Something is happening to me

Something is happening to me.

Though I’m not sure if it’s always been happening to me.

I feel so confused every day. I feel confused about being confused.

Some days life is beautiful and it all make sense. And some days it’s like this… black. gray. dead.

Something is happening to me. I think that I might actually be going crazy for real. Like actually crazy.

I used to have a beautiful life full of friends and family. But when I had that life, I … I pause here. I hated it? I thought I hated it? I felt empty? It felt … fake? I thought there was something better… I thought there was something that would make more sense.

I’ve been trying to process losing my family. Most days it makes sense: You were abused. Your siblings are brainwashed. But some days, like today, I fear that I am the abuser. I am the one who’s brainwashed.

I used to have a huge network of friends and family. Note: I might repeat myself a few times in this post, but I’m going to allow myself to flow freely.

I used to have a huge network of friends and family. I had in-laws. Yes they were racist and southern hypocrites, but they loved me. They really did. They really accepted me. I had a huge network of friends. They really loved me. Yet… I burned it all down. I burned it all to the fucking ground. My ex husband was abusive. He belittled me, he often stole my money, he put his hands on me. But… he understood me. He understood me better than I think I understand myself. We went on grand adventures together. We lived a rich, beautiful life with pools and games and bbqs and friends and gatherings. So many gatherings. God sometimes I couldn’t handle the gatherings. One every weekend, twice a week even. This birthday, that anniversary, this work thing, that work thing, this festival, this show. I hated it. But I also loved it. I hated it because I didn’t control it, I had no say. I loved it because I’m always down for a good time.

One time we went to Panama City and I just wanted to go to the beach.

Please, please can’t we go to beach today? We’ve been here 3 days and haven’t been to the beach.

No, we’re going on the boat today. That’s what the family is doing. That’s what we’re doing.

But I could just go alone and meet up later?

No, this is what we’re doing. Don’t make any problems. Don’t embarrass me. Stop being so selfish!

Years and years of this–I finally cracked.

It seems so obvious, yet here I am at 5 in the morning wondering… was I being selfish? Maybe I was being selfish. Because now I have nothing. I have no one. I didn’t understand the trade off. I had to accept things the way they were. I should have accepted them. How could I complain about not going to the beach when I was riding a speed boat with my whole family in the sunlight, not a care in the world? A beautiful family. We were a unit. I was provided for, loved, understood. I couldn’t go to the beach… but I couldn’t go to the beach! So I burned it all down.

This is a specific example but it’s an allegory for my whole life. Another example is when we went to Miami. I didn’t pay a dime. We had backstage passes, vip, all expenses paid. All my friends were there. We had a blast. But I wanted to see Fedde Le Grande one morning. Just one act, just one. Please? Please?? It’s right there! I’ll be back in an hour, I said. Fucking stop it. Don’t embarrass me! He said. So I burned it down.

Let’s be clear, I was well behaved. I didn’t do anything in Miami, or in Panama City with the family. What I mean when I say I burned it down is one day I just.. left. I just packed all my things, threw away what I couldn’t fit in my car, and I just left. I came to Los Angeles.

I’ll find people who love me as much, if not more. Like-minded people who love art and music and don’t use the N word. I’ll find a new partner who doesn’t belittle me, ignore me.

But I haven’t, and I won’t. I won’t ever again.

I can’t shake this feeling that I had it all yet I wanted more. I struck silver and thought I could just as easily strike gold.

What am I trying to say…

I’m trying to say that I’m starving.

I feel like I’m dying. I feel like I’m losing my mind.

My friends… my god I had so many friends. So many beautiful friends. People who were beautiful, abitious, humorous, smart, witty. Don’t get me wrong, they’re still my friends, but they’re 2000 miles away. They can’t just come over for a Tuesday night bonfire. They can’t meet me for margaritas on the patio. We can’t meet at the river or at the Mercy Lounge.

My husband is such a kind soul. But he’s so different from me. He doesn’t understand me at all. And I realized tonight that he doesn’t really know me. He doesn’t know who I was before the grief of losing my father. When I was young and my hips still worked. He doesn’t laugh at the things I laugh at. I don’t know how he really feels. I can’t feel him.

I could feel my ex husband. That’s why the bad times hurt so much. And I guess that’s why the good times felt so good. He was adventurous like me. We had the same dark sense of humor. We were silly together.

It’s a horrible and embarrassing thing to compare husbands past and present. I wish I didn’t do it. But I do.

Sometimes he and I would pull the mattress out of the bedroom into the living room and just watch TV for 2 days straight, shut the world out together. We called it Baby Day. I know how fucking dumb that sounds but he was my baby and I was his and that’s why we called it that. I’ll never forget one of the last things he said to me. The world is shut down. It’s Baby Day forever. A plea to come home. But I didn’t go home to him.

I stayed here. I wanted more for myself. I wanted better.

But… I hate to say these words. I really hate to say these words. I didn’t find better. I feel like I moved laterally. My husband treats me like an angel. But he feels like a stranger to me. He doesn’t see me.

I feel so alone. My life before was so rich with experience, adventure, love, camaraderie. But it wasn’t juuuuust right. So I burned it down.

I feel … like I was a fool. I feel like .. I don’t know, like… how dare I? What an arrogant piece of shit I was, that I thought I deserved better. Better than what? A loving, beautiful family? A fleet of wonderful friends? Why, because I didn’t get to go to see Fedde le Grande? I didn’t get to go to the beach? I didn’t get to wear what I wanted to? I didn’t get to … what?

One time we saw My Morning Jacket together. We watched silently. At the same time halfway through the set, we looked at each other, tears in our eyes, at the exact same time, moved in the exact same feels at the same time during the same song. We kissed and held hands for the rest of the set as the sun went down and the sky turned pink.

So many memories like that.

Juxtaposed with memories of feeling so small, so unimportant, so wrong.

Now I have the supportive husband I dreamed of, but at what cost? My soul feels like it’s dying.

I feel like a shell.

I feel like nothing.

I’m not moved to make art anymore. I’m not moved to do anything anymore. I don’t laugh. I force my smile. Tomorrow, I tell myself. I’ll do it tomorrow.

Maybe when my son is older he’ll want to do adventures with me. Maybe he’ll want to drive 3 hours just to see flowers in the desert, or try some wild foreign food at a shadowy hole-in-the-wall. Maybe he’ll want to … But what a sad thought. That I’ll have to wait 10 years, suffering in stagnation.

The only other person who understood me was my father. I miss him so much. Fuck I miss him. We used to drive to New York City and take the backroads the whole way. One time we got lost and saw a huge rainbow on top of a mountain in Pennsylvania.

Now I just sit here. I just sit in this house. I have no friends. I have no family. Just me, my husband, and my beautiful son. He’s too small. Going to the grocery store is a feat in itself. My every waking moment is devoted to him, and happily. But something deep in my soul needs more. And it’s driving me crazy. I’m just alone with my thoughts all the time. Constantly. All these thoughts and rumination, on and on and on, against the same back drop day in and day out.

It’s a beautiful backdrop. We have a lovely little home. But it’s so far away from anything. I feel like I traded a small-town-city for an even smaller town city, if that makes any sense.

Once Papa died, the tiny threads holding me my mom and my sisters together started to unravel. Evaporate, really, if I’m honest.

You know, my mom called me one day in a panic and said she was scared my uncle Terry had thrown my dad’s ashes already without us. If he hasn’t already, he’s going to soon, she said. So I immediately called my sisters, started planning, did my best. I picked a weekend that worked for everyone. My littlest sister didn’t answer me until 3 days before the memorial, yet I learned today that she complained I picked the hotels without anyones input. Firstly, I didn’t pick the hotels. Mother did. But she told them I picked the hotels. Either way, who fucking cares? My sister didn’t return my calls for 2 entire months, yet somehow I’m the bad guy because I made decisions? Make it make sense.

Yet still here I sit, wondering am I bad? Did I do it all wrong? Maybe I am just a selfish asshole because I wanted a husband who didn’t hurt me, because I wanted a memorial for my father with my family in attendance.

I don’t really know the point I’m trying to make. That’s the whole point, really. I can’t make my life make sense. I can’t get un-confused. I don’t know how much a body is expected to put up with. Is abuse just part of life and I just haven’t figured that out yet?

I don’t fucking know.

All I know is that about twice a week I want to kill myself.

Not like actually kill myself, but.. kind of. I imagine walking into traffic. I imagine going to sleep and not waking up.

I wanted to make my head spin less yet here it is spinning even faster than it ever was and now I have no one and nothing to hold on to.