June 15, 2018

A Bookmark of Life and Loss

When I first met the man that I would refer to as my “bear cub” I hated him. I thought he was a narcissistic douche bag that I did not find the least bit funny. He thought he was hilarious. He came into my high school theater class making off-color jokes and being generally obnoxious just as I was getting out of it, and I would not see him again until we participated in a show down in LA called “You Make Me Physically Ill.”

For whatever reason when we reconnected, I fell in love with Jacob in a very non-sexual way. I felt this intense need to protect him and would defend him with my life if it came to that. I jokingly told him that my husband and I were going to adopt him, even though he’s only a couple years younger than me. (We have a habit of taking in strays.) Because I felt like a mama grizzly whenever anything pertained to him I would henceforth refer to him as my “bear cub.”

Yesterday I found out that he took his own life. The moment I got the text my eye caught sight of just his name and I already knew. If there was anyone who would commit suicide it would be Jacob. He dealt with the darkest of demons that I could not fathom what it must have been like to reside in his head. I think that’s why I found this need to protect and care for him. He, in many ways, reminded me of my father.

Now I walk the path every person who has lost someone to suicide travels: I am thinking of how I let him down and how I could have done more to keep this from happening. I feel shame in that I never spoke much with him after he moved to a different state, even though I did think about him often. Most recently he’s been in my thoughts because the upcoming Pokemon game is a remake of yellow and that was his favorite of the games; because you could get all three starters. I meant to reach out but I didn’t. I don’t know what stopped me. And I don’t even know that if I had, if that would have made any kind of difference. The thing about mental illness is that it is unpredictable and the best of intentions can sometimes be fruitless. Yet, we still have to try.

I can’t lend any new perspective or advice to the situation. In the end, it is what it is and nothing can be undone.

I will miss him.

May 17, 2018

A brief snapshot

Social media is something that simultaneously astounds and appalls me. At times it brings out the lowest common denominator in some, and yet for others it coaxes out a true humanity and the love we all have inside of us.

There is a gentleman I follow on Instagram whom I have never met nor have ever conversed. It has become apparent with his recent posts that he is going through a breakup. At first it was all subtext (a lot of selfies and cheeky butt shots) or the sporadic vague post about “going through stuff.” He finally disclosed his and his husbands break-up in his Instagram story and my heart broke for him. I have watched with interest as this stranger shared his life through photos: spending time with his boyfriend as they travelled the country, to their marriage at the site of a plane crash (no joke), and as they spent time together with their son. I have “hearted” almost every snapshot into his life. And now as he goes onto a new path I eagerly watch hoping and praying for his happiness, all the while never really knowing him.

I have been blessed to have been on the reverse of that, as people who happen to read this little blog or follow me on twitter have asked me how I’m doing. They barely know me, yet something compels them to care and reach out. Their little messages bring a lot of light into my world. And because of their loving curiosity I find myself wanting to share more.

As of late life is good. Wonderful in fact. Things with the husband have greatly improved since our little Palm Springs excursion, during which we laid out all our bull shit on the table for he other to inspect. I will admit, after all the sordid disclosures it took me some time to get through the following mess of emotions, but I have since arrived at a happier place. One in which I don’t ever want to leave. There is power and peace in rigorous honesty. And the communication since has flourished.

Then there is my awesome boyfriend. He is the kindest, most understanding person and I don’t know how I lucked out twice to get such amazing men in my life.

I shared all of this with my therapist during this last Tuesday’s session. She participated in my joy, but like any good counselor she didn’t just accept the good she also asked probing questions. For whatever reason, the one that stuck with me the most was: how do I not compare the two. My immediate response was that I don’t. The two of them are so different that there is no way to hold one up to the other in comparison and to do so would be a disservice to each of them.

After having more time to mull over her inquiry, my answer is still the same but I am more confident in my response. I truly can’t compare them because neither has what the other offers. It is trite to say but they’re like little unique snowflakes. And what I realized is that to break it down into such black and white ideas is not how this works. Polyamory (if that is what this is) is more complex. There are levels and layers to affection, emotions and multiple relationships that can’t be easily described in terms of “oh he’s so much better here.”

I don’t have my fears like I did. The thought that I would somehow be replaced by my husband’s boyfriend have left me. And my fear of us “just fooling ourselves and drawing out the inevitable divorce” has waned. It still lingers at the back of my mind, but it is a faint nagging that I scarcely ponder. Much like the zen attitude of just enjoying the moments with either one, I don’t let these negative thoughts cloud my present.

So, if you’ve wondered or worried over this stranger, as of right now there is no need. But your concerns have touched me more than you’ll know.

May 4, 2018

You Know, When You “Know”

I have reached a new level for myself that I haven’t quite come to while not taking my anti-depressants. I went to write about my wonderful experience of having my appendix removed and only two sentences deep I ceased caring to write about it any further. Now, that could be because the whole ordeal was said and done in a few hours and already am I in tip-top shape (and where is the drama in that) or is it because I just lost interest?

I bring it up because it has always been a big point of contention with me and my meds. I usually stop taking them because they take away my want to write almost in the similar fashion as I stated above, but maybe, just maybe, sometimes what I have to write about is boring and doesn’t need to be said.

The whole ordeal was truly simple. I woke up Monday morning to cramps, which eventually led me to take milk of magnesia to end it, but what ended up happening was making the situation far worse. When I woke at 3 in the morning on Tuesday I knew then it was appendicitis and I needed to get to the emergency room as soon as possible; and having taken a laxative made the situation even direr. I dressed and woke the husband to tell him I was going to the ER. When I saw his look of confusion and annoyance I second-guessed myself. Maybe I was just being overdramatic and it was all in my head.

To put an exclamation point on that idea I tore of my ring, threw it at the nightstand, and then proclaimed “Whatever. Fuck it. I’ll just die,” and threw myself back into the bed, wincing from the sharp pain in my abdomen. Yeah. No one could ever accuse me of being a drama queen.

I laid there for a moment thinking about it and then decided to listen to the multiple voices that had stated on some medical website “go to the emergency room asap.” So I went.

If you ever need to go to the ER, take the advice I was given, go at 3 AM in the middle of the week. There was absolutely no one there and I was in a bed in the back within twenty minutes tops. One nurse told me that people usually wait until the weekend to go because they don’t want to miss work, or they specifically wait until the morning to actually have an excuse not to go.

The doctor who was assigned to me was this old man with a gaunt face who made me think of “Filch” from the Harry Potter films. I told him, when he asked why I was there, that I thought I had appendicitis, to which he rolled his eyes. Yeah, I’m sure it’s not fun having the internet around for people to self-diagnose. What made me like the dude was his casual, almost up-beat response ten minutes after my CT scan, telling me, “You have appendicitis!”

My husband didn’t go with me on this early morning adventure because he thought I was being overdramatic and that it was nothing. I took immense satisfaction in telling him I was right.

When he realized that I was correct, he felt like shit and took two days off work to attend to me. Which is nice, but why does he have to miss work because I have appendicitis? I guess I just don’t operate that way. If the roles were reversed I don’t think I would have done the same. Even my parents showed up to sit and wait with me, which I don’t understand. I brought a book and my Gameboy to keep me occupied.

(Sidenote: whenever you go to the ER take a book, it seriously occupies your time that it feels like the whole thing is a spa day. I took one when I went to the emergency room when I had a bad infection from diverticulitis/colitis. I spent 8 hours there, but the “Goblet of Fire” made it feel like maybe a couple hours.)

What this event taught me is to trust my gut. (Pun intended.) I knew what was up from the moment it happened. I also have been expecting this to happen because I am just like my mother and have had surgeries in identical order, just the ages are different. That said, I imagine the meds do effect my feelings towards writing. In the writing of this post I found that my initial thoughts were both wrong, it was merely just me second-guessing myself. What really happened, was I was going about writing it all wrong.

March 22, 2018

A Seer Reads the Stones

It’s going to be hard, but doable, not to read into the actions and words during this time. When I’m left with no answers and my mind is searching for some sense of stability or ‘realness’ I begin to look for the answers around me. Like when Charlie sleeps on the complete opposite side of the bed, where he used to hog all of it, is that a subliminal message that he’s trying to get away? Or when the last two days he’s been chatty and we’ve spent the evening holding each other and talking, and then it doesn’t happen is it different? Did something change?

The answers I divine to why are all stupid and probably not true. The further proof of this fact is that these are all my interpretations of perceived realities. For all I know the bed just feels bigger because of how I feel right now. I feel small and insignificant. Thus the spaces in between are vast and seemingly unending.

Then, like last night, charlie was tired and spoke very little and quickly turned around and fell asleep. Not at all like the past two nights. I could see that as he’s getting closer to this other dude or it was just that he’s a 40 year old man who is currently juggling a husband and a boyfriend. I could very well see how that in itself is exhausting and when you’re tired, you’re tired. (Not saying 40 is old.)

The thing about reading our own meaning into anything is that the pendulum can swing either way. It doesn’t matter what the facts are, they can be read in such a way that it is misinterpreted as negative. Case a point, Charlie was reading into my actions as wanting him to end the relationship because I couldn’t do it myself. In reality I was angry at him because I knew about the Derek thing and instead of talking to him or asking him about it I chose to keep it to myself which further drove a rift into our relationship. I was angry. As it also turned out, I was genuinely furious with and blamed him for our dog Klause getting out of the yard back in November. It was these things that made me angry with him and I was very cold to him as a response. It had nothing to do with me wanting to end the relationship, but that’s how he saw it.

Instead of talking to him and voicing these fears I kept them bottled up inside. They festered and made me feel something else entirely. If I had just done the “adult” thing and had a discussion about all of it, none of this may have transpired. My reality may have looked totally different. Yet, even that, right there, is me reading into it.

I want to think that “looking for answers” is a natural human response. It is our way of attempting to take the control back in a situation in which we feel we have none. We don’t like uncertainty and living in a “zen-like” state of letting life wash over us is against our usual factory defaults.