Song Challenge Day 2: A Song With a Number in the Title

Time for Day 2: "A song you like with a number in the title."

Easy pick, this one was:

I first heard this song in the movie Fly Away Home, of all places. I loved that movie- I watched it every time it was on TV. I even bought a copy of it when I was in college, although somewhere along the way it got lost.

A year after the movie came out (so in 1997), my grandmother passed away from lung cancer. It wasn't a long, drawn-out battle, either- she was diagnosed in October and passed a few days after my birthday in March. (Happy birthday to me, right? Some sort of fucked up cosmic joke, and to this day, it's a reason I'm often reluctant to give a shit about making it another year.) It was sudden, nigh traumatic- in the blink of an eye, she went from teaching me about the pork and beans plant to herself being a vegetable, and then...

Losing her was the beginning of the lifetime of hardship I've endured. While I've had some brief moments of respite, it continues to be difficult, and beyond your everyday annoyances- deaths, suicides, abuse, couch surfing, health scares of my own (most of it I haven't even bothered to bring up here)- yadda, yadda, yadda. There is a reason I call this blog American Dramady, after all. In my lowest moments, I lament how life won't give me a fucking break. I try to come out swinging, and do my best to laugh, but it can be difficult. So sometimes I find irrational things from which to draw strength when I can.

The singer is saying goodbye to someone they love dearly. But saying they won't be gone forever. Maybe it's entirely psychosomatic, but I think I created this unspoken promise from her- the promise that she'd still be there, here, present. So I almost immediately related this song to my grandma once she was gone. And to this day, whenever I play it, I can feel her fingers scratching my scalp to comfort me (it was literally the only thing that could calm me down when I was little). I can smell her perfume. I can hear her laugh. I can hear her do that thing where she starts saying one of my siblings' names and switches to mine halfway through, something that never ceased to make me giggle. I see her working in the garden, the flowers we planted together, the butterfly she once got to land on her finger. I can smell her cooking, and I think of corned beef hash and scrambled eggs, of vanilla ice cream topped with canned peaches (I can't eat those combinations, to this day).

And I know she's there. And somehow, it's not that cheesy, "You'll be in my heart, always," kind of way. It feels tangible, again, however irrational it may be. And even though I often start sobbing (like I am now, 'natch!), it's cleansing. Grandma never told me not to cry- she didn't like seeing me sad or in pain, but she never told me to "stop crying." She knew me enough to know that if I was crying, it was because I needed it. I'd do that thing little kids do where their breath starts to heave as they're blubbering, and she'd curl me up in her arms and say it's ok, let it out, as she stroked my head, and I knew I was safe. And I'd feel better a lot faster when she did that. The release when I play "10000 Miles" is the same.

The soothing mood of the song is a lot like her presence. I think that had a lot to do with why I assigned this song to her memory. I only ever saw her angry once, and it had nothing to do with me- other than that, she was just this calm, steady, constant presence.

Until she wasn't.

And the hint of sadness weaved throughout this song echoes the pain I still feel at her loss. Twenty-three years later, and it still feels fresh. Her death cut too deep for any song I equate with her to be cheerful- I can't force myself to laugh over losing her. I can laugh when recalling specific moments, but that's not the same thing.

I know I'm high-strung/emotional/whatever. And yeah, I'm sentimental a-eff. There are much less healthy coping mechanisms, though, right? 

So even though it may appear this song makes me sad, it actually gives me comfort and strength. And even as I wipe away tears, I feel better. I don't listen to it often, deliberately- it's kind of like a trump card for me, along with watching The Last Unicorn, something I save for when things are really hard so as not to dilute its effectiveness. And I think it's no coincidence that the same grandma that is the basis for The Last Unicorn being a source of comfort is the one I'm talking about here, as well.

It's hard for me to find sanctuary. In this song, I do. 

I promise, tomorrow's won't be as sad. ;p

Spooning and "Just"ing

I've been sort of on a mental health kick lately here, but I've got another topic I want to talk about; it's been in the back of my mind for a while, and a conversation with someone I love the other day made me decide to just get it out of my system.

Let's start with that lovely Spoon Theory, started by Christine Merisandino. While she came up with it on the fly to describe what it's like living with lupus to a friend, the idea has been carried over into other areas of disability and (in)capacity to "even," as it were. So although depression and anxiety are, at least in theory, mental/emotional disorders (because keep in mind, mental and emotional exhaustion pretty much always ends up leading to physical exhaustion after a point), the metaphysical "spoons" needed to carry out one's day whilst living with conditions like these translate similarly to those of a physical condition, like Merisandino's lupus. But essentially, the idea is, you have a finite amount of resources (the "spoons") to use throughout the day in order to do... everything. Everything from getting up in the morning, to showering, to getting dressed, going to work/school, eating, errands... Everything. And if you run out, you're basically fucked. So you have to kind of prioritize and decide what you absolutely must do sometimes, what you can put off until tomorrow, etc., if you have enough spoons to see a friend, treat yourself to a dinner out, etc. She also points out how sure, you can essentially take out an "advance" on your spoons and pull from the next day's supply, but you also can't be sure something won't crop up that will make that day all the harder.

While no analogy is perfect ("Why a spoon?" "What if you had a few huge spoons?" etc., for example), especially when acted out physically, as she did with her friend, it actually really can drive the point home. A few years ago, I simulated it with a colleague that genuinely wanted to understand my depression and anxiety (we used hangars 😂), and her reaction was pretty similar to Merisandino's friend.

So what?

Well, I've talked before about how best to comfort someone going through a hard time. I still use the bad behaviors I talk about there as an indication as to whether or not I should confide in someone. But another thing I use is what I (and the friend I talked to) call the "Why don't you just __?" Litmus Test.

And the reason this is related to the spoons is that if I'm out of spoons, no, I can't  "just" do anything. I'm out. My supply is empty.

And, if I'm out of spoons, I can't even begin to think about the "just" or coming up with a plan to "just" in the first place. It takes spoons to even start contemplating how to use spoons, let alone actually using one.

Sometimes, I just need the chance to wash and recuperate my spoons before I can think of what comes next. We all do. So even though it would be great if you "just could" whatever, even though a part of you knows there's something you "could" be doing, the idea of even thinking of it is just so not happening, because the prospect of the spoon cost in even that endeavor is just overwhelming.

And this. This is something that doesn't really get brought up enough, not in this capacity, anyway. Because there's a difference between not being ready to do something, and not being ready to think about doing something. And while I see discussions of the former, I don't see many, if any that I can recall, of the latter. How it takes spoons to think about how to use more spoons.

In other words, spooning is hard.

And I think this is especially important to consider vis a vis Millenial Burnout. We're so busy spinning our wheels and working our asses off (whether it be juggling multiple jobs to make ends meet, or the constant connectivity to our workplaces, generated by social media, email, and smartphones, that translates to never really, truly being off the clock), that we feel like "simple, mundane" stuff takes up more spoons than we can spare- so we put it off. A huge part of that comes from how Peterson talks about debt not just being about student loans, but the lies we were conditioning our lives around: "It’s also about the psychological toll of realizing that something you’d been told, and came to believe yourself, would be 'worth it' — worth the loans, worth the labor, worth all that self-optimization — isn’t." But because we've been, again, conditioned to go with it, since it's all we know, we keep spinning those wheels. And while both simultaneously becoming more and more disillusioned and continuing to believe, we are damaging our very psyches. As she goes on to say, "We put up with companies treating us poorly because we don’t see another option. We don’t quit. We internalize that we’re not striving hard enough. And we get a second gig."

And this fucks with the spoon supply.

For me personally, too, Petersen's discussion of how being poor taps into your spoons has stuck with me since the article first came out. 

"In recent years, new scientific research has demonstrated the “massive cognitive load” on those who are financially insecure. Living in poverty is akin to losing 13 IQ points. Millions of millennial Americans live in poverty; millions of others straddle the line, getting by but barely so, often working contingent jobs, with nothing left over for the sort of security blanket that could lighten that cognitive load. To be poor is to have very little mental bandwidth to make decisions, “good” or otherwise — as a parent, as a worker, as a partner, as a citizen. The steadier our lives, the more likely we are to make decisions that will make them even steadier."

It's important to bring up financial insecurity when talking about burnout, then- juggling multiple jobs to make ends meet and living paycheck to paycheck isn't just physically exhausting, but mentally so. For people like me, whose anxiety can get the best of them sometimes, the fact that I don't make enough to save yet- when I'm in my mid-thirties, nonetheless- is a huge drain on my capacity to even, often because I (we) fear both the costs of handling things I/we know I/we should and the repercussions of not handling them. This isn't new to Millenials, but it's not restricted just to people living on SNAP and in Section 8 housing- it happens to the people that make juuuuust enough to cover their stuff, but not enough to save, too. I have a roof over my head, my bills get paid on time, etc., but there isn't enough money leftover after each pay cycle for me to invest, drop into savings, etc., so shit freaks me out. 

Example: The light on the air filter button in my car hasn't been on for a month, indicating to me the filter probably needs to be changed. But I'm too scared to see how much the fix would cost/ actually go get it done because the last three times I took my car in for something routine, I was out an entire paycheck and still needed to borrow money because lo, that other thing I thought maybe was a problem but never looked into ended up being ginormous, or some other thing happened that ruined everything, etc. But, I need the air filter because it helps reduce my exposure to allergens, thus reducing the likelihood I get a sinus infection and/or strep; and I don't think it's a coincidence that I had the former last week (still on antibiotics), and so part of me knows it's only a matter of time until I do get strep again and am down for the count for three-plus days. And while yeah, strep doesn't sound like that big of a deal, keep in mind, I'm paid hourly, for when I'm there. If I'm sick, I don't get paid, which means bills don't get paid. So that is why I don't want to get sick. Thus, it's this huge internal conflict every time I get in the gorram car. And even though I'm not really doing anything, that takes up spoons- the seeing the light not on sends my brain spiraling, and it's hard to deal with on a less-good day.

And if I brought this filter thing up with anyone, the vast majority of people would say, "Why don't you just take your car in?"

So let's get back to that litmus test. "Why don't you just__?"

It doesn't have to be phrased exactly that way, of course, but the basic idea that you're not doing the obvious and/or easy thing of your own volition and will assumes 1) you're in a condition to do so and won't, and 2) are in a condition to come up with the plan and execute it, but won't. And like I said before, that second assumption is the one that doesn't get talked about as often. But it happens: When you're in the thick of things, sometimes it's literally impossible to picture a way out. Not because of hopelessness or despair, but because you're drowning and your gorram brain literally can't go there.

You're out of spoons. So you shut down.

And this? This is trauma. Shutting down doesn't happen out of stubbornness, or laziness. It's a neurological reaction to stimuli, conditioned by past experiences, and a manifestation of the brain's response to those experiences. I shouldn't have to tell you that trauma effects your brain- just Google it and read some of the research on it. But suffice to say, shutting down is a survival tactic, initiated by your brain when things get too heavy. I'm not saying being overworked is the same as being in a car accident or getting assaulted. But. I think there's a reason some of the symptoms of the aftermath are similar- similar things happen to the brain in these situations, and the resulting behaviors afterword are related.

When there is enough trauma, the brain starts to go into survival mode by default and, among other things, the fear centers go into overdrive. It's an adaptive behavior, meant to preserve the body, but your brain doesn't understand your emotions and situations the way your actual consciousness does. So when something realistically harmless but existentially frightening comes your way, your brain either panics and you start freaking out, or it just nopes the hell out of there and you shut down.

Shutting down is basically
the "flight" reaction

I think this is especially why people get perceived as "dragging their feet" when it comes to getting mental health help, at least sometimes. Even if they want to improve their mental health, the idea of figuring out how is, in itself, terrifying and overwhelming and would just cost too many spoons to follow through with. So they grit their teeth and force themselves through another day, because at least they know how to budget their spoons on a regular day without taking on such a big task.

The somewhat ironic part is that often times, even just having a plan ends up increasing your net worth in spoons. I've been there before- where the idea of figuring out how to solve a problem was too terrifying, but then once I did- and not even necessarily did the thing I realized I needed to do, just, y'know, realized it- I felt so much stronger, more alive, like I had so many more spoons. 

Now, this doesn't mean I "should just" anything. I didn't attack it directly earlier, but too often there's a sort of moral superiority involved in conversations involving the "just" assertion on the part of someone. A judgment and normative evaluation of the person they're talking to. An implication that if they "just" got off their ass and pulled themselves up by their bootstraps, everything would be fine. Even if not intended, and honestly, even if the person making that "just" statement actually means well and wants to help, they come across as at best, sort of know-it-all-ee, and at worse, a raging asshole. But obviously, the person making this judgment is either (best case) unaware of or (worst case) ignoring the fact that making a plan requires at least one spoon, and well, the other person is out.

And like okay, there's also the "reading the room" factor, too- anybody whose spoon supply is that low already knows it, and being reminded of it by a "just" statement only makes them feel worse- and, hey, probably diminishes their spoon supply right there; go figure!

ISN'T MENTAL ILLNESS FUN!?!?!

My point with all this is twofold. 

1) I want more people to acknowledge this. That it's not just about having the capacity to start doing something about the hardships in our lives when they crop up or accelerate, it's having the mental and emotional resources (spoons) to come up with how to do something about those hardships sometimes that keeps us from doing so. 

2) Asking someone, "Why don't you just..." or making statements equivocal to that is insensitive, at the very, very best. I want to reiterate something I said in one of those older blog posts I linked above in this one: Sometimes people just need to vent. Ask if someone wants advice before giving it. And be very careful about how you do phrase it. Never in any way make it sound like the thing you're suggesting is easy without first acknowledging how hard it will be to get it started- otherwise, by saying it's easy, you're insinuating the person you're talking to is lazy/not trying/etc.

And I think if the first point happens more, the second will follow. How hard spooning is in some contexts will be more understood, so fewer "just"ing will happen to people having a hard time. 

It would be nice if this was the problem:

Instead, it's this:

And once we understand this, like Neo, we'll all be better off. 

The Eeyore and the Piglet

Content Warning: I open up about my own mental illnesses, including suicidal ideation 

Introduction

My main vessel for libations (of the non-adult variety) at home has been a really great Eeyore mug I got in I want to say high school or college from the Disney Store. It's yellow-orange, and features a cute picture of Eeyore smiling, surrounded by white flowers. I had two of them, and as far as I'm aware, my mom still has the purple one, in the same shape, with the same gloss, but a different picture of Eeyore, at her house, and I use it when I visit. I'm using said yellow-orange mug as I write this, having just snacked on a bunch of Cheez-Its (extra toasty, of course) and in need of some hydration.

Eeyore and Piglet were always tied for first place in my heart in the Winnie the Pooh Pantheon when I was a kid. And while I know it's been proven that A.A. Milne didn't intentionally write these characters (and all the others) as having mental illnesses, as I got older, I realized I liked, no, cared for these two specific ones so much because I would see them struggle- watch Eeyore try so hard to be happy, watch Piglet worry and obsess over the multitude of possibilities due to a single decision or occurrence; I would see this, and think, to put it in modern terms,

"It me."

Seeing what looked like depression in Eeyore and anxiety in Piglet was sometimes hard, sometimes cathartic, but always real for me. I didn't know what these things were until I was older, and it wasn't until three years ago I was officially diagnosed with either, but I think I've felt this way my whole life, or at least once I was past the bobbing toddler phase.

(And before I stray too far from Winnie the Pooh, I want to reiterate that yes, I get that Milne didn't mean to depict a bunch of DSM-certified stuff in his characters. BUT. I also want to emphasize that if you ever want to find out how to be close to someone with any of the various disorders that can be seen in the characters, just read the books or watch any of the series or movies, because everyone is always supportive, accepting, understanding, and unquestioning of the others' worth in the world of Winnie the Pooh, in any incarnation. When I have kids someday, they're going to be one of the staples in our household in order to teach kindness and love.)

Part One: The Eeyore In Me, Otherwise Known As Depression

A friend of mine posted a link about chronic suicidal ideation yesterday, and it spoke to me, too. I don't think my feelings are quite as "strong" (in the sense as persistent) as that of the author, but I do remember when they were, not too long ago. For a long time, I would waffle around from actively wishing it would end to thinking it would be easier to quit to wondering what the point was to thinking everyone around me would be better off if I was out of the way. Thinking of this last one in the opposite direction, much like the author in that piece above, was what always brought me back from the darkest times, the times I came closest to acting on anything.

I haven't felt that way consistently in a few years. But I see myself falling closer to where I was when it started, sometimes feeling the lesser extent of all of it for a little, and it frightens me somewhat. I have a plan, but can't act on it because of work stuff  (therapy requires, y'know, time in an office, and I have no way to consistently have that, but I have a PCP that can prescribe meds, at the very least). But before I continue here, if you're someone that knows me personally, know I'm okay and not in any danger, just like that author. I have a good support network, both near and far, and it isn't my person I'm frightened for, but rather my heart and habits, my general emotional well-being and overall state of mind. I'm frightened because I thought I had moved past those feelings, and I see myself getting closer to them on a consistent basis again.

Right now, I have a lot to be grateful for, reasons to be "happy." I have a roof over my head, an amazing boyfriend that loves me better than I ever thought I deserved, two awesome cats, tons of board games, internet, food, transportation, the aforementioned support network, a stable job (and another one that while it's retail and the schedule changes, I feel as loved and supported by everyone there as if I was family, and I'm not exaggerating- I genuinely tell my boss, "I love you," as we hug goodbye every time (if she doesn't say it first)), and I'm in a program that will get me into the disability field in one of the most on-the-ground ways, as a special ed teacher.

That doesn't mean it's easy. Honestly, I don't think my life is more stressful than average. But I struggle. I can't play a friggin' card game without bursting into tears on a bad day (true story; in response, that great boyfriend checked in with me and when I said, "I'm just having a hard time just being happy," he didn't miss a beat. He's good like that, and I'm lucky like that). I have to actively fight against crying every waking moment some days, because it hurts so much.

Some days, I can hold it in, keep it together, and if I'm lucky, I'll feel a little better the next day- enough that it isn't so hard, at least. But others, it goes more like this:

Thank you, Nathan Pile, for making such
delightful comics. 

Seriously, raise your hand if ever you've been on the struggle bus all day and keeping your cool, when something as innocuous as your gorram pen falls out of your hand and rolls under the fridge and you start ugly-crying so hard someone would think your cat died. I have days like that. Lots.

But that's not the whole of it. See, what I think gets missed a lot in talks about depression is also just that straight inability to enjoy things, especially things that normally would bring joy. It isn't always feelings of sadness or pain, but more like a lack of feeling that goes beyond neutrality. An active hole inside, a vortex you can on some level perceive sucking your emotions out. It can lead to a sort of indifference, a "whatever" feeling, inability to give a damn about anything. A weird, not-quite-passive indifference to everything. (And I think what happens to some of us is this indifference to the things around us can lead to indifference to life itself, and the aforementioned suicidal thoughts.)

There are days where I feel like a ghost, like I'm made of air and mist and could walk through the wall or float through the floor downstairs to the parking lot of my second-story apartment. And not in some fancy, magical, "I'm lighter than aaaaaair!" way. No, as in I feel insubstantial, and that's about as much as I can "feel" at all. I go through whatever motions need going through, if there are any, but those are the days I'm most likely to binge a whole season of something on Netflix if I don't have to work; if there's anything else I should be doing (laundry, grocery shopping, calling my mom or a friend I've been playing phone tag with), it ain't happenin'. 

And let me reiterate: It isn't like it actively hurts on days like this. I'm not on the verge of tears at all- the opposite, really. In fact, even though I'm pretty prone to crying on the regular, days like this, stuff that would normally get the waterworks going (like a poignant moment in the show I'm binging) don't do more than maybe make my eyes get a little hot. And dude, I'm The Gal That Cries. I am. But on days like these (I've come to call them, aptly, my "ghost days," in my headcanon about my life), I pretty much can't. 

This is my reality.

Part Two: The Piglet In Me, Otherwise Known as Anxiety

Misconception: "Having anxiety means you worry about literally everything." While it's true, some people can have anxiety that is severe enough that yes, it fits this description and thus becomes debilitating, not every case looks like that. Let me explain, with an example.

I always have to have at least six tubes of Burt's Bees beeswax lip balm in my possession, while not necessarily on my person, at a given time. I keep one in my car, one in my purse, one beside the bed, one in the living room by my usual seat on the couch/somewhere easily accessed in the living room, one for sticking in my pocket for during work, and a "spare" I keep on my dresser for "emergencies" (I honestly call it my "emergency" tube). That way, no matter where I am, I will always, always be able to whip out a tube of B'sBs and soothe my aching lips. Just the thought of needing one and not having access to one makes my heartbeat go up, it genuinely makes me nervous. While I recently switched to B'sBs about two years ago, before that it was mint Chapstick; and before that it was C.O. Bigelow's Rose Salve; and before that it was Carmex; and before that it was REGULAR Chapstick... It's something I did my best to hide from my parents, and granted, when I was a kid and didn't own my living space, I had fewer visible at a given time, but there was always something in my backpack, on my headboard, in the duffel bag I kept my Barbies in, in my desk at school (when I had a desk), and a floater I would put in my lunchbox (when I had one). I'd steal them from my dad, save change from when I was given money to do something with friends, even use birthday or Christmas money from relatives to buy them for myself without my parents knowing. I knew it was weird all along, but I was in Las Vegas, where it was reeeeeeeeeally dry, and so I needed something, right? 

And while this may sound a little obsessive-compulsive, it's the closest I've ever been, so it's not that. I keep so many tubes/pots/whatever around because I'm afraid of my lips hurting too much. I don't have a bunch of tubes because I need a specific one for a specific place or something, it's purely for the "preparedness" angle. I want to be prepared so I can avoid my lips getting too dry. I have a high tolerance for pain, usually, but my lips are the one part of my body I don't tolerate it and actively try to prevent it by having such a huge arsenal. I pretty much always have a headache, and I don't take anything for it until I reach a certain threshold; but the moment my lips start to tingle, I'm all about that lip balm.

This is the most extreme-on-paper example I have. Writing about it, I feel kind of nuts. But I've figured out how to not worry about my lips: just have a shit-ton of lip balm lying around and fuggedduboudit. 

I have my own social anxieties, but I wouldn't say I have "social anxiety" in the way you're thinking. I'm fine meeting new people, provided I have some context or reason to; I freak out over things, with people I already know, like, "What if I picked the wrong restaurant?" "What if he doesn't really think I'm beautiful?" "What if she's only laughing because she feels sorry for me?" "Does he/she hate me?" I worry about upsetting people, being misunderstood, seeming clingy, seeming aloof, sounding dumb, sounding elitist...

A lot of it comes down to "I just want errbody to like me." With the people I'm closest to, like aforementioned Awesome Boyfriend, I'm terrified of doing something to change how they feel about me. On our first date, over two years ago now, I was more at ease talking to him than I am some nights in our apartment. It's almost like a reverse-typical-social-anxiety thing: The more I know you/you know me, the more worried I am about what you think of me, how I come across, etc. 

And of course, I worry about things, too. From how shitty other drivers are (somewhat reasonable) to how evenly I chop an onion (pretty unreasonable), I can get caught up in fretting and stressing over things that are part of a regular person's life. 

Like right now, Awesome Boyfriend has confirmation a package was delivered to the leasing office like ten minutes after I left it, and we have a package slip from our mailbox from earlier that day saying said leasing office should have it (it didn't when I went). He's not worried about it, but who has two thumbs and is terrified the board games he ordered are lost/stolen/etc?

And there's a part of me that knows it's probably fine, that it's safe in the leasing office and it'll be there in the morning when Awesome Boyfriend goes to retrieve it. But I. Can't. Help. It.

But I'm sitting here now, writing this thing. I made dinner (frozen burritos, but still, I fuckin' ate, aight?), I'll go to bed soon, and I probably won't have any more problems sleeping than usual. So it's not debilitating, and so no, I wouldn't say I have severe anxiety, but I have enough of it that ridiculous stuff like if the super old Forever stamps I have are still good, nevermind the whole "Forever" part, makes my stomach plummet to my ankles.

This is also my life.

Part Three: So What?

This doesn't mean I'm "miserable" in the sense that I don't ever experience happiness or joy. I've ruminated on what "happiness" means to me before. I still believe it, that happiness isn't a constant, and sometimes we have to make our own joy, seek out and find ways to experience happiness, since it won't last on its own. So I try. So fucking hard sometimes. And there are days where I've tried hard enough that it worked, I sort of made myself believe it, if you will.

I'm not saying I think depression can be "overcome" with the "right state of mind" or some ableist bullshit like that. Fuck your walks through the woods and your yoga.

What I mean is that, sometimes, I can find some light in the dark, and that's worth living for, too. 

As uncomfortable as my life may be sometimes, it's still my life, and I'm going to keep on living it, to the best of my ability.

"The things that make me different are the things that make me me." Quoth Piglet.

Fin.

Why I'm Uncomfortable with Independence Day

For those hoping for some righteous indignation about the current political situation and some sort of treatise on the particular breed of hypocrisy and violence embedded in the American State nowadays... Sorry. This post isn't really going to be political*. It's going to be personal (and not in the "the personal is political" way, but the legit "this is my heart" kind of way).

In a previous post, before talking about getting rid of an abusive ex, I talked about my dad. He died two Septembers ago. He took his own life. And in that post, I explained how Christmas had been tainted for me, that when I was little, it was the stuff a Norman Rockwell painting- joy and togetherness and warmth. But when I got older, too much life happened, and as Dad's decline grew steeper and steeper, Christmas became more and more miserable. 

What I didn't bring up is Independence Day. On the Fourth, Dad would somehow manage to get himself out of bed (or off the couch- after a certain point, he stopped sleeping in the bedroom), make a nice breakfast for everyone (I think Dad liked making breakfast more than grilling, to be honest- as things got worse, he stopped grilling way before he stopped making pancakes), and start getting The Meat ready for the grill by late afternoon. He would at least pretend to be happy, and turn back into the Dad of the Year Edition of himself. If there was a video game for us to play, we'd sit around and he'd take turns with me and my two sisters (or just me and my younger sis- my older sister stopped coming home pretty early on in everything) in shooting whatever zombies or solving whatever puzzles there were with the same enthusiasm as before he fell apart. There wasn't fighting. There wasn't anger. There wasn't malice. He was funny, charming, warm. He was sober.

It was like time had shifted, or he alone had, like his old self would inhabit his current body for the day. A part of me knew he was acting, but it just made me love him more- because he was doing it for everyone else. I've only grown to understand that more, having grappled with my own mental illness and had to put on a face for people, too. Masks aren't for you, they're for the ones you love.

And I clung to that. Even if every other day, we barely spoke, or he was never sober enough to remember what we talked about by the time I was twenty-two, there, there was the proof he still cared, in how alive he was on the Fourth. The real act was when he made it seem like he didn't care. And I know that was for me, too- pushing me away out of his shame, his disgust with his own self. I know he didn't think he deserved any of us. He blamed himself for everything that happened to our family- from diagnoses to finances. I even have wondered if he blames himself for me being raped in grad school- I remember him mumbling something about how he "should have taught me to be safer" or something like that during the trip home where I told him and Mom; at the time, I took it more as a victim-blaming thing, but I really don't believe that anymore. Because while it was kind of funny and eye-roll-worthy as a kid, his tendency to take responsibility, to be a martyr, was what drove his depression so far.

-------

Fireworks.

Man, Dad loved fireworks. And the big ones, too. Not the little dinky ones the Boy Scouts sell. Nono, we're talking rockets and explosives, the illegal kind you have to drive to a Reservation to get. Fireworks were Dad's Thing, I would say even more so than the grill (or breakfast) (in the sense that he took so much pleasure in fireworks). And he was smart about it- he would start making trips to the Rez in like February, so that by the time Spring was over and cops started randomly searching trunks for contraband (i.e. in anticipation of people smuggling fireworks into town), he was done and wouldn't have to worry. Even if we couldn't afford steaks, we always, always had a great fireworks display on the Fourth. 

I like to describe the fireworks on our block the way Christmas decorations get shown on TV/in movies sometimes. You know what I'm talking about, how it's a sign of status or awesomeness to have a huge Christmas display on the lawn, and competition between neighbors is sometimes a subplot (if not the main plot) of Christmas movies/shows. Well, by our third summer in our house (I would have just finished seventh grade), our neighbors were actively trying to best him with their own fireworks displays. But every year, he'd still have the very best fireworks of the block. It got to the point where our neighbors would kind of crowd nearish to our house to watch ours- they'd set up their lawn chairs and wait for Dad to finish before going back in front of their own houses to do whatever they had. 

One of my last Summers in Vegas, one of the last before the divorce, our next door neighbor knocked on the door an hour or so before sunset. He had a huge sack in one hand and a six-pack of Coors in the other. He asked to talk to Dad, so Dad politely stepped out onto the porch with him and shut the door- Dad was always good at reading people, and he could tell our neighbor had something big to talk to him about. When Dad came back inside, our neighbor was gone, and Dad was holding the bag and beer. 

Mom and I both kind of charged him, talking over each other but asking similar questions, and Dad shut us up by setting the beer down and opening the sack- it was filled with a LOT of expensive, fancy Rez fireworks, the same sort Dad liked. He explained that there was a health emergency in our neighbor's family- nothing super life-threatening, but our neighbor needed to go to the hospital right away. He didn't want the fireworks to go to waste, and he "couldn't think of a better place to put them than in the hands of The King." Yes, my Dad was "The King of Fireworks" amongst our neighbors, apparently, and the six-pack was a "tribute." The guy had also said he "was sorry he wasn't going to see what The King was gonna do this year," too. 

Dad was so damn proud. 

[I'm having trouble reading my typing, here, because of how much the whole memory means to me, but especially this moment. The big grin on his face, the way he kind of puffed up his chest to be funny, but how there was a significant part of him that so meant it. ]

I remember us all calling him, "Your Majesty," the rest of the night- once we got outside, my little brother even gestured with a wave of his arm and a bow to Dad's chair for viewing once each firework was lit and said, "Yoah fwoan, Yoah Majesty!"  

It was... perfect.

And most telling, he didn't open that pack of beer until he had put the last firework in the water bucket. I told him I was proud of that as we were going inside, and he mumbled something and turned away- but not before I saw his eyes water. 

-------

So, Fourth of July. It hurts.

Because I miss him, so fucking much. 

I still regret not reconciling with him. 

I still smile remembering the one time he accidentally dropped a smoke bomb or something, and it kind of popped and he squealed like a little kid as he ran. 

I still remember the last time I saw him, and my chest tightens.

I still giggle when I think of all the times he snuck me over to his closet when Mom was busy to whisper conspiratorily and show me his latest haul from the Rez once his personal buying season started. Like Mom didn't know what he was up to. Hah.

But the moment I start thinking of "doing something" for the Fourth, I just want to cry. I feel hollow again, like I did when Mom told me what happened. The more I think about it, the farther I move from "want to cry" to "actually crying." If I think long enough, I start sobbing.

I don't know when I'll be able to genuinely enjoy a Fourth of July without putting on a mask, or at least pushing something down deep. Maybe never. Dad is gone, and fireworks will never be the same for me. And honestly? I'm not sure if I want them to.


*Although yeah, if you know me or this blog, you know I could totally write the shit out of a post about that.

All I Can Think About

::NOTE- I WILL write about that movie y'all are prolly expecting. I want to see it one more time, first.::

It's the Fourth of July! 

This post is decidedly not about that.

Sometimes, stuff gets stuck in your head.  And I'm not just talking about songs. 

Maybe you just saw a really cool movie and bits of a super cool and pivotal scene keep flashing through your mind's eye. 

Maybe you went on a really good first date, and your thoughts keep drifting back to that person, to their voice, their smile, how their hand felt, interlocked with yours. (Or, alternatively, it could have been a really awful date, in which case, you're reliving the angst of it all.)

Maybe you're in the service industry, and you had to deal with the Worst Customer  Ever, and the condescending, disrespectful, and/or threatening way they spoke to you just won't get out of your ears. 

Maybe you have a big presentation to prep for, but you're at family dinner,  listening to Uncle Earl tell you about the inevitable zombiepocalypse, 'cuz guv'ment, for the umpteenth time this year. 

Maybe you're worried about the direction the country is going, and you can't shake the feeling something  terrible is going to happen, and you're coming up with a plan to move yourself and your family to Canada, where it's safer. 

Maybe you're damn hungry.

I had something on my mind today. Or, no, I had the curiosity of someone on my mind today.

It being the Fourth and all, there was an unspeakably small amount of traffic on the roads- I got an extra hour of sleep, even! But I noticed that some electric signs that can be changed (usually to indicate variant speeds) said the two left lanes were closed. I merged into an  appropriate lane, and eventually saw what was obviously some sort of crash site. I couldn't see any damaged cars, though, just lots of law enforcement vehicles. The scene was on a curve, a left one, at that, so as I got far enough up to see around the last car, I saw yellow tarp.

Covering something.

And when I got enough around the curve to see the tarp close enough, I saw a head. And a hand. The tarp was covering a body, a man's body.

Now, my commute isn't exactly short, even when there's a dearth of traffic. So I spent the next twenty minutes gripping the steering wheel to keep myself in control, gripping so tightly, my  hands still hurt a little now, more than twelve hours later. 

That whole car ride, so many things were spinning through my brain, things I couldn't get rid of, no matter how I tried to distract myself with music, with doing things like reading licence plates out loud to myself.*

Who was he? Where was he going? Did he have plans for today, it being a big ol' holiday and all? 

Do his loved ones know? Did they know he was going to be on the road so early on a holiday morning? When was the last time he saw them? Kids, did he have kids? A spouse? Siblings? 

What happened that made him end up sprawled on the ground like that? Where was his vehicle?

I went to work and did the best I could, but my head wasn't in the game. It kept going back to this man, this man that I saw on the ground, cold, under a tarp, a yellow tarp that, under different circumstances, would have warranted a "big banana" joke (it was yellow). Instead,thinking of it made me feel sick. It still does,  a little.

I kept forgetting things, all day. I'd trail off and forget to finish sentences. 

There were a few times when I was able to throw myself into work with helping customers (bra fittings are magnificent distractions from the macabre). But it's the Fourth of July. We weren't very busy. I was having trouble finishing any of the tasks I assigned myself to (gobacks, markdowns, etc.). I was trying so hard not to think about what I had seen, I made it nigh impossible to think about much anything else- it was either him or nothing at all. 

Then I had to get back in the car. 

The same thoughts flooded back into my mind, breaking the dam I had forced up. 

And then I got home and couldn't stop myself- I looked for information about the crash. I found this** first. 

His name was Richard A. McKelvey, and he was twenty-nine years old.

A motorcycle accident, that explains the lack of car. But I had seen his hair, what about a helmet?

Oh... 

A new image bored itself in my brain, a man  flying off  a motorcycle, heading straight for a big car, his body colliding so hard and so fast, his helmet flies off. 

I finally cried, like really cried, not just the watery eyes I had had off and on all day (yeah, that's me, I'm a cryer). 

And I couldn't help but think of the terror he must have felt. Did he know this was It? Was he able to think of his family in that last second? Did he pray? Did he curse? Was he at peace? What was the last thing he saw? Maybe his mind went to a good memory?

I have no right to presume to know anything, but my imagination won't leave well alone. Not that it's really "well," but, y'know.

Weirdly enough, I was reminded of my ex (the one I wrote about a while back). He loves motorcycles, and had one for a while during our time together. Now, as some context, he used to drag race, for money, way before we met; that should give you an idea of his driving style, and also how he rides. I saw him ride, he was indeed reckless. Sure, he wore a helmet, but still- he had nearly died in two different accidents before we met, who was to say he'd be lucky again? I would worry about him all the time, and he didn't care (that should have meant more to me then- I'm realizing literally right now that he probably somehow enjoyed making me worry, since it was a form of control). I had started hyperventilating on my way to his place once because I passed a motorcycle accident and saw the rider on the ground, surrounded by cops, but moving. That could be him. It gave me nightmares. 

So I wonder if Richard had any loved ones that worried about him the way I had worried about my ex. And my heart aches for and goes out to them, if they did. Their worst fear, come to pass. 

Maybe it's presumptuous to use his first name. 

I feel... trapped. His was the first body I saw that didn't belong to someone I knew***, and while this is a terrible "first" to have, it's still a first, nonetheless. And I don't know how long this is going to stay with me so... forcefully. 

I don't have a funny line or gif with which to end this. All I can say is, be safe, please. You never know what's going to happen.



*I talk to myself sometimes, okay?

**I submitted the correction about the side the closed lanes were on, as when I first saw the piece (and as of this writing), it said the two right lanes were closed. But really, that's such a small thing, in comparison to everything else. 

***That I remember. My mom tells me there were other opportunities to see scenes such as this, or worse, when I was little, but she shielded me from it. I love my mom so damn much. 

Finding Your Line, or, Why I Hate Christmas

This post is going to get pretty heavy, but while I don't have the strength to share this individually, I want the people who care about me to really know what has been going on in my life the past few months. I will warn you now, I will discuss suicide (in multiple contexts) and emotional abuse in this post, so if you fear it will be too difficult for you, due to your own lived experiences, that is entirely valid, and I am so sorry; I hope you know that I am here for you and willing to talk, if you think will help you. Otherwise, hang in there with me and allow me to elucidate some events that have had large effects on me. Understand, I am not "seeking attention," so much as using this as an easier way on my own heart and mental health to share this with people- I've dealt with and come closer to reconciling the first big thing, and talking about that is easier now. But that one was easier to keep close to the chest, while the most recent events are still visible right now, in my bedroom.

So, to use the line I have used before and think is just so damn applicable when talking about this dramedy that is my life...

I officiated a wedding in September, for a dear friend from college, in our college town, to wit. It was beautiful, and superbly relaxed, and even though I only knew about 10% of the guests, my speech during the ceremony wowed them all with its wit, charm, and earnestness. I even opened with a joke* that led to this picture being taken by one of the photographers:

 The reception was pretty fun, and the food was amazing- a little old lady was pressing tortillas for the taco bar, and the sangria! It was at a bed-and-breakfast, so the party was in the backyard, and as the sun set and the little lights started to twinkle, I kept warm by snuggling close to my date, the person I had been with for nearly two years at that point- it was our first wedding we were both able to attend together, so it was one of those Big Steps in an adult relationship. While he was inside in the bathroom, I was alone at our table, far off from the dance floor where everyone else was. I saw my phone light up and crinkled my eyebrows. Mom? Why would she call me now, of all times? I gave it a second, thinking  maybe she had butt-dialed me and it would stop ringing, but it continued. Well, this doesn't make any sense, she knew I would be here and  unavailable... So I picked up, and instead of saying hello to me, she demanded I put my boyfriend on the phone. Wait, what? She repeated, a little urgent this time. I explained that he was in the bathroom, and she repeated the original request, more urgently. I said I didn't know when  he would get back, so she asked me, "Are you alone?"

"Well, I'm at a table by myself... Why? What's up?"

"Honey, are you sitting down?"

"Yes.....?"

"Honey, your aunt went to visit your dad today, and she found him in the bathtub."

"What?"

"Honey, he killed himself."

I felt my chest tighten and my face get hot, my hands shook and my voice cracked. I started to ask questions and panic. At just the right moment, I looked up, tear-stricken and still babbling, to lock eyes with my boyfriend. Even though it was dark, he somehow knew I needed him, so he beelined to me, nearly taking out a chair (or himself) on the way. I held the phone out for him, and he stepped away without saying a word as I put my head on the table and sobbed so hard (but silent- I didn't want to draw attention) I could hear the wine and champagne glasses bobble. After a few moments, which was enough for him to get the necessary information, my boyfriend gave my phone back  to me, took me by my hand, and led me around the side of the house so that we could walk through the neighborhood around the B&B instead of disturb my friend's wedding. After a struggle, I was able to get my mom to tell me my dad had shot himself in the head with his mom's gun. We sat on a park bench for a while, his arms around me as I sobbed and tried to talk to my mom, before heading back to the reception.

My boyfriend told a couple people, the small spattering of those that realized something had happened and were asking after my well-being, but I tried to avoid the wedding guests as best as I could- again, this wasn't my night, and it was supposed to be a happy moment for someone I hold very close to my heart, and I couldn't in good conscience tell her then. That night, I cried instead of slept, and my boyfriend held me the whole time. We had to drive home the next day, but I spent most of the car ride and the rest of the evening in tears, and the same with the next two days, before going back to work. He had to change his shirt a few times each day  because  of all of the tears and snot I was getting on him.

As my life is a dramedy, it wouldn't be complete without some mildly morbid comic relief here: I had started seeing a counselor in July, and we had arranged for bi-weekly appointments to start. I had seen her two days before the wedding (which was a Saturday), but on Tuesday, amidst the crying, I got a reminder phone call from the clinic about "my appointment" two days from then- apparently she had accidentally scheduled me for the next week, so I didn't even need to call ahead to squeeze myself into her schedule!! AAAAND, I also happened to have an appointment with the person that handles my meds for Wednesday, too- so I was able to walk into my already-scheduled appointments and let then know what was happening.

I've had weekly counseling appointments ever since.

Flash-forward to about a month ago. I was having a heart-to-heart with a friend whom I love dearly, opening up to him (or rather, elaborating) about my relationship with my boyfriend. While I still had never been entirely open with him about my boyfriend, he knew things weren't as good as I tried to make them out to be, and as I cried and made excuses, I admitted that while I had thought I knew where my "line" was for "how much" I would put up with, I had lost it. We talked some more, but as he was leaving  he said, "Look, I can't tell you what to do, and I would never try to do that. But all I have to say is," and he put his hand on my shoulder, "Find your line. Just find your line again."

Then a series of necessary events happened last Monday/early Tuesday morning:

1) I received  a check in the mail from my mom for Christmas that morning. I sobbed, first because I feel guilty taking money from her, since  she works retail, too, and then second, because I didn't want my boyfriend to know about it, because I knew he would want me to cash it and give the money to him. So I tore it up.

2) That day, we were supposed to go on what I came to call an "errand date" where we spend  spare time together by getting stuff done together and helping with each other's errands. We did this before, and it usually ended with making dinner together and spooning while watching Netflix. On  this day, he decided to take a nap instead.

3) Later, he started getting irritable because he didn't have any cash, and he kept snapping at my dog. She started shaking, and I didn't feel comfortable with trying to comfort her until he was out of the room.

4) That night, he couldn't sleep, so he kept thrashing and grumbling right beside  me in the bed, getting up and laying back down, going in and out of the room, and about once an hour even getting dressed and stepping outside. He became gradually more and more vocal during these little tantrums  as the night progressed, and at about 2AM he got up and grumbled about how he's "tired of holding on just to hold on" and that I "don't need to worry  about the holidays" because he "wouldn't be around for that shit." And he left the  house again and I heard him peel off in his car.

5) When he got back to the house, he started rattling the door knob, and I thought maybe he  had  taken  shots or something quick to get sloshed. But he sent a text demanding I unlock the door, and it dawned on me: I had gone to the bathroom after he left, and apparently had subconsciously locked the bedroom door. 

I refused to talk to him or let him cuddle (his way of apologizing) that night and the next morning. He left before I got up, so I sent him a text demanding he get his stuff out while I was at work.

The short version of the rest of that is while I started out hoping to take a break so he could get himself together, I realized I needed to cut all ties completely after some pretty horrible stuff happened and two more days passed. I realized he will never care about himself enough to care for me the way I deserve, and I cannot save him. The last time I saw him was Thursday, and I hope it's the last time I ever see him. 

I know, it seems odd, that the man that was so supportive when I found out my dad killed himself would be thrown out just a bit over three months later, but I need to explain some about both.

First, my dad. I hadn't seen him since 2013, summer. And the last thing he said to me was, "You bitch," while I was helping my mom pack up the house in which I grew up so she could leave. See, my dad had changed once I hit 16. A lot of life happened, and his depression won over: He went from being Dad of the Year to a non-functioning alcoholic that was emotionally abusive and manipulative to my mom, myself, and my younger sister. It took time, but he was a completely different dad to me than he was my younger siblings, something I apologized for all the time after leaving for college. By the time I was a sophomore (and thus only home for breaks), I hardly ever saw him sober. And he would pick fights whenever he could, however he could. The house became toxic, and I hated going home for breaks and found every excuse I could to make the visits home short or avoid them altogether. When I found out it had evolved to physical abuse, I finally begged my mom to leave him. I, and she, had held out hope he would get better, would seek help for his mental illness, but he didn't, and Mom had to draw the line somewhere. 

But even after that, I had still hoped. Hoped he would take that as his wake-up call and seek a therapist, medication, whatever. That he would sober and up and get serious. That he would come back to us and be that dad I remembered, the one that sprained his ankle fixing a swing at a park for me, that let me stay home from school to play video games. The dad that used to make me laugh, (gently) stop my tears, and made me feel safe. I had had visions of him barbecuing with my boyfriend at our wedding reception.

So him killing himself, and in such a way, was an even more complex situation for me and everyone else. I had, in a way, already been in mourning over the loss of the dad of my youth, but now I was in mourning for a man that was so broken, in so much pain, he decided to end his life. "Forgiveness" isn't the word I have for how he treated us later on, but that doesn't make the loss of any chance at better memories less painful. Add to it the fact that I had hoped to reach out to him myself, once I had been in therapy for a while and felt more in touch with who I am and at peace with my past traumas (not just caused by him), and you have a huge ball of awkward and pain and uncomfortable and confused and anger and hurt and... Pretty much everything you can possibly imagine. 

So this leads to the now-ex boyfriend. He, too, is mentally ill, and he, too, refused to get help with it. And, like  my dad, he took his pain out on me. Don't get me  wrong, both men had legitimate reasons to be angry, to be hurting, but they projected it and it manifested in passive aggressiveness, unpredictability, manipulation, and isolation. My ex never explicitly said I couldn't spend time with friends, but the way he moped, texted me nonstop about how he missed me while I was gone, and/or picked fights with me over text trained me not to do it. With his mood swings, I never knew how he would react to the same kind of joke (or even exact same joke) from day to day. And the above scenario, where he turned his frustration with himself  over having no money and not being able to sleep into rants  about how  unhappy with me he was, happened far too frequently. He "broke up" with me at least once a month. I would make excuses, hide it from most people, tell myself he didn't mean it, he's just angry and in pain, he loves me more than anything.

And like with Dad, it didn't start out that way. He was charming and attentive and kind and warm, and the first man to see me as a woman and treat me like a human  being. Even though he loved me selfishly, he at least proved to me I can be loved, and for that I am forever grateful. And even up to the last few weeks, it wasn't always shouting and tears: when he was doing better, he could be disgustingly thoughtful and sweet, and he did take care of me during some of my darkest moments, like what happened with my dad. He was good in a crisis... when it wasn't his own. And when he started to boil up, he would gaslight me, change the topic, snap for no reason, act like everything was my fault. I was losing myself, and willfully blind to all of this because I had seen it before. That could never happen to me, I wouldn't let it, I'm far too smart for it. I knew exactly where my line was, and so help me, no man would ever cross it.

Except he did. He crossed so far over it, I lost sight of that line. He loved me, but it was a selfish, jealous love. It wasn't nurturing, not overall, even though it had its moments. It was draining, and it hurt to love him. I was always the one trying to make us work, yet I would be blamed whenever something was bothering  him, something he wouldn't tell me about until one of his blow-ups, something that was his fault in the first place. (Like remember how I said he napped instead of went out with me? That was a patterned behavior, too, backing out of plans- yet he would yell at me he was "tired of never doing anything" with me during his rampages.) So later on during the height of the drama last week, as my ex was saying he was sorry, that he missed me, missed us, missed the family we had made with each other and my dog, my friend's words echoed through my head.

"Find your line."

That same friend has been my rock through all of this, and I will never be able to repay him the kindness and selflessness he has shown me. Remembering that advice helped me find the strength to admit the truth  to myself, out loud, and to my ex.

"You want to know what that is? It's abuse, that's what it is."

And once I said it, I felt myself gaining strength, at least in that first moment, and I kept going. That wasn't the end  of it, but it was the start for me. 

He even kept throwing that it was "almost Christmas" in my face. That fueled my fire then, and I held that line, but once he was actually gone, Christmas was even worse for me than usual.

When I was little, Christmas was always great. Our family had our little traditions and rituals, but we had fun, and we loved each other. As time went on,  things got more and more prickly and fake, and we went from spending all of our waking moments Christmas Eve and Day with each other to barely speaking and staying in our own designated areas of the house. And now that I work retail, I won't get a chance to repair with my mom and siblings. I get that about my life, but I still mourn it. Even before I left my grad program, Christmas reminded me of everything I had lost. Then all of the breakup stuff happened, and I felt more alone than I ever thought possible. I could force myself to enjoy a moment (after all, I wasn't physically alone- I had people willing to take me in, and that wise friend of mine was there, too), but staying up until 2AM (again)  on Christmas  Eve rewrapping because I had written both of our names on the "From" line with Sharpie on all of the presents I had bought (the one year I wrapped as I purchased, I didn't bother to get tags I could attach... nooooo, I had to write directly on the gorram wrapping paper of all but two gifts) didn't help. 

I haven't slept more than a couple hours at a time since the first night he wasn't beside me, and waking up to an empty space in the bed on Christmas morning was awful, even though I had only woken up beside him once on Christmas. I miss the Christmases we'll never have, so I keep seeing  them, the ones I dreamed about, where we had our own home and family, our own traditions and rituals. I would be in charge of the Nativity scene, he would do the lights around the house. And I keep remembering my dad and how much he used to care about his Christmas town, meticulously placing every piece, re-attaching limbs and chimneys whenever necessary; how he gradually let it crack and break before he was too broken to go on anymore. There was a drawer he would put the broken  pieces until he was able to fix them. I don't think any were there for more than a day when I was young; by the time we were packing the house, there were some in there from before I graduated from college. 

And  it hurts. It hurts so much. The truth is, while I never planned to kill myself before, I had thought there was no point in living, the the pain is too much, that others around me would be  better off without me. Those thoughts stopped a while ago, but it hurt so much that it flickered through my mind a little. I know it's irrational, and I will not actually do anything to hurt myself, but this is how much pain I am in right now. I am in so much pain, I can't bring myself to clean the mess he made while packing, just when I had finally started to keep the room cleaner.

I will never get my dad back. I will never be able to reconcile with him, no matter how much I had wanted to. He was in too much pain and valued his own life so little that he didn't try to get any help. Eventually, he killed himself. It has nothing to do with me, and there is nothing I could have done.

I will never take my ex back. I will never reconcile with him, no matter how much he wants to. He will never have my trust again, even if he does get the help he needs (and a job). Because  I will have no way of knowing for sure that it's not to get me back, but because he values himself enough to do it- and it's the latter that is necessary for him to be a true partner, not a dependent. 

I told a few friends that "my Christmas gift to myself this year is freedom." This is true. But freedom comes with a price. I will be in pain for quite some time, and I have no idea when I will be ready to try to love again. But, as my  mom said, it's better to be lonely and alone than lonely and with someone. 

I don't have a witty, funny way to end this. But I can say that I have been thinking of a quote from my favorite movie:

"There are no happy endings, because nothing ends."

That sounds dire, but for me, right now, it means my story is still going, and this isn't my ending, happy or otherwise. My life will go on, and while a part of me will always mourn both of these men that were so similar, both in good ways and bad, I have learned what I deserve, and, importantly, what I do not deserve from a partner. The kindness others have shown  me during both times has helped remind me how good others can be, and that even though I may feel alone, there are people that would more than happily ease that pain. 

I don't expect a happy ending now, and I never have. But I do expect to find some happiness again. And, someday, I'll enjoy Christmas again, forge a family in whatever way I can, to make better memories. 


*Question: What did Batman say to Robin  just  before they got into the Bat-Mobile?  Answer: "Get in the Bat-Moble."