. I don’t want to waste any more time in this life fighting with others in the hope that they’ll become OK with me, being me.

As turning 50 relates to the life that was formerly known as mine, beside being back to cool with who I am, one of the most profound changes for me, about me, is my appearance. I place very little value on my appearance, with the exception of how I personally feel about the way I look. I was taught a very valuable lesson long ago, that my looks may open doors for me, which I did not ask to have opened, but once they were, the “wowing” with my intellect, with the deeper parts of me, would be what led me to where I really wanted to be. Maybe that’s why I didn’t notice the changes. I had no idea that while I was going through the ridiculous hell, I looked about 100 years older than I now do. My posture changed, along with the way I carry myself. My smile became rare, and reluctant. My weight too, changed, thanks to the back injury, the medication for it, the months of immobility, and the years of being unable to work out, and for a long time, to even stand or walk for long stretches. Mostly though, it was my eyes that changed. My eyes which are green, sometimes light, sometimes dark, and other times are grey, except for when they lean more toward blue. The best way I can put it is, they lost their “light” as in, illumination. Rarely did they become wide with excitement, and wonder. Or soft, gentle, with the comfort of giving love in moments brought on by being able to deeply trust in the knowledge that I was safe to do so.

More than any of that, though, what having been through the ridiculous hell, and “growing up” have given me, is finally understanding what self-care means. To those I love, I will give everything I have, even when it may not seem that I am doing so to anyone on the outside. While that’s cool and all, I did, in the life formerly known as mine, even as I was fighting in words for myself, often forget about ensuring my needs were met. This of course increased 10 fold, as I imagine it does for everyone, due to the nature of the marriage formerly known as mine. Although I’ve no doubt he would say this isn’t true, because it is impossible to fulfill ALL the needs (which are really wants) of someone capable of breaking another emotionally, and being physically abusive, I was constantly chasing my own tail, in an effort to please him, placate him, meet his expectations. I accepted life in an abusive, passionless marriage, in which none of my mental, spiritual, emotional, or physical desires were met, FOR YEARS, with the hope that somehow doing, or not doing, something, would fix everything. Or at least fix something. Instead I became empty, and exhausted, hopeless and bitchy. Not to mention lonely.

While I do forever aspire to be a person who gives to those she loves, and I DO derive the most pleasure in life from giving, whether it be actual gifts, or just doing thoughtful, caring things, I also now know, I have to give to myself as well. I currently find myself in uncharted territory, and it would be VERY easy to lean too far to the meeting the needs of others, over my own. BUT, it would be equally easy to think of only what I need, and be inconsiderate, and quite honestly selfish. Having seen both sides of that coin, and finding both to be lacking in anything shiny, or happy, my chosen balance point is now more a “non-zero sum game.” Where I once may have held an inflexible boundary, albeit for what was meant to be my own good, I now place as much value on perspective, as I do on values.

I could stray now into deep-thoughts on the potentiality for situational ethics to be that about which I’m speaking, (which I am not) or further elaborate on what I am trying to say, without actually saying it. Instead of any of that, I think it is sufficient to be said that what I have learned at such a deep level, is that I can be loving, and giving, and do my sincere best to do no harm to others,  and still take care of myself. I was never much for black, and white thinking, but am even less so now. What I have often been though, is one who spins herself out, over-thinking things. I want always to be thoughtful, but I also want to not spend so much time thinking about things, that I miss out on living my life! 

I absolutely adore the idea of having a man in my life upon whom I dote, to whom I give caring, and pampering, and whose wants, needs, desires, I meet, and whose dreams, I help to see to fruition. But while also doing those things for myself! And accepting getting those same things in return! All while dancing around, singing, sometimes leaving a trail of glitter, and hopefully always, leaving a smile on a (beloved) face. I want always to give to my kids, and my grandson, and future grandchildren, but not to the detriment of myself. Same holds true for anyone with whom I cross paths. I don’t wish to ever again find myself empty, because I gave so much. Especially I don’t wish to ever again be giving, and be abused in return.

So for anyone who may be reading these words, who may need to read them, and who may find value in what they say, because I write of my experiences with you in mind, if it has not done, know that the pain WILL recede. It will fade to a memory, and it won’t hurt at all anymore. And when you finally find the strength to start giving caring again, because I get how it feels to think you’ll never have the energy to give a fuck about anyone or thing again, make sure your priority, in the most unselfish way possible, is you. Also, 5o is the new 30 so, there’s plenty of time to re-write the script, and the plot twists of your future, can be pretty amazing.

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Maybe because tonight, which is now actually last night, is (was) the new moon, and rooms, and people, were smudged, hearts, minds, and souls were opened to ask for wisdom, overtone chanting was listened to, to raise the vibration, and intentions were written, and then burned, I am moved to (told to) include in this writing, some additional words.

To him, I offer my thanks for finally giving me the push to get, and stay away. To her, that is now with him, I thank her for her actions, which further aided me in staying away. I’d say I wish that I’d done sooner, but, I wouldn’t be here now, and here is where I want to be so, I guess it’s all perfect. To him I also say, I forgive you. I have released all anger I had toward you, and her. Go with God, or whatever/whomever you want.

To anyone I may have hurt in the past, I sincerely ask your forgiveness. To anyone I may unintentionally hurt in the future, for your forgiveness I also ask. And to you, I also send love, and wishes for everything beautiful.

To the most amazing extra-terrestrial unicorn, with whom I have traveled the ages, (or with whom I am currently sharing life, in times which parallel the one we know currently as our reality), I give endless thanks for space-holding, given, and accepted, for always, always seeing me, hearing me, encouraging me, trusting me, and for the brilliant words, wisdom, laughter, tears, and moments of magick of all sorts, shared. You are remarkable. And I send love enough to span oceans, and time.

And to my daughters, the most beautiful, amazing creatures, for your forgiveness I also ask, for anything I have done, or not done, which may have hurt you, in any way. You are that of which I will always be the most proud. I am every single day amazed by your strength, your resilience, your intelligence, your humor, your kindness, your beauty in every sense of the word. It is my profound pleasure to watch you both, in your own ways, find your wings, and fly. I love you beyond measure. Never forget, you can do, and be, anything you wish!!!

 

Listening to: The sound of silence. Not Simon and Garfunkel. The literal sound, of silence.

 

 

 

 

 

 

“…the hardest part of ending, is starting again…” (except not really)

Listening to: Emmylou Harris covering The Beatles “For No One” “…she wakes up, she makes up, she takes her time, and doesn’t feel she has to hurry, she no longer needs you…”

It’s weird to have “light at the end of the tunnel” thoughts, about the (much belated) end of a thing, which when it meant something, meant, everything. But tunnels there are, and light too. Light toward which I am running. Also, there are tears, that aren’t of sadness for endings… which I am trying to understand.  I’m sure it makes absolute sense that there are tears.

Is it possible to mourn the final death of something you don’t wish to have? Not even mourning memories of what had been hoped for, or the ideas of what had once been thought to be… (I’ve read that a hundred times and still don’t know if it makes sense). I see too clearly now just how much what I had for the majority of my marriage was nothing like what I ever wanted, to remember what it felt like when I thought it was something good.  Maybe the tears are for the (nearly) 12 years which I won’t call wasted, but I will call, not the best spent. But even that I say with hesitation… the smallest change to them would have meant I wouldn’t be here, and here is exactly where I want to be…

~ Traversing dark shadows in mental hallways of memories, in search of the moment(s) in time during which I was told stories comprised of lies, and deceit, written by the shaky hand of someone who made and re-made the choice to stay locked in their own unhappiness. Lies which I then chose to make my absolute truth. ~ (unfinished?)

100% stealing words right now, “…10 years ago. I knew so much more back then…”  Not supposing to know what the words meant to the person from whom they’ve been stolen, I know exactly what they mean to me. Because I was so certain then, about so much, 10 years ago.  There is no nostalgia here, there is only (morbid?) curiosity… Who was that girl, who thought she knew so much, but, as it turns out, had a lot wrong? That girl who then (let herself get) got beaten, so far down.

There is a reason that we (those who have experienced domestic violence/abuse) are told that no contact with our abuser is a must. Because I had purposeful contact, initiated by me, with mine, last week. Contact which, in spite of it’s purpose, speeding the fuck up the process of divorce,  and it’s hopefully favorable result, sucked. The me of a few months ago would have crumbled during, and after, such a call. I mean, I would have told him to fuck off, but it would have been while crying, and hurting, and afterward I’d retreat into solitude and depression.

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He said…

“You’re just doing this to harass me. You’re just a woman scorned, trying to get revenge. That’s the only reason you want any alimony.”

“You can’t PROVE that the injury to your back is from anything I did to you.”

“You’re psycho.” “You’re a nut job.” “You’re so dramatic.” “Shut the fuck up and let me talk.”

“I have a lot of stuff I’m sure you don’t want made public. I can show emails and texts (from your deepest, most dark, terrifying time, when you felt utter despair, and hopelessness) to the judge that will show that you’re unstable. It will speak to your character. The Judge will never award you anything if they find out about any of what you said.”

“What would your daughters, and your mom think, if they saw your emails, and texts, (from your deepest, most dark, terrifying time, when you felt utter despair, and hopelessness)? I should send everything to them, too.”

It was only after much thought that I made that phone call. The last time I spoke with him, a couple of months ago, which was purely accidental as he called with blocked number, the tone of the call, while still decidedly manipulative, was very different. Likely the billion ignored calls since that one, telling him he no longer has any control/affect, pissed him off, so there was no (feigned?) kindness. If I’d believed for a minute that speaking to him, irrespective of which him showed up, could in any way hurt me, I wouldn’t have done. I also spoke to my attorney before making the call.

There’s a lot of  grey area in my life now, and I think it’s better that way, than when I was so certain of so much, about which I was so wrong.

Things I know for sure are that in 9 days, I’ll be 50 years old, and am a little mind blown by that. I’m not freaked out by it. It just used to seem like 50 was olllldddd. But it is so, not! My littlest angel will be 28 on that same day. I remember my 28th birthday, down to the outfit I wore going out that night. And now I hear in my beloved Nonna’s voice, “Quando ci passa tempo.” which conversationally translated means, “how quickly time passes.”

Also I know that at the very latest, the divorce will be final April 7th. Much longer than I wish to wait, but, at least there is a definitive time frame.

In May I’ll be moving, somewhere. Maybe locally for a while longer. Maybe Arizona. As much as I’d love for it to be London, that’s too short a time frame to make an international move. My littlest angel, Ari, will be moving to Los Angeles, my heart aches at the thought of not living near her, but  it has long been her dream. If there is only one gift I can give to my girls, I wish it to be wings, and the courage to use them to not just fly, but to soar to their chosen highest heights. If I move away (or rather when, as it is inevitable) I’ll be far from my biggest angel, Lauren, and angel baby grandson, Gabriel, also heart wrenching. But if I don’t choose to fly, then soar, to my highest heights, for whatever that means, how can I hope that they will? And here was only every a stop over, on the way to, wherever.

Why am I even writing all of this? This isn’t writing about poor me, or anything like that. This is a written deep think, which I’ve been working on for days… I’m dancing around words… over-using ellipses as part of incomplete thoughts, or just holding back, something. And this has a purpose, this writing, so I can’t do that for me, for anyone who might be reading this, who might need the words, or find value in them. This which has now taken so many days, and should be as brilliant, and long, as War and Peace, and is neither!

What is it that’s trying to work itself out, which also feels it needs to be non-journal writing? Is it to type out those cruel words as some form of catharsis for myself, and to say “if your husband is saying anything like this to you, you are being emotionally abused, get the fuck out! Or to say, don’t take, or make, phone calls, until you KNOW you are strong enough? And only if you have to. And if your attorney says its OK. Also, don’t forget to use your wings, (which you do have) to not just fly, but soar…

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A thank you,  for threatening to use my lowest point in life, against me. A point to which I’d sank, because of the mental fucking so frequently given me, to the degree I didn’t know which way was up. With each threat, with each attempt at manipulation, and intimidation, with each name you call me, you remind me of who I have become, which is who I always was, and I RISE. I grow stronger. I become someone whose light shines so brightly, you can’t bear to look directly at me, because you’re too content your self-imposed darkness.

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Listening to: “We’re Still Fighting It”

“…you’ll try, and try, and one day you’ll fly away from me…”

“…and you’re, so much, like me, I’m sorry…”

 

 

“…you can dance, you can jive, having the time of your life…”

Listening to: A Star Is Born soundtrack – Specifically Kris Kristofferson & Barbra Striesand “Lost Inside of You” – “….lost in the music, and lost in your eyes…”

So, day 4 of being sick, and day 2 of being on and off hyper emotional, along with – I can literally feel my fever breaking as I’m typing this, so, crap shoot as to whether anything is going to make sense, or accurately reflect my thoughts…

One of the biggest parts of me writing in a public format is, just in case what I have to say gets read by someone who might need to hear it. Because along my path, I really could have used a no-bullshit accounting of someone’s experiences, to which I could relate. I read a lot of stuff, including very personal accounts of what women had gone through, but none of them that I saw, were my vibe. There wasn’t anything wrong with what I read, because a persons account of their own experiences can never be wrong, but for me, anything that is too dogmatically religious, or too fluffy spiritual, or too “all men suck” angry, or too victimy (not a word),  causes me to peace out a few paragraphs in. This is probably much more a reflection of me than anything else, but, its my truth. I figure that I’m probably not the only girl on the planet who is convinced that she has a disco ball in her pretty little head,  so everything is spinny, flashy, and just a little bit strange, in a cool way. This isn’t about intelligence though, this is about tone, and tempo, and quite possibly the use of expletives.

Today one of my most long time friends commented on my Facebook post about my blog, that what I’d written really resonated for her. She’s just recently seen the unexpected end of a long-term relationship, and now that she’s kind of coming up for air, is realizing (or maybe for the first time, vocalizing) that it was emotionally abusive. Reading what my darling friend wrote was a FUCK YEAH moment for me. I mean, not because of her pain, and shitty situation. That part of things was more like, awww, fuuuuuccccck. The fuck yeah was that in maybe even the most minute way, putting the life that used to be mine, and my mind, and my heart, and my soul, out in the world for people to see, and feel, made a difference for her. That is what makes being so raw, and vulnerable in a such a public way, absolutely worth it.

I feel that it’s important for me to go a bit deeper about this particular friend, even though I don’t know exactly what were her experiences with the twunt who abused her. It is enough that she has said he was abusive. In one of the very first things I wrote about being abused, I wrote something to the effect of “if you want to know what an abused woman looks like, she looks like me” because I KNOW that I am not, to those who know me, the person anyone thinks would remain in an abusive situation. If I’m not that chick, my girl is even less that chick, times a thousand.

When I met her, she was an on-air personality (read: DJ, when there was really such a thing) at a rock station in Arizona. She also happened to be a champion for local bands, which in part took shape as having a weekly show featuring local music. I was at the time, in addition to whatever my day gig was, working as the Local Marketing Rep for a record label group/music distribution company, and working as a Booking Agent for a Music Management company, and also managing some of my own bands.

Our literal first meeting was when she was doing a live-remote at a local record store, and I was working some new releases for the label, into said record store. Enterprising chick that I am, I introduced myself to her, gave her the CD of one of the local bands with whom I was working, and we swapped business cards, each of us happy to meet another woman working in music. The rest as they say, is history. Crazy, messy, blurry, amazing, silly, dirty, secrets-to-the-grave, trading men like PokeMon while playing strip(ish) poker, middle of the night after a concert and against the rules wearing only our knickers swimming in a glass sided pool at a super swank resort, knock-down, drag-out, Jager Meister infused, shroomy at a Tool concert,  singing ABBA songs into hairbrushes, yelling at mean boys who broke or bruised the other’s heart, history.

About her though, let me tell you. This woman, when I met her, in addition to being a DJ, was a single mommy to a baby boy. And a full-time college student working on her Bachelors Degree, and then went on to obtain her Master’s Degree. I remember sitting in the station with her during her air shifts, and she’d have her books spread out all over the board, studying while songs were playing, while taking calls, while yapping to me, while applying makeup so we could go out after her shift was over. She, in a male-dominated industry, was hugely respected, and in addition to her on air success, ultimately became Assistant Program Director/Music Director. Even though Phoenix is a B market in radio land, or was then, our scene was HUGE at the time. All the Tempe jangle pop breaking out across America.  Which also mean, all the BIG national acts rolling through, and they wanted to know her, ’cause she literally played a huge part in their future success in that market.

She’s a Black Diamond snow bunny skier too. Which means a lot if you’re me, and went skiing with her, and spent most of your time rolling down mountains, and knocking 6’4″ men off their skis by skiing into them. Even though it was my first time skiing, and,  I looked cute doing it, I’m not all shoosh/shoosh graceful, badass, jumping moguls and shit, her!

This is also the chick who interviewed Stephen Tyler, while sitting on Stephen Tyler’s lap, because Stephen Tyler ASKED her to sit on his lap. The interview was, at least on her side, and as always, intelligent, insightful, and professional. Because she is that crazy amazingly cool. Well, except for that one time when we were at soundcheck/pre-show BBQ with Queensryche, neither of us having met them before, and she, as we’re introduced to Geoff Tate, fan girls the fuck out and says “We Love You! Teeheeheehee” all 12 year old at a Bieber concert! And kinda won’t give him his hand back after shaking it. And even though that is a true story, in all honesty, the fact that she fan girled SO hard makes her that much more cool, to me.

Have I mentioned that she’s also in the Naval Reserve? Because she is. Her baby boy is now a college student. And although she’s put radio behind her, she has been super successful in her other career pursuits.  But somehow, this woman, who had done so much that so many would give their left, whatever, to do, who is SO intelligent, and driven, and strong, was in an abusive relationship. And she stayed, as I did, much too long at the dance. Because that’s what we sometimes do, us strong women, who are intelligent, and have a lot going for us. And now she, my dear friend,  says she had been walking in an emotional black hole, but is now on a brighter path to healing. FUCK YEAH!

So for anyone who reads this, who might need it, please know that no matter if you’re being emotionally abused, or physically abused, it doesn’t mean you’re not strong. It doesn’t mean you’re not brilliant, and beautiful. Don’t get down on yourself if you, by all outward appearances, aren’t the “type” that this happens to, because we are all potentially the type that it happens to. And you’re not alone.

Listening to Queensryche – “Someone Else”  – “….All my life they said I was going down, but I’m still standing, stronger proud. And today I know there’s so much more I can be…”

 

Getting naked, and losing myself

When I used to blog on Myspace, I liked the feature that allowed one to share to what they were listening while writing. So, as I start this writing I am listening to…

“…Let’s inspire, let’s inflame, create awe from our pain
Find a love that’s as deep as it’s holy
Let’s inspire, let’s inflame, create gods from our pain
Find a love that’s as sweet as it’s holy
Let’s inspire, let’s inflame, create dreams from our pain
Find a love that’s as plain as it’s holy
Let’s inspire, let’s inflame, create songs from our shame
Find a love that won’t fade, love is holy…”

Lyric excerpt from James – from song “Walk Like You” on  La Petite Mort album

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In a week of tears of unknown origin, extra-terrestrial caring sent, the “downloading” of book stuff, SYNCHRONICITY like woah!, Sinbad, Mandela, McKenna, and Moore blowing my mind, mental messages being sent, and responded to, and, as Lauren put it, me being a creep, and literally KNOWING a call was coming, the day before it came, how could my thoughts not go to even deeper depths.

From the first moment I truly understood that I was in an abusive marriage, which did NOT occur the first, nor second, nor even third time he hit me, I knew that when one day that would no longer be a part of my reality, the path on which I would then be walking, would be one that I had to create for myself, and on which I would travel, alone. With the awareness that support would be paramount for me to ever heal, get whole, I still knew that some journeys are meant to be solo. And that no friend, family member, expert, professional, lover or beloved, could prescribe for me, even in the least, the precise cure for my dis-ease.

In the past several years I’ve read more books than I can remember on various “self-help” topics. Books about recovery, overcoming betrayal and trauma, and about saving one’s marriage, one’s self. About discovering yourself by going inward, by going outward, and sideways. (I might have made up that last one) I’ve read a lot of fucking books, looking for answers. Or to figure out what my questions were. I went to counseling for myself, and couples counseling, with counselors who used modalities of Cognitive Behavioral Therapy, Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing, hypnotherapy, psychoanalysis, and others I’m sure I’m forgetting.

I can honestly say that the DV was my most deeply held secret. I will readily discuss having been molested by my stepfather, and have done for years. My brief stint as a coke addict, yep, I’ll talk about that too. But the DV, nope, nope, and nope some more. Maybe it was the response I got from the first counselor to whom I made a quick reference about the DV, “aren’t you ready to be done with him?” so matter of fact, so easy, for her, like, duh Michelle, what the fuck is wrong with you?, that pushed the secret further down. Or the second one, in a couple’s session, upon hearing he’d “hit” me, who said, “well, that’s got to stop” and then bounced the fuck on. Perhaps it was having discussed it with his mom, who pretended to care so much, and be so concerned for me, who then turned on me.

I remember having moments where I ached to talk to someone, to tell a friend, the real, and whole truth. To tell the co-worker who asked me about the cuts, scabs, and bruises that I couldn’t quite hide, when he asked me if (he) had done something to me. Or to tell my one friend, the day I asked him to get coffee, and shop for books, and pray/meditate with me, because I thought I could possibly, maybe, tell him, but then I didn’t. Every single doctor, and chiropractor, physical therapist, massage therapist, and body work healer, who treated me for my back injuries. Oh how I wanted to tell them, so they didn’t look at me like some medical mystery. Every single person who took care of me while I was in too much pain, and on too many pain killers, to take care of myself. I wanted to tell them all.

Since even before coming forward about my situation, I started to follow on social media, various groups, and individuals, with expertise or experience in DV. Soooo much of what I see reinforce a few things I just don’t vibe with, for better or worse. Much of the dialogue, to me, reinforces in some ways a victim mentality, or a survivor mentality (surviving vs LIVING, in my eyes). There is also a lot of ANGER, and negativity. A lot of living in one’s story, for what is years after it is ended. I dig that this sounds very judgey, and I don’t mean it in that way. It is simply that I am aiming for a higher place than angry, negative, victim/survivor. I’m not certain that the anger/negative thing is helpful for anyone, in the long run…

I will preface what I am going to say next with I DON’T HAVE YOUR ANSWERS. I DO NOT HAVE YOUR ANSWERS!! But I will say, here is what I believe was the start of me finding MY answers.

First, and most obviously, I had to put physical distance between he and I. I don’t know that I would have survived, literally/figuratively, had I not done. The physical distance started as a few blocks, then a few miles, and then a few hundred. Steps taken over years. Some moments I regret having taken so many years, but then I think about how happy I am with many aspects of my life as it is now, and if I learned anything from The Butterfly Effect, it’s that the slightest change in what was (or is currently, in another reality…) can have a dire effect on what is to come.

During the course of the physical distancing, and equally slowly, I had to CHOOSE, to get naked, in front of myself. To take off every shred, of everything, that obscured from my own view, the truth of just how frighteningly not OK, I was. I had to hold a mirror to myself, and look at myself from every single angle, and not break my gaze, no matter how ugly I found that at which I was looking. I had to become intimately acquainted with the woman I’d become after all that had gone on, and decide if she was with whom I wanted to spend the rest of my life.

Was she the person I wanted my daughters to possibly model themselves after, in any way? What parts of that me were the true me? What parts were the me I became as a result of what had gone on? Could I still see glimpses of the chick who used to wear the “I Love Me” shirt, and meant it? Was she the person who someday in the future, I would want to stand naked in front of another, as? Would the he, in front of whom I would someday wish to be naked, be the kind of man I REALLY want to stand naked in front of, as the me I was seeing? The answer to all of the questions was, absofuckinglutely, NOT.

So, after the naked thing… which is actually still a work in progress in some ways, came the “what path to healed and whole is MY path?” The first part of my path was to break my silence, in whatever way I needed to, in any given moment. At first it was with tears, and anger, and the desire to shout it from the rooftop, because I’d held the secrets for so long, it was like an eruption of emotion. Having lived in, and surrounded by, such negative emotions for so many years, I worked to shift out of that place as quickly as possible. Angry/depressed chick isn’t the naked chick I want to be.- (It goes without saying, except I’m saying it anyway, that I DO NOT advocate breaking silence, if to do so puts you in danger!!! Safety first!!!)

So then, and still now, the next step has been, what people, places, things, do I vibe with, that will help me to facilitate my healing? Not “who has my answers/cure” but, looking inside me now, for what I do know I think/feel/believe, who I am/want to be, what energy do I invite into my space? To figure this out, I had to get lost… in myself. I’m still in this phase, truth be told. Doing some soul mining, to again borrow words that fit. A friend recently said to me, “maybe you’re supposed to be becoming an even more awesome version of yourself” and, like everything else this friend says, I let those words wash over me, wrap around me, get deep inside of me, and realized they are definitely truth for me. It stands to reason then, that only that which support, and those who support, the impending even more awesome, thing, are allowed in my bubble.

What is most important to me to say about this is, whatever works for YOU, is what YOU should seek. Church and religion? Vaya con Dios. Spirituality, and yoga? Namaste! Rituals and magick? Blessed be. Blasting music and singing at the top of your lungs? Rock the fuck on! Counseling and 12 steps? I have nothing clever for this one. Make crosses from your lovers, throw roses in the rain? (Lyrics. Sorry. That’s just what happens in Michelle world. Lyrics/music, and glitter are a relative constant.)  A combination of a bunch of stuff that aids you in sincerely working through all of the yuck? Sure! This is YOUR story, so you get to choose. Take some time to get lost in yourself, to figure it out.

I will not pretend that any of what I’ve written above is easy, when one is in the throes of things. My God I KNOW its not easy. Now I’m crying tears of known origin, thinking how lucky I am that I have always been, for the most part, self-supporting, and that I didn’t have small children to worry about, and that I am not one of those whose abusers physically stalked them upon leaving. All I can keep saying is, HOLD ON, because there will be a day when the weight is lifted, if you can just love yourself the tiniest bit for a moment in time long enough, to take a first step, or hell, crawl in a generally forward motion, toward your healing path.

And this blog, this one I DO hope gets read, by those who might need it. Because maybe it will be easier to reach out to a stranger who has been there, than a friend, or a counselor? Maybe its more safe to have an anonymous third party, blog writing chick, to contact, in case he’s standing too close? If nothing else, I am REALLY good at doing research, and finding resources. I remember too, how Sisyphean a task it felt, to try and find resources for help, at times I’d thought to find them. So I’m here for that. No matter where you may live, I’ll help you find what you need. I’ll listen if you need someone to talk to. I’ll do anything in my power to help you. I’ll even do stuff that isn’t within my power, if I can figure out how.  I get it. You aren’t alone. You are loved. And you are worthy of being loved.

Message me here, or on Instagram RandomMuse14.

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And as I finish writing this I am listening to…

“…This bed is on fire, with passionate love, the neighbors complain about the noise from above….”

Lyric excerpt from James – from the song “Laid”

It Wasn’t Just Cheating

Monday morning I got a text from my mom saying that C (my husband) had contacted her asking for my address, so he can serve me with divorce papers. He sent the same text to my daughters. Last Wednesday he asked me for my address, and I told him that I won’t give it to him until I speak to my attorney. Thursday he told me never mind, he doesn’t need it. But Monday he felt it acceptable to send to my mom and children what was very likely the only text he has sent to them in years, that wasn’t initiated by some sort of event, or encouraged by me because of said event. He declined coming to New Jersey with me to visit my daughters in the past, and was reluctant to see them when they came to Michigan, because of how guilty he felt for all that he’d done (that they knew about.) He was regularly invited to get togethers with my family, but always declined, for the same reason. There were times after he did see the girls that he’d comment on, or like their Facebook posts, and a couple of years ago he actually made pics of us and him, his FB profile pic, but other than that, nothing. But when he needed something from them, texting suddenly wasn’t a problem.

I guess it is important to interject that my daughters really love(d) him. When he was good to us, he was really good to us. He was there for my oldest daughter at a particularly difficult time in her life, and she in fact lived with us for  some time. And he flew my youngest daughter to AZ to visit us, as a surprise for our birthday, because she and I share the same birthday. Their father having had his own addiction issues, for my girls to now have a father figure who was loving, and caring, and for us to have our family, was really a big deal. They were all “stepbuddies.” It KILLS me to write about these happy times, and the good things, because it was those things that kept me holding on for so long. There was a point in time, after his first affair came out, that they were both very angry at him, but since I kept forgiving him, and encouraged the relationship between them,  they forgave him too.

But back to Monday, I called him and reiterated that I’d give him my address after speaking to the attorney. I also told him what a dick move it was to text my family when he needed something, after not having bothered to be in contact with them in the past, and when they know he’s a cheating douche again. (Which is really more of a still than an again.) He said he’s willing to hear anything they have to say to him, as long as he got my address, and that he loves my girls, the end. I told him that I had to, for my own well being, tell my full-truth about what had happened, especially to my girls, and he had his network of enablers, band, groupie bimbo, and that he, in refusing to get well, chose addiction, rage, and bullshit over my girls and I, again, and that he might love them, but, he sure as fuck didn’t make sure to keep in touch with them in any real way most of the time, so doing it now was bullshit.

In the interim, one of the girls sent him a text saying she didn’t want to be in the middle, and offering kind words to him. And then he sent me a text telling me that his stepbuddies love him, no matter what happens, and they know that he loves them. And I lost it. After making his friends and family hate me with his lies, after me covering for him to my girls and most of the rest of the world because I wanted to believe that he’d get his shit together and we’d be the family I always wanted and for a while thought we were, he used the kindness from one of my kids as a taunt to hurt me. Because that’s what a sick, manipulative fuck he is.

It didn’t happen anywhere near the way I planned for it to happen, nor was I quite ready for it to come out, but come out it did. For the first time I spoke to people who know me about having been physically abused by my husband. I spoke to the only 2 people whose opinion of me really matters to me. The details of all of it aren’t important for the purposes of what I’m writing here, but for my own healing, the words have finally been said.

He knows they know, so I thought he’d have some shame and actually fuck the fuck off where they are concerned. But today, in true narcissist/sociopath/don’t know what he is but definitely fucked up, form, he “loved” the pictures of my grandson, posted by my oldest daughter of his 6 month photo shoot. The man who was too busy recording with his band and playing shows, and then fucking his groupie, to come meet baby boy, in spite of having said he’d be coming here to see us, a lot, 2 days after my kids found out he beat me up, thought the appropriate thing to do was “love” those pictures. “I can’t even…”

There is the tiniest sense of relief in having done this, but unfortunately it didn’t make me feel dead inside where he is concerned. It didn’t make me stop missing the memory of what we had for a while, and it didn’t stop me mourning what I’d so long held out hope for. But the words had to come out. I have to not let him keep hurting me, and absolutely fuck him for trying to use my kids against me.


This is all so black and white and clinical and un-poetic, and uninspired, and I hate how it reads, but maybe its the topic, or the utter exhaustion I’m feeling.


My ultimate intention for this blog is to be a place of healing for me, and encouragement for others, as well as to shed light on the reality of sex addiction, and domestic violence. I fully recognize and acknowledge that in order to be those things, at some point my posts can no longer be about him, what he did or is doing, or anything but me. But I’m still bleeding, and kind of profusely. Hopefully this mess scabs over soon, and healing can begin.

 

 

 

 

 

Day 1 – The Day Hope Had To End

Don’t marry a porn/sex addict who has emotional enmeshment issues with his mother. If you do, and are as stupid as me, you may find yourself 11 years later, crying, for the 11 millionth time. And restarting your blog for the 100th time. And being sick of your own story.

He has a girlfriend. Again. I shouldn’t be crying. But I am. A month ago he was all “I love you, will you move back here” and today he’s got a girlfriend.And he’s desperate for the divorce because he’s not procrastinating anymore. I imagine that has more to do with her telling him to get off his ass if he really is over me.

I shouldn’t have stayed married for so long. But I did. And I let him hurt me over and over and over. But I always held out hope that he’d give us the chance to have a relationship that wasn’t ruled by an addiction. Because I really fucking loved the good things about him. I actually thought 100% that when I moved to New Jersey that he’d get that I wasn’t joking about him needing to get back to counseling and earn my trust, and he’d wake up so he didn’t lose me. It wasn’t a game. I couldn’t stay in Michigan anymore. I never wanted to go back there.

He says he’s not an addict anymore. Like, poof, it’s gone. The excitement of the new chick has him feeling like he did when I was the new chick, I’m sure. But instead of seeing it as that, he’s saying he only did the things he did, because of me. Because he was married to me. And I KNOW it’s not true. And I know I can’t stop crying anyway.

Fuck broken heart bullshit. I don’t want to mourn this anymore! You’d think finding out about women number who knows how many I’d not have tears left. Dammit. I do though.

Its a real mind-fuck, being married to a sex addict. Or an addict in general I imagine. You never know what’s true or real. You can lose yourself. I lost myself. He said it’s me, I’m the reason he screwed so many other women. And the reason he did so many other things I can’t even talk about yet. Because I’m older than him and he felt embarrassed for marrying someone older than him. That story came out last week. The iteration of it changed today. Nothing like being told you’re the reason you got cheated on though.

 

I feel pathetic and small today. And stupid. Maybe day 2 will be better.