What Now?

eginning last Friday it seemed my life could not find an up. I struggled to stay afloat and the surging waves and relentless tide demanded that I go under. It is suffocating and defeating breath after breath... stroke after stroke. My own life is toxic. The barrage of shitty moments is too much for me to bare. Why should I try to fight back?

Everything was already in shambles but the day, that day, was one of trigger after trigger...

It started the night before when I found out my boyfriend wouldn't be taking me to my medical exam. The exam where I am poked, prodded, and scraped for skin cells off of my cervix. Completely uncomfortable... and as a victim of rape and abuse this exam is more than painful, it is emotional and at some points intolerable. I fall asleep crying.

I woke up to the realization that I was so very alone. I tried to call my mom and ask her to come with me. But as soon as she picked up, she listed all the many things she had to do that day and all the stress she was under. I was scared but I decided not to ask. I didn't want to stress her additionally.

I went to the exam and it was painful, as always. But I didn't have his hand to hold. And my already shakey state of mind had my body tense and frightened. I was so clenched that she had to force me open. They kept telling me to breathe and telling me it would be okay. It didn't feel okay. I wanted to sob. I wanted to yell at them to take that fucking speculum out of me. I wanted it to be over, because I knew if I made them take it out, they'd just have to start the painful process all over again.

I went to work and sat down at my new desk. Piles of assignments from my old position were weighing on my mind... and thoughts of new and unknown assignments were creeping in to join the mass of stress bringing me down. I went to my first meeting with my new boss. He gave me a three page sheet of the tasks that would be encountered in my position. I told him my tendency to be late and he gave a lecture on the importance of being on time. I don't think anyone actually chooses to be late. To wake up in the morning and say, "hey, you know what? I think I'll be late today. Start my day off badly and have my boss pissed off at me." It's simple... I am not a morning person. Waking up is like trying to get scrambled eggs off of an ungreased cast iron pan. It's not happening fast, that's for sure! I walked out feeling inadequate and destined to fail.

The evening was decent. A lot of tiptoeing around trying not to let a fight start between him and I. Trying not to let myself be the crazy bitch I seem to be. I missed his touch. I missed his loving thoughts of me. I missed him holding my hand. Not one inch of me knew how to fix it and every effort just seemed to wedge us further apart. I stayed quiet.

We laid down in bed and he asked why I hadn't taken my clothes off. The signal that I wasn't alright and he was receiving. I said to him... "I'm not ready. I still don't feel safe and I don't know how to tell you." I tried to explain and it blew up. He was in pain from a stomache ache and my conversation was ill-timed. I didn't know how to make it right. I'm hurting and I don't know what to say to fix it. I'm afraid.

I attempted suicide because what else is there? It was not planned. It was an act of hopeless, bottomless depression.



I began to sob and went out to the living room to feel less vulnerable. He is sitting there like stone and I am crying my eyes out. I find my sobbing to be too loud for the living room. I grab the paring knife off the counter and walk out to my balcony. I sit on the ground and cry. I try to muffle my whimpers. I pressed the knife tight to my wrist. I wished I could pull. I thought about it enough... and pulled. A slight red line came across my wrist... but no blood. I wondered... do I not want it enough? I placed it over my wrist and pulled... and pulled... and pulled again. The blood refused to pour. The sobs turned to a silent numbness.

I hate myself... that is all there is to it. So unhappy with myself. So angry that I messed up this relationship. I realized I just wasn't strong enough to cut my wrist and this knife was far too dull. I thought about the Iron pills sitting on my dresser. The prescription I was given for Anemia and choose not to take. I know they are lethal, easily lethal... and I have so many. In my silent paralysis I walked into the bedroom. I flipped on the light and tried to begin the conversation from a better, less attacking angle. He was angry, more angry than I had ever seen him before! His responses were stinging full of sarcasm, doubt, and resentment. His face was empty. He didn't see me like he used to see me. He came back because it was easy. He hated me... and I hated me!

I pulled the box from my drawer and popped out four pills. I held them in my shaking hand as I began to sob again. I took one. I didn't know what was right. I was so angry with me. I ruined us... I ruin everything... it will not get better despite what they all say. They say that to keep you moving, but really we are all down. The economy, the country, the world. Everything is wrong and so am I.

I popped the three open pills. I burst out into tears. I began writing emails. First, to my mother... the one I am most worried about. ...I popped ten more pills. I don't want her to be mad at me; I know she will be. I popped five more pills. Then my dad... he resented my uncle for killing himself. I heard the things they said about him. How he was a coward and took the easy way out. I asked him to forgive me, that I couldn't handle the hard way any more. I popped six more pills. Then my step mother. She has always been a beacon for me, a light, a vision of possible happiness. I'm not as strong as her. I popped ten more. I told them all I loved them. I messaged my cousin, my best friend, my sister. I told her to understand and to take care of my mother and cats. I popped five more to be sure it would work.

Thirty-five, three hundred twenty-five milligram tablets. I was sure to die. I don't want to chance it. I laid down with the lights off and begged for it to come, begged for it to wash over and swallow me.

I had to pee. I peed. I had to pee again. I peed. I had to pee again. ... I peed. Each time I grew more apprehensive of my decision. I googled the effects of this type of poisoning. It was vile, painful, and awful. This is not what I wanted. I called Poison control and asked if I could puke it. She was adamant that I not do that, that I should go to an ER immediately. I didn't want to go. ...

... I reached out for help... I called my mom. I told her and she was so sad and scared. I knew she didn't want this, I've always known that. She said puke and she'd find an answer. So... I puked. Over and over. It was dry and chalky. So dry it was blocking my throat as I puked. I tried not to choke. I puked about six times. She came and got me... she took me to the ER.

I puked it all up. I'm alive. So... what now?

Can't Stop Analyzing...

I think about his fun weekend. ... or at least un-miserable weekend.

I think about how he tells me he had to let me walk out and not follow me so that I could see that my actions needed to stop. And yet everything he did this weekend were actions of a single man, or at least not one in this relationship.

I think I fucked up.

I think I learned my lesson and I wish he would have told me he couldn't take it anymore before we had to spend a weekend apart.

I think about how he thought we were so over, despite telling me it was just a chance to show me my wrong, that he cancelled our already made plans and changed passwords.

I think... how could that be just a test?

I think he wants out.

I think why did he read all my emails. ...My old emails from before him, when I was facing such a strong pull toward my very unhealthy sexual addiction.

I think... how can he tell me, "reading someone's past emails gives you a feel for who they really are."?

I think how badly I messed up.

I think how much I wish I could take back my walking out.

I think he wants it to be over and he is begging me for a reason.

I think... why has he made steadily less and less time to talk to me while we're at work?

I think... I thought I knew him. I thought I could trust him. I didn't think I would ever need to change my passwords. I didn't think he would trust me so little that he'd change his passwords to protect himself.

I think, I may have walked out the door... but I never turned my back on us. Because I spent the weekend missing, wanting, begging for us. And he spent it thinking about anything else under the sun.

I think my trust is broken.

I think I don't know how to tell him how hurt I am because every time I try he tells me why my thoughts are manipulating his actions. How he can't be free and has to constantly control himself for me.

I think how could wanting to hear my boyfriend to tell me I'm beautiful be such a horrible desire. How could it be bad to need him to tell me he wants me and loves me?

I think... how am I in a relationship with someone who doesn't want to make me feel better? When did it change?

I think how could it be bad for him to give me one tiny shred of a thought that this weekend was flawed for him.

I think he came back with a million reasons why I seem to be holding him back.

I think, again, he wants out.

I think how could he not take me to my doctors appointment. The appointment I cry and shake through. How could he cancel on that? He wanted to protect me before. I cried and shook through it alone.

I think why doesn't he want to go to lunch with me anymore? Of course there are things to do and of course he wants to be healthy... but before, the thought of not having that time with me made him sad and longing. It doesn't anymore.

I think he changed his mind.

I think when he told me he would always be the way he is right now (when we first met)... he might not really know himself at all.

I think I fucked up.

I think it's over. And definitely not because I want it to be... but I fucked up so bad!

... And I think he's done.

Upside Down...

I wonder why I am sitting here... a quater past midnight. I wonder why I can't stop sobbing. I wonder when might these bouts of fear and doubt go the fuck away?

You're probably wondering where the hell I've been and what the hell I'm talking about. Approximately Christmas time I met someone. Everything was magical and pure.

I am pulling my same usual bullshit of running away. Why the hell am I running from something so completely magical?? Why do I seem to find every reason under the sun to be mad? There is nothing to be mad about. I have him. I have a wonderful, loving, honest, and giving man. ... But I'm still mad.

I have begun an intensive form of therapy to begin working on the things I need so desperately to fix about myself. To fix all the wrongs I learned as a child and have clung to as an adult. I want to be better than that. I want to be better than a string of poor excuses. Rape, incest, abuse, neglect... no matter the poison I must choose to be better than that. I must choose to live for me, for now, for life... and let go of all those pains.

This weekend I pushed him away harder than ever. I packed my things and called my mother for a ride. I stormed past him repeatedly taking my bags to the car one-by-one. I refused to make eye contact. I needed him to stop me.

My therapy has brought me upon a new topic I'd rather not approach... my father. I love him dearly. I see so many good things in him. We have had moments where I felt our bond was unbreakable. This is not that year. When I was 8 or so... I fell off the rocking chair in the living room. I cried out for him in the kitchen... he chose not to come. Lying on the floor in tears, this is how I seem to always be. An inexcusable mess of a human being unable to pick myself up without someone else telling me I am okay. My father didn't come... and when I told him I had fallen his best console was that I probably wouldn't use the rocking chair like that again... would I?

The mess applies in my relationships. I tell him the story of my father... and that very night the situation presents itself. A small fire starts on the stove and I yell for him... twice. The child beside him on the couch teaching him to play the video game says to him, "she's calling you". He stays still. Once I have the fire out and I have the pasta drained he strolls into the kitchen. His best response, "what could be so important about draining pasta"? I look at him with darts of hurt diving through my heart and out of my eyes into him.

I walk away. I eat dinner alone. I sleep on my edge of the bed. The next morning he walks in as if nothing has changed. "You coming with me to get the Brat?". ... that's what I get. Not an apology for his choosing to ignore me in that moment and through the night. I tell myself that I can't need him because I need him more than he is willing to be needed. I decide I must end all dependency. He leaves and I pack.

We spent the weekend apart. The first since the day we met. We have not spent hardly a pinch of time apart, not one full day. In the beginning he told me he loved that. He loved that I always wanted to be with him.

He didn't call. He didn't write. He didn't come... I cried. I cried sopping wet, fat tears into his shirt desperately sniffing any smell I could between sobs. I cried wishing he would come. I cried wishing I hadn't left. I cried praying I didn't just fuck up the best thing that had ever happened to me. Sunday afternoon I emailed him... without response. Monday morning I logged on to find more silence. Finally, I couldn't stand it...

"So this means were done then?"

No... we're not done, I hope. He spent the weekend relaxing with friends and pleasuring himself without me. I feel sick. I feel so completely sick! I feel useless, replacable, broken, and so fucked up!!

I try to tell him it sounds like he had a good weekend without me. He says... "Should I have sat around and cried all weekend? I know better than to waste my time being miserable, it doesn't help."

I try to tell him how replacable I feel. He says... "if you keep saying it, I'm going to start to believe it".

I try to tell him how... un-special I feel. He says... "how?"

I try to tell him I don't think he wants to be here with me. He says... "I wouldn't be here if I didn't want to be".

... Really? Not one word of reassurance. Not one... "I love you more than you will ever know! Yes, I hurt this weekend, but I had to go on for my kid. I hated being without you... only you." I feel empty. He tells me he can't reassure me all the time and that he can't always says exactly what I need to hear. But where does it end? I know I am demanding ... but throw me a fucking bone!!! Make me feel just a little like I matter because right now, I don't! Not one little bit!!

I lay in bed clothed, a very very rare occasion as you might guess. He asks why, and I tell him I don't feel safe yet. I tell him I don't now how to explain it and he warns me of farts. I tried again to talk... to tell him. He tells me to try, but I've tried, over and over. I can't right now, I have nothing left to give. All I can do is turn over and sob because somehow... I know I did this. I turned us upside down.

Honest to fucking god... how should I feel? It was magical. He made me feel real with kindness, hoesty, and loyalty. He made me feel heard. He made me feel special and one-of-a-kind. But what now? I love him so much! But now... I just feel upside down. Now... I don't know if it's fixable. The weekened I spent sobbing... I needed him to fix me.