What A Wicked Thing to Say, You Never Felt This Way

Sorry for being gone so long. A lot in my life is going on- and sometimes I wrap myself up in the enclosed universe of the internet, living through it when I can’t deal with… well, just living. Sometimes I see my random hiatuses from the online world as an accomplishment- I enjoy living in the moment when I can manage it. I write, generally, when there are things I need to say that I don’t feel like I have anyone to talk to about them- or when I’m struggling, or conflicted. How odd is it that the anonymity has given me a means to just air whatever I need to say to anybody who decides to read it- whether they know me or not. Some people don’t like this at all- they see it as vain or egotistical, or just don’t understand how a person doesn’t covet their own privacy enough to unleash their lives on the “public” without a filter.

Don’t judge my writing that way- I do have a filter. I think that is the part that alarms people with that opinion- is that every word is chosen deliberately. My life is my life. I’ve reached an age and a level of wisdom that has largely done away with the concern that I could be embarrassed by sharing the things that I do. I know that it’s just life, and it happens to most people, in some way or another. I also learned very young that anything can happen to absolutely anyone, regardless of cultural, religious or financial difference. It is the condition that makes us all human. I can’t be ashamed for being accepting of what and who I am. The fact, though, that no matter what, I have survived, is what makes me proud. And being that I live with an extremely isolating and controlling disease makes me realize that maybe if people were more open about themselves, they would feel so alone. We put up our own walls, supposedly to keep our own secrets in, but really- it just keeps other people out.

I think I need to face up to the fact that I suffer from depression. I get depressed a lot, despite the positive self-talk I’ve tried to feed myself over the years (because at some point I realized that my eternal pessimism was really reinforcing my depression). Oddly, I have also realized that my depression isn’t even an end-result of anything. It isn’t that I’m unhappy with my life. I’m unhappy with some of the conditions that I’m expected to live with (but no matter the decisions I could make about my life, those conditions would not change).

There is just a lot going on. There is always a lot going on in my world. I feel like I attract drama somehow. Just when I think things are getting manageable and quiet, a big stack of drama somehow lands in my lap, and all chaos lets loose. My Husband is a simple guy- leading a messy and complicated life. Now, I know that guys are very single-task oriented (as it is often put, they have every subject in a separate box, and by the laws of the universe they can only have one box open at a time), but my Husband actually works at simplifying the way he lives his life, and the way his mind works. He literally thinks in a very focussed way about the task at hand- and only the task at hand. Quite often, this gets him into a lot of trouble, because he doesn’t factor in  human complexity or the worst-case scenario. Inevitably, in an almost slap-stick fashion, all shit always hits the fan, just as he never really expects it to, and he is left with neither the preparation or the experience to deal with the fallout.

Thus, we have found ourselves in some hellacious situations, some that existed long before I became involved in the equation and only worsened with me as an addition to the mix. And then there are my problems. I have been convinced since an early age that I am a pox on luck- that I attract bad mojo wherever I go, and that everyone that gets involved in my life ‘catches’ my bad luck. Things were going well for him for the first time in his life when he started seeing me. Since then, it has been one fell swoop after another that has taken everything one little bit at a time. There were moments when things seemed to be going great… but somehow those few advantages have been the contributing factors to things getting worse. It’s one thing to go through pride-crushing experiences like going to the food bank just so you can eat when it is something you’ve had to do most of your life. But to watch someone else do it for the first time when they have never before been that low– it’s so sad. Standing in line waiting for my bag of free food with my Husband… watching his face… I felt sorry for him. I think nobody really wants that life for anyone else, even if they themselves are living it. Maybe we were stupid to get married during a recession. Maybe. I’ve heard marriage rates increase in times of poverty. But it wasn’t about money. It was about spending the rest of my life with someone I can’t imagine living without.

At least he is working now. The life that was out of him for a year is at least partially back. But he isn’t proud. And I miss seeing him proud of himself. I think it was one of the only times in his life that he really felt proud about what he was doing. I wish I could give him something (and by something, I mean a thing of substance, like a purpose- job or hobby or life change) that would make him that happy again. I think that’s one of the things I love about our marriage. Though we love each other very much, and make one another happy, we have independent needs, too. We come together, we don’t need one another just to survive.

So, my current problem: my past. I look back too often. It’s stupid. I shouldn’t. I should just let it go. But if anyone reading this has read the entirety of my blog, you know how my last relationship ended. It changed me. It changed my life. It broke me inside somewhere, in such a profound place that I’m not sure I will ever be quite right again. I ran away from that life. I literally packed my bags, turn around and walked out after six years, and didn’t even slow down to tie up the loose ends. I had to get out before the crushing depression I was going through forced me to kill myself. I came really close. But now, now that I can at least live with the way things are (and by life with, I mean I’m not in the fetal position in the shower crying and holding a bottle of pills) I’ve tried to come to terms in small ways. I’ve been curious. I’ve wondered. And that curiosity led me to a hard fact.

My ex is marrying the girl he nearly killed me for. The girl he cheated on me with. After three years together they’re getting married. She just moved in with him. After six years, living with him for four, working full time at crap jobs so that he could go to college, I couldn’t get him to propose if I was pregnant with octuplets. At the time, what he wanted from his career was more important than I was. There were so many things that held him back then. He doesn’t seem to care about any of that anymore. I waited for him to reach the place in his life he seems to have found. I’ll never understand.

And therein lies the crushing guilt. This was three years ago. Despite how shit went down, why do I still care? Why? Why does this knowledge hurt so much? I mean… couldn’t they have broken each-others hearts before he found the woman he wanted to marry? Did it have to be her? In all honesty, if she hadn’t hijacked my life, I think I’d like her. But she’s selfish, ignorant, naive and incredibly pretentious. Those are all qualities I deeply despise. The only story she wanted was the one that let her believe she could have her way. She chose to believe what she wanted and then had the nerve to try to apologize via text message.

“I nearly died in the hospital alone while my common-law husband of four years was in our apartment, fucking a minor, you enormous twat.” That comment doesn’t even begin to describe what I wanted to say to her. Hell, it doesn’t even begin to describe what I want to say to her now. I feel guilty for caring. But I care so much that it is all I can do not to take the trip back to my old neighborhood and deck the bitch in the face. She stole my life out from under me.

Underneath it all there is a voice of logic that tells me that it never was going to work out, with or without her involvement in our lives. I think I would even be okay if it had just ended differently. I wish he’d been successful at making me hate him. But the harder he tried to be cruel the harder I tried to change to make him happy. What the fuck is wrong with me?

What’s more, I feel like all of this old baggage is a betrayal of my marriage. I love my husband, more than anything in this world. Thus, in the massive clusterfuck of a situation, I am not sleeping, and I am two weeks late. Hello 5:42am. We meet again.

Fucking hell.

K.N.

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~ by Kд§$ị (ИovΔ) on 12/02/2010.

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