you are young, you are free
summer girl, summer girl
- white wires

and i mean, yeah, duh… birthdays happen every year.

but on my birthday last year, dan had broken up with me three days prior, and he was living in the spare bedroom getting shit-faced, while i would lay awake at night trying to put my pieces back together. when dan had come home from a night of binge drinking, and sat me down on the couch to tell me he couldn’t do this anymore, i remember crying hysterically- swallowing hard, trying not to throw up all over my dress.

and then three days later, my girlfriends took me out for burgers, and bought me a birthday cake that said “happy birthday bitch!” on it, and the feelings in my stomach began to settle. i remember feeling thankful for my ladies, grateful that dan had ended things, and excited to spend a sleepless summer with some of the best friends a girl could ever ask for.

god dammit, a year goes by fast.

in an instant things had changed.

i lost my boyfriend, i gained a roommate (nightmare). i quit my job, and was unemployed for nine months (nightmare). i fell off the wagon, and got back on (thank GOODNESS- because there was a moment there, where i had almost checked my sweet little self into the looney bin because HI! i’m bad at dealing with life. and also? my heart hurts! and even worse? my brain is broken.). and then i moved (alone!), i got back on my feet (hurrah!), i landed an incredible job (way to go!), i met the most amazing man on this here planet earth (my, my!).

you guys, it’s fine.

life is fine, and things are good, and sometimes a person just needs a little mental vacation (or twelve) before she gets things right, you know? or at least… gets on the path of a road that could potentially be right, lest i fuck it up, etc.

baby steps, okay? this is the first process of recovery.

anyway, so a birthday happened, and then a shit year happened, and then another birthday happened (logically).

here are a few things i’ve learned:

1. if you already know a relationship isn’t going to work out longterm, DO NOT waste the time, energy, and emotion into trying to fix it. mourn a little, cry a whole bunch, eat a tub of ice cream, shake it off, and move on.

2. girlfriends are the backbone to your crazy, stupid life. let them in, let them help you.

3. if you’re going to let go, have a plan to get back on your feet. the universe isn’t kind.

4. trust your gut, dammit.

5. don’t EVER settle for a relationship that doesn’t make your heart burst. if you crave certain things in life, you have the god-given right to GET those things!

you want babies? don’t date a man who hates kids.
you want to get married? don’t date a man who is terrified to commit to you.
you like sex? date a man who will fuck your brains out.
family is important to you? why be with someone who complains about family functions?
you need romance? don’t settle for a man who won’t hold your hand in public, or open doors for you, a man who won’t buy you flowers, or leave you love notes. a man who won’t take bubble baths with you, or take you to dinner, or let you get shitfaced on martinis when he’s had one cider all night. don’t settle for a man who is terrified to show you how much he cares about you.

my parents were lucky enough to find love when they were sixteen. they met and knew in their hearts that they would get married and have babies, and live a simple, happy life together. they’re best friends. my dad is in his 50′s and he still looks at my mother like she’s the most beautiful woman on the planet- because she is. she’s smart, and she has the biggest heart, and beautiful hair, and she birthed his kids. sometimes she’ll look at the grey in his blond hair, or the striking blue of his eyes, and she’ll whisper: “isn’t dad a hunk?”. yes, my goodness yes! they give each other purpose, and they support each other, and they love to hangout, and take up new hobbies together. why should you settle for anything less than that in your life? everyone in the world can have that kind of love, if they believe they’re worth it.

and you’re fucking worth it.

remember that.

6. unemployment is hard. don’t fucking do it.

7. cats fix everything.

8. count your blessings. kiss your loved ones. call your mother. pay your bills. paint a room in your house. do your chores. take a walk. eat some chocolate. don’t hold back. dance your heart out. buy new shoes. wear dresses! be a good person. laugh.

9. don’t be so scared of change- it can be liberating, exciting even.

10. everything is going to be okay.

happy birthday to me, i made it another year!

and how did i celebrate this year?

i got to drink champagne in the tub with my favourite dude.

he took me out to dinner, just the two of us, and then out for martinis with some friends.

it was simple, and adorable (except for when i passed out in the cab on the way home after too many pink ladies… i’m sexy, i know), and perfect!

miles and i miss you’s distinguish this relationship, and our lives are measured in countdowns.

that’s what he told me, once. we were holding each other, intertwined in his star wars bedsheets, kissing between action scenes from robocop. he pushed the hair from my face, kissed me softly on my lips, and said, “is this our destiny? is our life going to be measured in countdowns?”.

yes, absolutely, yes.

and while a part of me struggles with our hello’s (so perfectly executed), and our goodbye’s (so painfully hard), i force myself to embrace these moments, and remember these memories with a vividness striking enough to remember in my darkest times.

we’re standing in my kitchen, and he is intently watching me cook. taking pictures of me- hair dishelveled, t-shirt slipping off my shoulder, not wearing pants- and my heart is filled with so much emotion, i can barely catch my own breath. he’s pacing around, air-guitaring, and giggling… so happy he can barely contain himself. this is how i think of him, always. when i miss him the most, and when i am at my worst, i think of the softness of his hands, wrapped around my waist, with a kindness so new to me… and i’m paralyzed.

.. and for the first time in years, i am not paralyzed by sadness, or fear. i am paralyzed by the love i have for this man- bursting in my chest, and pulsing through my veins, and jesus christ, how in the hell did i get this lucky?

écrire est une forme de mensonge.
c’est-à-dire de fiction, de hâblerie,
de mystification. simplement
parce qu’on ne peut pas tout dire. *
- Robert Lalonde

* writing is a form of lying.
that is to say fiction, bragging,
mystification. simply
because we cannot say everything.

i disagree.

because in writing, i can finally tell my truths, open my heart and say everything my mouth can’t.

i’m standing on the edge of my own life, and looking over the ledge to find nothing but black. a void so ugly, so terrifyingly imposing… and then suddenly: light. love. change.

and i want to thank him, and kiss him, and hold him against my body, and tell him i love him in a way i never thought i’d be capable of loving a human being ever again- with trust and honesty, and with a newness and spark i thought would have been lost forever.

but no, it isn’t.

because there he is, sleeping soundly between my sheets, holding onto my ribs, and steadily inhaling and exhaling on my neck, and… what’s the opposite of calculated? nothing has ever felt so the opposite of calculated than this. he is mine, and i am his, and here we are, just belonging to each other- just being. happily breathing between each other’s breaths, and waking up to the smell of skin, and snoring, and sex in the early stages of summer.

suddenly now I know where I belong
it’s many hundred miles and it won’t be long
- feist & ben gibbard

three days.

i just forget what that kind of blissful happiness feels like

sometimes i think it took me so long to finally leave m because a part of me wanted so badly to believe that some sort of goodness could be restored. somehow i believed if i loved him stronger, or better, or if i held on less tightly, or showed independence that he’d change. i wondered if i kept the house perfect, and his clothes washed and folded, and if i answered all of his phone calls and text messages immediately and with full attention, that he’d realize how much i cared. i thought that by building a relationship with his family, and supporting his habits, and giving into the pain he inflicted (the pain he constantly inflicted) on me… he’d want to be better.

i was wrong.

i was always so fucking wrong when it came to him.

i constantly looked for love in all the wrong places- giving into people i didn’t want to give into, acting like a disconnected, skeleton of a human being. feigning emotion, and faking legitimacy so i could finally feel something (anything) but broken. so i could make these poor suckers believe there was enough room in my heart to care about anyone- make these people believe there was room in my heart at all. i became independent to a fault. i was a fortress, a tower. an unattainable bitch.

and it kills me to think of that now.

because i am soft, and emotional, and friendly. i exude happiness and i think of myself as genuine. i won’t lie. i won’t purposely hurt, or damage, or destroy anything, or anyone. not intentionally, anyway. it makes me physically sick to know i’ve caused anyone harm.

what change a few years can bring…

i guess i finally woke up. i realized i was being unfair, and selfish and awful. i’ve tried to rebuild whatever has been lost- within me, in my life… moving forward has been a constant up-hill battle. sometimes, i’ve fallen down, and other times i persevered… but dammit, it’s been rough.

i am terrified of rejection.

and i think i’ve been settling for relationships that didn’t allow any room for growth, or change… because i am so fucking terrified of success- of getting better. of being healthy, and happy. because a part of me wonders if i’m just programmed to perpetually fail. i wonder if maybe my fate has it written that i am supposed to feel this kind of sadness and agony forever.

and that’s bullshit.

because i am blessed with a family who loves me to the moon, and with skin tough enough to get me through anything, and a heart big enough to finally, finally allow room for healing, and change, and love.

when i was eighteen years old, i remember bawling my eyes out in a friend’s arms. she calmly stroked my hair, as she said:

“all this pain is going to be worth something beautiful some day”

… and as i cried, and cried, and shook my head, she whispered:

“you’re so brave”.

i remember that like it was yesterday.

and when i spent all those years, peeling myself from between my sheets, to carry on this bullshit life i didn’t give two fucks about… when i constantly cursed my alarm clock from ripping me from sleep, i would sit up, swing my legs over the side of my bed, and whisper to myself, “all this pain is going to be worth something beautiful some day”. i would drag my feet to the washroom, awkwardly look myself in the mirror, and say, “you’re so brave”.

and i was.

and i know i don’t give myself enough credit for that.

but for the first time in years… something inside of me has changed. i don’t cry myself to sleep, and i don’t get angry when i wake up. i don’t resent my failed relationships, or point the finger. i don’t envy anyone’s life but my own. because things have started to change, and i have started to gain confidence, and strength- things that have been lost over the years, two things that had continued to evade me in the months after leaving dan, and attempting to date brad. the more i gave in, and the more i settled for a potential future that would have made me miserable… the harder it became to see clearly.

all i wanted was a little clarity.

and i feel like each decision i’ve made finally makes sense.

loving m, and leaving him too. taking him back, and hiding from him. surviving the abuse, and healing from it. quitting jobs, accepting new positions. moving into new apartments, leaving hastily. dating close friends i wanted so badly to love- to build a future with, leaving them- or accepting that they wanted to leave me. making friends, severing ties… all this incredible pressure i put on myself to finally get things right, and to stop fucking up.

and when i stopped searching for answers, and i stopped looking for love, and i quit forcing myself to figure out my life… things started happening.

life happened.

an important job working for a french canadien not for profit organization, liaising with the french public schoolboard.

a half decent one bedroom apartment, located in my favourite part of the city i put a whole lot love and elbow grease into making it home feel like home- the first (safe) home i’ve had since moving out of my parents’ house in the suburbs when i was still in high school.

an incredible circle of friends who has (and continues to) love, and support me.. and be the backbone to the life i’m trying desperately to rebuild.

and michael. mon amour. my anchor. the honey to my pooh, the peanut butter to my jelly, the cassandra to my wayne in wayne’s world.

…and while i anticipate the next year being a whirlwind of love and chaos- a complete mix of desparation, positivity and change… i can finally say i remember exactly what this kind of blissful happiness feels like.

and it feels better than i could have ever anticipated.

i buy the same things at the grocery store on a weekly basis, i enjoy an evening completed with a bubble bath, a fresh coat of nail polish, and a joint pressed tightly between my fingers before i lean over to flick the switch off my anchor lamp on my bedside table. i always put avocados in my sandwiches, i call brad at 4:30 every single day when i’m leaving the office, and i’m comforted by the smell of my bedsheets when i wake up. i’m not good at mornings, i rarely rotate shampoo brands, i’ve been wearing the same perfume for over five years, and i’m damn near unbearable to be around when my routines are fucked with.

i’m also bad at new relationships.

horrible at them, even.

what if i’m holding on too tightly? what if i haven’t been holding on tightly enough? am i selfless, and when i smile- can he feel it in his gut; could my love move mountains? i fluctuate between feeling like the best girlfriend on the planet, and wondering if he may be missing out on something greater. it’s a horrible issue of self-confidence, and i’m aware of how debilitating it can be.

a few weeks ago, brad left for ten days on a road trip to the states, and my mornings were fucked because i hate waking up without him, and my afternoons were a write-off because i constantly checked my phone at the time i knew he’d be waking up if he were home- knowing i wouldn’t hear from him constantly because of long-distance charges… and that’s where it hit me.

at that point, he had been gone exactly five days, and i missed his frigging guts.

i missed his daily texts, and the sound of his voice at 4:30 in the afternoon, and the taste of his lips after dinner. i missed the smell of his laundry detergent, and the sound of him exhaling as he would fall asleep next to me, and again when i’d wake up before him. i missed cooking dinner together, and playing scrabble in the evenings, and drinking chai tea at the movie theatre. i missed the way he’d play with my hands, as we layed on his bed- soaking in a silence so comfortable i could barely even describe it.

FIVE DAYS, he was gone when i realized how much i cared about him.

FIVE DAYS, when i realized it wouldn’t work between us.

it isn’t about independence…

it’s just that things felt so goddamn good when he was around that i could forget about the bullshit inside of my head. i could soak in the habitual lifestyle we’d created over a year, and find comfort in things being just so.

i like normalcy.

i’m comfortable with mediocrity.

i’m not intimidated by routine.

i don’t need extravagance, or new adventures every single day. of course i’m curious about how the air smells in europe, or how many pina coladas i can shove into my face for free in the carribean. i’ll always crave new experiencesand incredible stories, and adding push-pins to the destinations i’ve been to, on the map in my heart.

who doesn’t ache for that?

but until those things can happen, i just need someone who’ll love me the way i love them- comfortably, and whole-heartedly, and honestly.

and while brad did love me in a certain way, and take care of me, and make me feel like the greatest part of his life… there were so many little important pieces to a relationship that had been lost between us along the way. maybe we waited so many years to finally be together, that a lot of that passion had dwindled. and while i whole-heartedly adore everything about him that makes him who he is… in loving him, i was loving less of myself. i was settling for a relationship that didn’t make my heart burst the way i know it needs to.

i don’t have any regrets. we needed to finally give us a shot to figure out if it was worth doing. and while i am still struggling to learn how to be his best friend again, struggling to learn to say our hellos and goodbyes that don’t end so awkwardly… i am reminding myself how lucky i am to have a friend like him in my life. a friend who will drop anything he is doing, if i need him by my side. someone who will hold me when i’m sad, or comfort me when i am having panic attacks. a friend who knows my moods, the tone of my voice, and that when i say “i’m fine”, i actually mean “you’re being a prick and i fucking hate you, right now”. because i need that- the comfort of a male figure like him who loves me with without trying, and who gets me without forcing it.

it won’t be easy.

we can both be incredibly jealous, and selfish when it comes to each other. but at least now we know our timing is off, and we’ll need to move forward without the title of boyfriend/girlfriend, to figure out what we want, and who we want to be, and what is best for each of us- together, or apart.

my father was driving me home one night, along the dark city highways. we’d just left a home furnishings store, and laughed together over the lack of things we owned as kids, living on our own. i forced a smile, as i casually tried to remember the few things m and i had in our first real home together.

wait, home is a generous term.

we lived in an old house with slanted ceilings and crooked floorboards. it had a roof, and a door, and people lived inside, but it was far from a home. it smelled old, and it was cheap as hell, and i’m positive it was haunted. it felt that way anyway- like when i walked through that door to spend days and nights alone, waiting… someone’s ghost was sitting next to me, aching too. it made me feel less alone if i could picture someone sitting next to me, hurting as much as i was – holding my hand with her cold, imaginary fingers. comforting me without saying a word.

“a turn table, two records”, i started listing off the things in our apartment.

“two records!”, my dad scoffed.

“a second-hand blue suede sofa i scored for $20, a broken computer desk, a broken computer”, i continued.

“a broken home”, he added.

“a broken heart”, i said.

broken walls, and broken belongings, and ripped t-shirts, and shattered dreams, and a destroyed sense of self.

late at night, i count my blessings that he never made it to my bones. i was lucky i could cover the walls with posters, and throw the ripped clothing and pictures into the trash before anyone had noticed, and i could zip up a sweater to my chin so i wouldn’t have to explain the bruises. but sometimes i wonder how i could have hidden a cast, or blood, and physical scars.

i escaped virtually unscathed.

” I wonder where I’d be if I hadn’t let you use my own physicality to weaken my arms and legs against escape.”

unscathed.

what a joke.

i obsess over locked doors, and collar bones, and how safe it feels to sleep with shoes on. i obsess over lights being on, and how startled i get by phone calls from unknown numbers, or the irregular spelling of such a common name. i narrow my eyes on the parts of my body i hate most- the parts of my body he ridiculed, or criticized, or made fun of- parts of me i used to love, or appreciate, or at least tolerate. i worry that he thinks of me (or worse- that he doesn’t). i think about his freedom, and how i could have so easily taken it from him. i resent myself for not taking it from him. i’m angry because i could have saved so many others.

and what good would it do to open the floodgates? what good would it do to open those wounds, and confront him, finally? i worry that if i did, it wouldn’t put an end to that chapter, but open it forever.

and that scares me more, i think.

why i let fear control my life (continuously so) for so long, i’ll never know.

“it seems more likely that you would keep me in a constant state of unhappy, which lends a truth to the theory of misery and company.”

how does one repair that kind of damage- or is it even possible?

i get terrified when i think of what humans are capable of, and what kind of poison needs to be coursing through your veins, to inflict that kind of abuse, and pain on someone. and then (so fucking casually) act like it never happened.

how horrifying.

the damage has been done, and he is physically gone- but what about everything else?

what about the remnants?

what about the invisible hands, wrapped so tightly around my neck when i am trying to kiss my boyfriend? or the imaginary tear in my shirt when we are tickle-fighting? what about his raspy voice inside my head telling me i’m worthless, after someone has just told me i’m beautiful? what about the debilitating fear that rattles my heart against my skin when i’m bracing myself for the beating that won’t ever come again?

have you ever had to do that?

have you ever had to look at the man you love, and clench your fists, and ready your bones for the pain that was about to be inflicted upon you? to try and harden your skin for what it’s going to feel like once your body lands on your cold wood floor, repeatedly. to start holding your breath once you see those massive hands, coming at you- white-knuckled and ready to stop the oxygen from entering your lungs for as long as it would take for you to black out?

it makes me fucking sick to think about it.

… survival goes a lot deeper than coming out of this alive.

i survived the beating, and the choking, and i survived bruises, and name-calling, and what it felt like when i found out about the other women. women- plural. how it felt to find out about the physical relationships he’d have behind my back, or the emotional ones where he’d have feelings for them, and part their lips with eyes closed, and stare into each others’ eyes the way he stared into mine, in the beginning. i survived rape and ridicule, and ripped clothing. i survived the feeling of my heart shattering when he’d tear up our photobooth pictures, or he’d call me a cunt, or when he’d tell me i deserved this life. i survived him leaving the city, and the province, and i survived the few times he came back. i survived the threats through clenched teeth, and the sound of the plaster breaking- where his fist had gone through right next to my head. i survived blame, and resentment, and torment.

i survived in that he didn’t fucking kill me.

i was lucky.

my bones are in tact, and my brain works really hard on a second-to-second basis to fight through this.

and as for my heart?

i feel around for it sometimes. on my good days, i look deep inside of myself and i search for its faint heartbeat. i cradle it in my palms, and i try to mould it back into shape. i shock it into regular beats, and i try with every fibre of my being to erase everything bad to make room for what’s to come. i polish it up, and i make it shine, and sometimes it bursts open again- ready and willing to put effort into trying again.

i’m not saying it’s easy.

and on my darkest days, i just want to crumple it up, and put it through the shredder, and order a new one online, because what’s the use in saving something so beaten and broken? what good does it do to try and salvage something that has been put back together four times? at some point the walls begin to cave, and there are tears and holes, and there’s just no use in trying.

but i survived- and that takes courage, and determination, and strength, and an incredible amount of hope.

and my heart is worth saving.

and i’m worth saving.

“I figure, maybe with a bigger heart, I can love strangers a little more”

baby steps.

when i left m for the last time, i had this song on repeat for hours, and days, and months.

…it was my anthem. my reason. the only explanation i could justify in finally separating myself from the only life i knew. everything he touched turned to shit. he made me a bad woman by proxy. by the end of the four (worst) years (of my life), i didn’t recognize myself anymore. my family could barely speak to me, and i had severed ties with so many friends only so i could keep my secrets to myself. so i wouldn’t have to explain the bruises, or the holes in the wall, or the destroyed belongings, or why i felt like drinking every single fucking day. it wasn’t only to numb the pain, or to forget. i drank because when i was drunk, i felt alive- something i hadn’t felt in years. it was superficial, of course… but i felt it none the less. i was social, and i laughed, and i would dance, and i made friends, and broke hearts, and i would exude confidence that had been shattered by m.

when i met him, i thought i had fallen in love with my future husband. the man who was going to father my children, and make me breakfast in bed on mother’s day, and spend time with my family, and take care of me when i was ill. i thought our story would stand out, not because of its horror, but because of its beauty. its simplicity. i thought it would stand out because it was special. and it was- at first. it was all of those things, and so much more than i could possibly explain.

i was barely sixteen years old when i saw his darkeyes, and cotton candy pink lips for the first time. he was waiting for a bus, and our eyes locked for a few seconds, and i felt the wind get knocked out of my lungs. this man (so young then) was so quiet- leaning against a wall, smoking cigarettes, his entire body covered in tattoos. my heart stopped, and my palms got sweaty, and i had made up my mind- right then and there- that i was going to have this man. it was a feeling so fierce, i could barely shake it.

our paths didn’t cross for another five months.

and it was the end of my life as i knew it.

had i known then, what i knew now- i’d have trusted my gut.

… but i’m a heart girl, through and through, and although it’s been wrong (time and time again), i followed this coffee-haired, black-eyed, beautiful (so goddamn beautiful) stranger. we followed each other at a party- watching each other from the corner of our eyes, touching hands when we spoke, whispering into each others ears over the music. he had a mohawk, and i could taste the vodka on his tongue when we kissed that night.

that’s how i like to remember him, unfortunately. pure, and young, and gentle. the way he would hold my hand, or touch my lower back when we spoke, or the way he would kiss me- all day, every day. the first time he’d see me, and between sentences, before leaving. he’d kiss my mouth, and my forehead, and my hands, and my eyes. he’d kiss me just to kiss me. his voice, so sweet and so low- almost a whisper. and we made love, believe it or not. he would light dozens of candles in the basement, and we’d kiss every inch of each others’ body. we’d touch and take our time, and really love each other. he’s the only person i’ve ever done that with, actually. he’d drive me home, late at night… holding hands, and kissing at stop lights. he would run my baths, and make me breakfast in bed all the time. he would wash my hair in the shower, and take pictures of me all the time. he’d leave love notes by the bed, and he’d draw me pictures, and write me letters. he’d buy me cards- just because. he would tell me he loved me every single day. we’d lay on the beach in silence, for hours. we’d take walks, and shower together every morning.

he loved me…

a lot. he loved me harder, and stronger, and better than any man has ever loved me in my life. without question, or condition, or doubt. he lived for me- he told me every day that he lived for me. it’s difficult to be loved like that, so young in your life. to be sixteen years old and feel like i knew what the next fifty years of my life would look like- that i’d be this lucky in love for the rest of my life… and then have it ripped from me.

he changed over night.

i look back now… i dig deep for signs, or red flags. and i just can’t find them anywhere. i look back on the first year of our relationship, and i am shattered by confusion. this man- this young, incredible man who loved me, and cared for me, and took care of me every single day… he woke up one morning hating me. hating our life. hating the simplicity of our love and companionship. he woke up fiending for drugs, and wanting to fuck strangers, and taking out his aggressions on me- the only woman who loved him the way i loved him. and that struck me harder than his fist ever did- the way his heart loved me still, but his actions didn’t. the things he would say to me… i can’t even wrap my head around it sometimes.

just the thought of our bed
makes me crumble like the plaster
where you punched the wall beside my head
- ani difranco

i stayed for three years longer than i should have.

out of fear, out of survival, out of naivety and guilt. and when i finally left, i never mourned the loss. i celebrated the victory. after a few weeks of drinking myself to sleep, forgetting to eat and shower, and not even stepping foot outside of my own bed… after weeks of anguish and fear, i finally celebrated. i celebrated for days, and then weeks, and months, and years. i spent so much time being angry, that i forgot to be sad. i spent so many years celebrating the funeral of a monster, of the demon that was our poisonous relationship… that i forgot to feel pain and sadness over the loss of the year i’d spent with the m who loved me. i forgot to mourn the loss of my first love. the loss of the baby we almost had together. the loss of the life we’d started to build. the loss of my dignity, and self-respect, and confidence- things i am still working on, years later… trying desperately to rebuild.

i don’t know why it’s surfacing now- why all this pain has boiled over, and why i feel disconnected again. i don’t know why i feel the need to mourn now that i am finally safe, and happy, and healthy- trying to put my pieces back together after being derailed. but it’s happening and i can’t control it anymore. i can’t help but feel angry that my first love was lost, and that i’ll never have anything good to say about him. i can’t help resenting him. i can’t help resenting myself and the decisions i made not to have our baby, or build my own life with that child- safe from her father and his demons. and don’t get me wrong- i’m happy with every choice i’ve ever made when it comes to m… i didn’t have the tools then to understand what abuse was, or how to escape it. all i knew was that i needed to save myself, and it’s only when i was finally ready to be without him that i gathered the courage to stand up to him, and walk away forever.

and it makes me sick, you know… to feel sad over this. to miss (the beginning of) that love.

but now that the shock has worn off, and the anger has subsided… i’m left with this incredible sadness, and self-pity. i’m overwhelmed by anxiety and confusion. and i never want this space to be censored. i hope writing about m won’t ever stop feeling cathartic… but there are some stories i’ve burried so deep inside of me- certains things i’ve never had the courage to share, or the words to even describe things that happened- and i need now (more than ever) to purge those stories from inside of me. to rid them from my bones, and shove them in a metaphorical bag, and then set that bag on fire. i need to share my truths with a professional, so i can get some closure, finally.

real closure- not the kind where i tell everyone i’m okay, and i belittle him as a human being, and share his indecensies… i mean real closure, and healing, and finally closing a book that has been open for seven goddamn years. and i realise that a lot of my behaviours in life (and love) stem from surviving abuse- but i can’t let those behaviours define my relationships any longer. i can’t let my secrets dictate my happiness, or my future.

i just forget what that kind of blissful happiness feels like. i feel like i got the private screening to the unatural, disturbing ways of the human race, and i’m rattled. i’ve seen too much, and i’ve felt too much, and i know too fucking much about what it feels like to be torn apart at the hands of a bad man. and that makes me incredibly, and unforgivingly sad…

and i want to fix that.

2. beer

3. painting a new apartment

4. the first kiss after a week’s worth of illness

5. seeing a nice picture of yourself pop up on your boyfriend’s cell phone when you call

6. clean towels, curtains, and shower curtains

7. shoes without socks

8. the smell of the air after a brief, cold spring rain

9. late-night tv hangouts with friends

10. kitten cuddles after hours of packing/painting

sometimes i feel like the feelings in my heart, and the voices in my head are at constant battle with me. like they are the popular girls at some big, private school in the suburbs, and they hate my loafers and over-grown bangs. they bully me because i’m too short, and my eyes are sad, and my hair is too dark. and i’ve forgotten how to cry.

sometimes i feel so hurt… and all i can do is sit on the edge of my bed waiting for these emotions to take over me- i’m waiting for tears to well up in my eyes, or for my lip to start quivering, but all i even know how to do anymore is sit- back hunched over, pouting like a child, and angry (so fucking angry) that i have to wait for something other than this dull ache in the middle of my chest to make me feel real again.

this feeling is not in my gut, like when you’re sad and you want to throw up and crawl under your blankets. and not in my throat, like when you’re on the verge of tears, and you have your mother’s phone number on speed dial because you know you can always call the woman who gave you birth and know she’ll sit on the other end and listen to your breathing, and let the sound of your tears falling onto the receiver take over, because sometimes you just need to fucking call your mom and cry, and cry, and cry. and she lets you. she lets you like no one else lets you. and that’s important.

but sometimes there’s this ache in the middle of your chest. and it hurts when you breathe, and it hurts when you realize you’re still breathing, and it hurts even when it’s not hurting. and how do you call your mother and tell her that your life is falling into place, finally… but the only thing you can do is lay on your back, over your covers (your favourite covers) and stare at the dumb popcorn ceiling you hate, and you narrow your eyes on that little speckle of olive green paint you carelessly (accidentally) got on your stupid ceiling when you were painting one sunday afternoon- drunk off four cans of PBR, and shaking your butt in your yoga pants to some of your favourite new order song.

fuck, that seems like forever ago.

how do you tell your mother everything on the outside is beautiful, but everything inside of you feels like a thick black sludge, and you’re drowning in the quicksand of your own sorrow?

i hadn’t felt loved (really loved) in so long. but when he’d spin my favourite records (just for me), or spend hours making up incredible recipes (just for me), or i’d come home to the smell of bleach and lemons, because he’d spent his only day off on his hands and knees, scrubbing the tub and cleaning the kitchen floors (just for me- and also, totally for himself)… those little things made me feel so important. like he had a zillion choices he could make in a day, and every single one he made, he made to see me smile. because he knew, in the bottom of his heart, that the woman he loved was the saddest girl on the planet.

and he was right, you know.

i am horribly selfish, and painfully lost, and i can’t shake this sadness from my insides.

sometimes i place my palm on my chest just to feel the boom-boom of my own heartbeat to remind myself that i really am here, and this really is my reality, and i better buck up and make the best of it, because i really don’t have many other options at this point.

i feel so guilty. i am so blessed, and so lucky, and i worry that my mother will start to read between the lines, and she’ll see a sadness and a darkness, and she’ll feel the pain i’m living every day, and she’ll blame herself. and i’d die. i would die if my mother ever felt like she’d failed me because of the chemical inbalance in my brain. like her hugs weren’t strong enough, or like the love inside of her wasn’t enough to keep me happy.

that would kill me.

because she has the best hugs of anyone i’ve ever met. her neck always smells the same, and her cheeks are rosy and soft- like peaches in the summer. and her hands… i’ve never loved anyone’s hands the way i love my mother’s hands- strong, and weathered, and perfectly manicured, and so fucking feminine. lined with expensive rings with big stones, and always fresh smelling- like coriander and olive oil. and she’s the most soft-spoken woman i’ve ever known.

sometimes i picture her with hair white like snow, and wrinkles beside her eyes, and i fall more in love with her than i ever thought i could. like she’s this perfect creature with a heart the size of texas, and the colour of a fire truck, and it’s almost as if she’s aging backwards. like her hair is getting blonder, and her smile is getting more genuine with every birthday candle i add onto the cakes i bake her from scratch. and all i can think about is how i hope i can be that beautiful someday- carelessly, and without even trying. innocent, and light.

—

i’m a dweller.

i dwell on things.

i resent people. i hold grudges. i relive painful memories. fool me once, shame on me… fool me twice, i’ll fucking kill you.

maybe it’s a pride thing. maybe i enjoy the feeling of having the upper hand. maybe i like to fucking win, and i’m so sick of hurting, that i’ll do anything in my power to avoid conflict, or painful situations, or loss. i have too much love inside of me, and i get angry when it has nowhere to go. i build walls, and retract, and every new fucking day, is another 24 hours of self preservation.

people tried to help me for years, and i whole-heartedly refused every single gracious offer because i had too much damn pride to seek help for the sadness in my heart. i never got the help i needed when i was desperate, or scared, or alone. i never told anyone when my life was at risk, or the darkness got too heavy, and i certainly never told anyone about what happened. about everything that happened. i burried all of those nightmares and memories into this tiny little ventricle in the red of my heart, and i tried (for years, now) to forget. but sometimes i lay alone in my bedroom at night, and that little drawer is so close to bursting at the seams and i suffocate. i’m paralyzed by these memories (that don’t always feel like my own). and while a big part of me wants to cradle my frail little limbs, and whisper in my own ear and assure myself that i’ll be okay, the other part of me wants to shake me by the shoulders, slap me across the hardest part of my cheek, and tell myself to fucking get over it. to fucking stand tall, and be alert, and always be strong.

be the kind of woman other women envy, for fuck’s sake.

eat well, and play hard, and kiss with your eyes closed, and play. wear lipstick, and go dancing, and buy shoes you can’t really walk in, and excel at your job. laugh, always. smile constantly. be friendly, and make strangers fall in love with you. be charming, stay humble, be gentle. give without the expectation of getting anything in return. show some cleavage. read books, be interesting, cook for your man. take bubble baths, and paint your toe nails to match your finger nails, and shave your legs. listen to music that makes you shake your ass, and shake that ass. be proud of your body. be proud of its imperfections, and its dimples, and tell yourself you’re beautiful. because you are.

you are so fucking beautiful.

genetics made it so my hips are big, my eyes are brown, and my brain is scrambled.

but that other stuff? the things i can control, and the things i can alter and change and do to make this darkness less heavy? those are things i need to do for myself. those are the things i need to focus on to make me feel good, as a person, and as a woman, and as a timid, sad little girl stuck inside this explosive firecracker of a human being.

so set out to do the same… because i sure as hell can’t do this alone.

i don’t mean good in the sense that it feels better once i do it. i mean a good, strong, ugly, big, fat cry so i can put on my pants without sobbing. or leave the house without having a panic attack. or burst into tears when i’m feeling avocados for ripeness in the produce aisle at the grocery store.

because i’ve done all of that already this week. and i’m at a point now, where i know i need to let out at least some of those tears before i even attempt to put on makeup, or meet a friend for coffee- because if i don’t get it out of my system, it has a tendency to creep up on me when i least expect it. and the last thing i need right now, is for the homeless people on the busiest street in my city neighbourhood to look at me like i’m a fucking lunatic.

even though i feel like a fucking lunatic.

i’m hurting.

and it’s not the icky kind of hurt you get after a boy leaves you, or the kind  that stings your skin- like a scrape.

it’s the kind that swallows your insides whole. the kind of pain that sucker-punches you in the gut when you’re already down. the kind that knocks your head into the wall when you already have a migraine. the kind that makes you feel like you’re about to throw up, and you shiver every time you’re forced to keep it down. it’s a pain so real, so dark, so fucking consuming that it hurts to swing my legs over the side of my bed, so i can stand up and start my day. because i already know the worst part of every day is realizing i’ll have to sleep only to wake up at some point and start over again. hour, after hour, after day, after week.

i’ve been without work for seven months. i’ve been without love, and stability, and confidence, and comfort, and money for equally as long. i hadn’t a real clue as to what that kind of lack, or loss could do to a person. i used to envy this life. envy a life of sleep and irresponsibility and carelessness and freedom.

but now i just feel broken.

and how cliché is that?

i’ve spent all of this time putting on some sort of show, but the curtain inevitably closed, and the walls finally caved in, and when everyone had eventually left the theatre, there wasn’t anyone left to save me. i can’t remember ever feeling so helpless. and for the first time i’m crying out for someone to reach down, grab my hand, and pull me from the darkness… but i don’t feel any better. in fact i only feel worse when i admit defeat when i’m still living it.

i know i’ll pull through.

the way i pulled through countless times before this.

it’s just really hard to see the light at the end of the tunnel when i feel this fucking trapped.