I've been struggling to write this for several days now. I seldom have this much trouble putting my feelings into words. I don't think I've done it justice, but I've done what I could for now.
How do I explain what happened to me last summer? I'm not sure I can.
I'd been very certain of a few things - that Aiden and I were made for each other. That I was making the right choice. That things would turn out okay.
When he walked out of my life, I was honestly shocked. So was everyone else who watched it happen. One friend had observed months earlier, "You and Aiden are so close. It's like he just puts up with Shelby."
I felt like I'd been punched in the mouth, repeatedly, with a brick. Not only did I have to deal with the grief that comes with the end of a relationship, but I was facing a devastating lack of faith in myself and my own judgment. If I could be so wrong about something in which I'd had complete confidence...I couldn't trust myself anymore. There seemed to be no point in making goals or otherwise working to improve my life. If I tried too hard, if I put my love and my faith into something, it would only crash and burn.
"I don't know how to be in this much pain," I remember telling someone. I can't describe what it was like, other than overwhelming. The panic and sense of utter failure and hopelessness pervaded everything. I skidded through the bottom of old familiar depression and straight off the deep end.
The damage to my arm healed but the damage to my soul didn't. I've already described the general shape of my summer. I'm struggling to explain what was underneath it and the changes that happened inside me.
Hopelessness is a strange thing. Without hope, with nothing left to strive for, there are no consequences. Without faith or confidence, there's no joy. Commiserating with a friend one night, I described the feeling as having my head squeezed and feeling the cracks working their way up the sides of my skull.
There was a split that I can't quite explain. Not a dissociation - I certainly became a different person than I was before, but I'm not trying to describe the state of having multiple personalities. I think the split was between me and my faith, and I fell through the crack into a world where nothing mattered.
I wandered around the country and sat around and home and did a bunch of crazy shit just to try to stimulate myself, looking for that high - something - anything that would make me feel better. Of course I didn't find it, because that's not how these things work. I no longer had the energy to do anything beyond my category of cheap thrills, though, so I spent a lot of time getting drunk and a lot of time riding my motorcycle - usually not together, though there were exceptions to that.
At some point I couldn't stand it anymore, being surrounded by constant reminders of everything I'd fucked up. I packed my belongings into a storage unit, put some clothes and some camping gear on a motorcycle, and left, in search of anything else. Traveling can actually be easier without any fucks to give.
Wednesday, June 21, 2017
Saturday, June 10, 2017
Begin Round Three
We were seated at a booth in a small, nearly-deserted restaurant. Aiden was clearly nervous, talking so fast and so loudly that the one guy at the bar on the other end of the room must have wondered what was wrong with him. I waited it out, and after a few minutes he settled down.
We chatted about this and that, over a distinct awkwardness that kept me looking out the window over his shoulder instead of into his eyes. I asked about his depression, and when I could actually see it on his face for the first time, I took his hand across the table. He asked about the club, and about the incident that happened at St. Michael's. I haven't mentioned this because I still won't talk about it, but it was one of my lowest points.
"You don't have to tell me," he said. "I just want you to know that if you want to talk, I want to listen, and I won't judge you."
I couldn't speak. He got the hint and changed the subject, asking about my bandmates, but I couldn't derail my brain quite so easily. I stumbled and couldn't even spit out the name of our drummer. Aiden got up from his booth and came to sit in mine, where he wrapped me in a hug.
He felt so good, so familiar and comforting. He held my head against his shoulder while I cried, then told me to face the other way. I did so, momentarily puzzled; then he started rubbing my shoulders, and I melted.
"You haven't let your guard down in a long time, have you?" he asked softly. I slumped back against his chest while he wrapped his arms around me, and shook my head. My life had become a game of scrapping for my comfort and safety - a little here, a little there, constantly moving my walls around to protect myself. My only physical contact with other people happened at work, and it was generally against my will. Somehow it was still all there in Aiden's hug, the complete package - the warmth, the support, the safety I hadn't felt in so long I'd almost forgotten what it was like. I could've sat in that booth for a month.
The heat of his touch was starting to melt my brain, and an old familiar spiral appeared. I knew where I wanted this to go...but he was unavailable, like always. I turned so we were seated side by side again and rested my head on his shoulder, the bridge of my nose against the warm, soft skin of his neck. His arms stayed locked around me. I put my leg over his so I could slide closer.
"How is it always so easy for us to cuddle?" he wondered.
I turned further towards him, hugging so we were cheek to cheek. My skin was on fire and my breath was quick and shallow. My palms started to sweat.
"My heart is beating so hard right now," he whispered, placing my hand against his chest so I could feel it.
I knew this cliff, and I desperately wanted to jump off it, but I was afraid. Not of the situation; I already knew there was no way it could end well. I'd been down that road, and I accepted that it led to the fires of hell. I knew I was going to be alone and there was nothing I could do about it. Heartache and loneliness had become a familiar part of me, a touchstone, comfortingly steady in their own strange way. I knew I could take it, going home alone, wishing it was me while he clung to someone else.
What I couldn't take was if he pulled away, if he said, No, I'm sorry, I can't. I can't do that to Shelby. Leave me alone.
That would've crushed me.
His lips moved against the side of my face, but there were no words, and suddenly I knew. I put my lips on his and kissed him gently, then harder, and he returned my kiss without hesitation. My hand went to the back of his neck, to his hair, to the side of his face. I couldn't get enough of the warm, loving feel of him, thought I might never be able to get enough as long as I lived. All the intimate touch I had in my life was empty, angry, demanding, something I silently screamed against while pasting a big fake smile on my face. The caring in his kiss was such a relief it hurt.
"I love you," he whispered, and I buried my face in his shoulder and cried.
We chatted about this and that, over a distinct awkwardness that kept me looking out the window over his shoulder instead of into his eyes. I asked about his depression, and when I could actually see it on his face for the first time, I took his hand across the table. He asked about the club, and about the incident that happened at St. Michael's. I haven't mentioned this because I still won't talk about it, but it was one of my lowest points.
"You don't have to tell me," he said. "I just want you to know that if you want to talk, I want to listen, and I won't judge you."
I couldn't speak. He got the hint and changed the subject, asking about my bandmates, but I couldn't derail my brain quite so easily. I stumbled and couldn't even spit out the name of our drummer. Aiden got up from his booth and came to sit in mine, where he wrapped me in a hug.
He felt so good, so familiar and comforting. He held my head against his shoulder while I cried, then told me to face the other way. I did so, momentarily puzzled; then he started rubbing my shoulders, and I melted.
"You haven't let your guard down in a long time, have you?" he asked softly. I slumped back against his chest while he wrapped his arms around me, and shook my head. My life had become a game of scrapping for my comfort and safety - a little here, a little there, constantly moving my walls around to protect myself. My only physical contact with other people happened at work, and it was generally against my will. Somehow it was still all there in Aiden's hug, the complete package - the warmth, the support, the safety I hadn't felt in so long I'd almost forgotten what it was like. I could've sat in that booth for a month.
The heat of his touch was starting to melt my brain, and an old familiar spiral appeared. I knew where I wanted this to go...but he was unavailable, like always. I turned so we were seated side by side again and rested my head on his shoulder, the bridge of my nose against the warm, soft skin of his neck. His arms stayed locked around me. I put my leg over his so I could slide closer.
"How is it always so easy for us to cuddle?" he wondered.
I turned further towards him, hugging so we were cheek to cheek. My skin was on fire and my breath was quick and shallow. My palms started to sweat.
"My heart is beating so hard right now," he whispered, placing my hand against his chest so I could feel it.
I knew this cliff, and I desperately wanted to jump off it, but I was afraid. Not of the situation; I already knew there was no way it could end well. I'd been down that road, and I accepted that it led to the fires of hell. I knew I was going to be alone and there was nothing I could do about it. Heartache and loneliness had become a familiar part of me, a touchstone, comfortingly steady in their own strange way. I knew I could take it, going home alone, wishing it was me while he clung to someone else.
What I couldn't take was if he pulled away, if he said, No, I'm sorry, I can't. I can't do that to Shelby. Leave me alone.
That would've crushed me.
His lips moved against the side of my face, but there were no words, and suddenly I knew. I put my lips on his and kissed him gently, then harder, and he returned my kiss without hesitation. My hand went to the back of his neck, to his hair, to the side of his face. I couldn't get enough of the warm, loving feel of him, thought I might never be able to get enough as long as I lived. All the intimate touch I had in my life was empty, angry, demanding, something I silently screamed against while pasting a big fake smile on my face. The caring in his kiss was such a relief it hurt.
"I love you," he whispered, and I buried my face in his shoulder and cried.
Two-Way Street
Living permanently on the road came with its own set of concerns. In a way it was freeing - I was glad to be out of the north, away from the constant grinding pain of existing in the same social circle as Aiden and Shelby. Sleeping in a tent with my best friend was a big step up from the series of terrible living situations I'd put myself in over the last two years.
I had tried to make it work. I even went to a team party at Shelby's one night, thinking it wouldn't be so bad with the rest of the team there as a buffer. But it was. I fought the crushing anxiety as long as I could, but eventually told Ninja we had to leave. We went home, where I fell into a nightmare-filled sleep. People yelled at me all night long until I woke, exhausted. I decided I would never again go to a party where I knew they would be.
Traveling laid some of my immediate problems aside, but encouraged the blossoming of an existential worry - what was I doing with my life? In preparation for the trip, I had unwittingly removed all of my big goals. I was completely lost. I messaged Hawk from a campground in Florida, looking for support, but I think he was too jealous of the trip to be able to see my problems at the size they appeared to me.
Ninja and I were running out of both money and patience. Never knowing where we would sleep next or if we were going to get stranded somewhere or really anything at all was taking a toll on our minds. I couldn't admit it, but a month into what was supposed to be a year-long adventure I was already dreaming about the unimaginable luxury of having a place to live. I never intended to go back to what she still called home, but I had no other destination in mind, either. Living in the wind wasn't suiting me as well as I'd thought it would.
The money crunch came down on us in Texas, and I implemented the easiest solution I had to hand. I went back to stripping. Between the amount of debt I ran up in hotels and bike repair bills, and the fact that Ninja got a low-wage job with a biweekly paycheck, we got stuck. The hotels were costing us more than we could afford, so we signed a lease on an apartment to stop the bleeding.
The first time I stripped, most of ten years earlier, I'd made a few mistakes that left some emotional scars, and I swore I wouldn't make them again. In my first month in Texas, I'd made all of those and more, and had my eyes opened to a level of scum I'd never seen. The psychological drain started before I ever walked in the door, because I really didn't want to be doing what I was doing, and it was all downhill from there.
My first sobbing breakdown in the hotel room scared me, but I pushed through. The breakdowns became a regular thing, happening on average a couple of times a week. One night it happened in the club, and everybody treated it like a normal thing. All the dancers have meltdowns. It's expected.
I learned not to go in if I felt too awful, because I couldn't do the job. I slipped from working four days a week, to three, to two. Progress on paying off my debt came to a standstill. My depression flared and I started to feel hopeless and trapped. I wanted to die, but I couldn't do that to Ninja and my mother.
Through it all, Aiden was a relentless noise in my ear, talking to me constantly, asking me for updates on my life. He never burdened me with things I didn't want to know but seemed genuinely interested in what I was up to. He was one of only two friends from up north who regularly checked in on me. I gave him terse factual updates at first, then more detailed ones. I started telling him about club life. I talked to him more and more, filling him in on bits and pieces of myself. I desperately needed support and was coming to the disappointing realization that a lot more people are a lot more horrible than I ever wanted to believe. It was getting harder by the day for me to trust anyone with anything.
I wanted to hate him for what he had done to me, but instead I found myself dragged into the realization that he was still one of the best people in my life. He listened to my complaints and desperation, offered sympathy while I railed in anger at all the horrible things around me, and never asked for anything in return.
He said he just wanted to help me, but I knew it wasn't fair for me to use him like that, even if I hadn't asked for the help. With great apprehension one day I returned his "How are you?" with a "How are you?" of my own, something I hadn't done since before we broke up. I never asked him questions because I was afraid of breaking a dam and getting inundated with information I didn't want. That didn't happen, though. He said he was fine and thanked me for asking.
The lack of terrible results made me more courageous. Every day I tried to reach out a little more. I started with easy questions, about the yard and the chickens. I really didn't care how they were, so it felt like low stakes. I asked about his mom; she was fine. I asked about his son. I avoided general questions, and I never asked about Shelby. That was way beyond anything I could deal with, and he seemed to know it. He rarely mentioned her, and when he did it was only in passing.
Back when we were dating but lived apart, he would occasionally message me that he was tipsy on margaritas or cosmos or whatever the drink of the night was. I usually got annoyed and stopped talking to him for the evening. Distance drinking felt like some kind of slight.
When he started to send me those messages while I was stripping, though, I really couldn't be upset. I drank way too much myself and had no right to give anyone else any crap about it. We kept talking. I realized that he was sending me those messages an awful lot, and one evening when it had been several days in a row, I asked a new question.
"You seem to drink almost as much as I do these days. Are you okay?"
He didn't answer, and I saw a big red flag. I told him he didn't have to answer then, but I'd be waiting for an answer in the near future. Several days passed without further comment. He kept chatting like things were fine, but I knew something was up. I waited.
Maybe a week after I asked, he decided to explain. "I think I'm depressed. I don't know how to deal with it." He listed several typical signs of depression, and my heart reached out without permission from my better judgment.
"That sounds a lot like my experience of depression. I'm sorry you've found that place. It's shitty."
"The world is so used to me being 'on' all the time no one knows what to make of depressed Aiden. That's part of why I wasn't super open about it. You have enough strife emotionally. I didn't want to dump more on you."
"No worries...I just don't want to be using you as my support and not have any idea what's going on with you. I don't want you to pretend to be okay for me; that's unnecessary and unpleasant."
"So we can try this a bit differently going forward."
It was so much easier to connect with him after that, possibly easier than it has ever been in all the years I've known him. There were many times in the past that I felt like I was screaming at a stone wall in my attempts to communicate with him; he always listened, but rarely seemed to hear me. But the new Aiden had a level of understanding that the old one didn't. While I felt bad that he was depressed, part of me was grateful for it, for the change of perspective it had brought him. His old bouncy, irrepressible, bordering-on-obnoxiously optimistic attitude was toned down to something closer to my own reality.
I offered my emotional support to him in the past, both in general and anytime it seemed he might need it, but he rarely did. To have him finally accept my help was almost a relief, something it took me a while to put words to. I felt needed.
When I told him I was coming up north to visit family for a couple of days, he asked if he could take me to lunch.
My first thought was, Here we go again.
I had tried to make it work. I even went to a team party at Shelby's one night, thinking it wouldn't be so bad with the rest of the team there as a buffer. But it was. I fought the crushing anxiety as long as I could, but eventually told Ninja we had to leave. We went home, where I fell into a nightmare-filled sleep. People yelled at me all night long until I woke, exhausted. I decided I would never again go to a party where I knew they would be.
Traveling laid some of my immediate problems aside, but encouraged the blossoming of an existential worry - what was I doing with my life? In preparation for the trip, I had unwittingly removed all of my big goals. I was completely lost. I messaged Hawk from a campground in Florida, looking for support, but I think he was too jealous of the trip to be able to see my problems at the size they appeared to me.
Ninja and I were running out of both money and patience. Never knowing where we would sleep next or if we were going to get stranded somewhere or really anything at all was taking a toll on our minds. I couldn't admit it, but a month into what was supposed to be a year-long adventure I was already dreaming about the unimaginable luxury of having a place to live. I never intended to go back to what she still called home, but I had no other destination in mind, either. Living in the wind wasn't suiting me as well as I'd thought it would.
The money crunch came down on us in Texas, and I implemented the easiest solution I had to hand. I went back to stripping. Between the amount of debt I ran up in hotels and bike repair bills, and the fact that Ninja got a low-wage job with a biweekly paycheck, we got stuck. The hotels were costing us more than we could afford, so we signed a lease on an apartment to stop the bleeding.
The first time I stripped, most of ten years earlier, I'd made a few mistakes that left some emotional scars, and I swore I wouldn't make them again. In my first month in Texas, I'd made all of those and more, and had my eyes opened to a level of scum I'd never seen. The psychological drain started before I ever walked in the door, because I really didn't want to be doing what I was doing, and it was all downhill from there.
My first sobbing breakdown in the hotel room scared me, but I pushed through. The breakdowns became a regular thing, happening on average a couple of times a week. One night it happened in the club, and everybody treated it like a normal thing. All the dancers have meltdowns. It's expected.
I learned not to go in if I felt too awful, because I couldn't do the job. I slipped from working four days a week, to three, to two. Progress on paying off my debt came to a standstill. My depression flared and I started to feel hopeless and trapped. I wanted to die, but I couldn't do that to Ninja and my mother.
Through it all, Aiden was a relentless noise in my ear, talking to me constantly, asking me for updates on my life. He never burdened me with things I didn't want to know but seemed genuinely interested in what I was up to. He was one of only two friends from up north who regularly checked in on me. I gave him terse factual updates at first, then more detailed ones. I started telling him about club life. I talked to him more and more, filling him in on bits and pieces of myself. I desperately needed support and was coming to the disappointing realization that a lot more people are a lot more horrible than I ever wanted to believe. It was getting harder by the day for me to trust anyone with anything.
I wanted to hate him for what he had done to me, but instead I found myself dragged into the realization that he was still one of the best people in my life. He listened to my complaints and desperation, offered sympathy while I railed in anger at all the horrible things around me, and never asked for anything in return.
He said he just wanted to help me, but I knew it wasn't fair for me to use him like that, even if I hadn't asked for the help. With great apprehension one day I returned his "How are you?" with a "How are you?" of my own, something I hadn't done since before we broke up. I never asked him questions because I was afraid of breaking a dam and getting inundated with information I didn't want. That didn't happen, though. He said he was fine and thanked me for asking.
The lack of terrible results made me more courageous. Every day I tried to reach out a little more. I started with easy questions, about the yard and the chickens. I really didn't care how they were, so it felt like low stakes. I asked about his mom; she was fine. I asked about his son. I avoided general questions, and I never asked about Shelby. That was way beyond anything I could deal with, and he seemed to know it. He rarely mentioned her, and when he did it was only in passing.
Back when we were dating but lived apart, he would occasionally message me that he was tipsy on margaritas or cosmos or whatever the drink of the night was. I usually got annoyed and stopped talking to him for the evening. Distance drinking felt like some kind of slight.
When he started to send me those messages while I was stripping, though, I really couldn't be upset. I drank way too much myself and had no right to give anyone else any crap about it. We kept talking. I realized that he was sending me those messages an awful lot, and one evening when it had been several days in a row, I asked a new question.
"You seem to drink almost as much as I do these days. Are you okay?"
He didn't answer, and I saw a big red flag. I told him he didn't have to answer then, but I'd be waiting for an answer in the near future. Several days passed without further comment. He kept chatting like things were fine, but I knew something was up. I waited.
Maybe a week after I asked, he decided to explain. "I think I'm depressed. I don't know how to deal with it." He listed several typical signs of depression, and my heart reached out without permission from my better judgment.
"That sounds a lot like my experience of depression. I'm sorry you've found that place. It's shitty."
"The world is so used to me being 'on' all the time no one knows what to make of depressed Aiden. That's part of why I wasn't super open about it. You have enough strife emotionally. I didn't want to dump more on you."
"No worries...I just don't want to be using you as my support and not have any idea what's going on with you. I don't want you to pretend to be okay for me; that's unnecessary and unpleasant."
"So we can try this a bit differently going forward."
It was so much easier to connect with him after that, possibly easier than it has ever been in all the years I've known him. There were many times in the past that I felt like I was screaming at a stone wall in my attempts to communicate with him; he always listened, but rarely seemed to hear me. But the new Aiden had a level of understanding that the old one didn't. While I felt bad that he was depressed, part of me was grateful for it, for the change of perspective it had brought him. His old bouncy, irrepressible, bordering-on-obnoxiously optimistic attitude was toned down to something closer to my own reality.
I offered my emotional support to him in the past, both in general and anytime it seemed he might need it, but he rarely did. To have him finally accept my help was almost a relief, something it took me a while to put words to. I felt needed.
When I told him I was coming up north to visit family for a couple of days, he asked if he could take me to lunch.
My first thought was, Here we go again.
Monday, June 5, 2017
Wiping the Slate
It was strangely easy to tell him no. I knew it was the right choice without thinking about it. My friends all said they were proud of me, but that "no" was the easy part. It really didn't take any strength at all.
Which was fortunate, because I didn't have much left. I couldn't eat and I couldn't sleep. I lay awake most nights until dawn, sick to my stomach and shaking, then forced myself through the days on coffee and spite. I bought a new motorcycle. I ran up thousands of dollars in credit card debt. I traveled around the country on the bike. I drank. I stole things. I planned vindictive sprees of vandalism. I fucked off at work until I thought they'd have to fire me, but they never did.
One of Aiden's friends messaged me one day to say that they were worried about him, that he was taking our breakup very badly, that he wasn't eating or sleeping and looked like a zombie.
The fuck do I care? He chose this path. If he doesn't like it, he can go cry on the girlfriend he still has.
I thanked the friend for telling me; it wasn't a discussion worth having.
I decided that dating was only good for making broken hearts, and that it would be best if I just accepted my life as a single, lonely badass. Harley was stronger and scarier after the Joker attempted to kill her.
All the fucks I gave about pretty much anything disappeared down the drain. I told a friend he was gullible, and when he got offended, I laughed. He never spoke to me again.
Before we split, Aiden asked what I would do if he stayed with Shelby. I told him I'd leave my team and quite possibly move out of town, because I wouldn't be able to be around him. I think he doubted me; my bonds to my team were very strong.
In September, I wrote in my journal:
I'm coming unglued, piece by piece, in a slowly marching progression of crazy. I feel like my head is under pressure, and cracks are starting to appear in the corners and work their way up the walls. My anthem is Habits by Tove Lo. I skipped practice on Tuesday to stay home and drink. This is the shape of my life now. If this summer could be summed up in a hashtag, it would be #zerofucks.
I've been a ridiculous ball of rage lately, angry with everything from pedestrians to poorly functioning technology to, well, almost anything. Aiden asked me yesterday why I thought I was so angry. I responded with, "What are you, my therapist?" And he said, "No, but I am your friend." That put me off, and I realized later it's because he's great at talking about being supportive, but when it's come down to the wire and I've really needed help, he's let me down as much as he hasn't. He chose someone else over me, repeatedly and hurtfully, and then just wanted me to act like it didn't happen. That is not how a friend acts. My true friends have been there for me through everything.
I told Ninja I was leaving, and she said she was coming with me. In October, I had a falling-out with Zoe about the apartment and moved unexpectedly into Ninja's living room. Through November and December I worked 70 hours a week at two different jobs, saving money for the trip. I had to pick up a few things from Aiden and Shelby's house one evening, and he told me they were leaving for Hawaii in the morning. I didn't take the bait, just grabbed my bag of things and got back in the car, trying to avoid his awkward hug. As I drove away I started screaming.
"Hawaii!" I said to Ninja, and she understood every ounce of my boiling rage. It was lucky for everyone that I could barely keep up with work and sleep and had no time to activate any of those vindictive vandalistic plans.
I listened to Halestorm non-stop, worked 12-hour nights, rarely slept, rarely ate, and over and over again I talked myself into speeches I never gave [to Steve]. I let myself get so strung out I lost a pants size, dropping to less than 140 lbs, and became amenorrhic. I got into my car after shifts and just screamed. I fell asleep on the floor at both my jobs, once while sitting up. I stayed awake for 35 hours at one stretch and consumed obscene amounts of coffee.
And then one day both jobs were over. I slept for 13 hours, and then started my new life, unscheduled and directionless, headed for fresh new stretches of hell.
Which was fortunate, because I didn't have much left. I couldn't eat and I couldn't sleep. I lay awake most nights until dawn, sick to my stomach and shaking, then forced myself through the days on coffee and spite. I bought a new motorcycle. I ran up thousands of dollars in credit card debt. I traveled around the country on the bike. I drank. I stole things. I planned vindictive sprees of vandalism. I fucked off at work until I thought they'd have to fire me, but they never did.
One of Aiden's friends messaged me one day to say that they were worried about him, that he was taking our breakup very badly, that he wasn't eating or sleeping and looked like a zombie.
The fuck do I care? He chose this path. If he doesn't like it, he can go cry on the girlfriend he still has.
I thanked the friend for telling me; it wasn't a discussion worth having.
I decided that dating was only good for making broken hearts, and that it would be best if I just accepted my life as a single, lonely badass. Harley was stronger and scarier after the Joker attempted to kill her.
All the fucks I gave about pretty much anything disappeared down the drain. I told a friend he was gullible, and when he got offended, I laughed. He never spoke to me again.
Before we split, Aiden asked what I would do if he stayed with Shelby. I told him I'd leave my team and quite possibly move out of town, because I wouldn't be able to be around him. I think he doubted me; my bonds to my team were very strong.
In September, I wrote in my journal:
I'm coming unglued, piece by piece, in a slowly marching progression of crazy. I feel like my head is under pressure, and cracks are starting to appear in the corners and work their way up the walls. My anthem is Habits by Tove Lo. I skipped practice on Tuesday to stay home and drink. This is the shape of my life now. If this summer could be summed up in a hashtag, it would be #zerofucks.
I've been a ridiculous ball of rage lately, angry with everything from pedestrians to poorly functioning technology to, well, almost anything. Aiden asked me yesterday why I thought I was so angry. I responded with, "What are you, my therapist?" And he said, "No, but I am your friend." That put me off, and I realized later it's because he's great at talking about being supportive, but when it's come down to the wire and I've really needed help, he's let me down as much as he hasn't. He chose someone else over me, repeatedly and hurtfully, and then just wanted me to act like it didn't happen. That is not how a friend acts. My true friends have been there for me through everything.
I told Ninja I was leaving, and she said she was coming with me. In October, I had a falling-out with Zoe about the apartment and moved unexpectedly into Ninja's living room. Through November and December I worked 70 hours a week at two different jobs, saving money for the trip. I had to pick up a few things from Aiden and Shelby's house one evening, and he told me they were leaving for Hawaii in the morning. I didn't take the bait, just grabbed my bag of things and got back in the car, trying to avoid his awkward hug. As I drove away I started screaming.
"Hawaii!" I said to Ninja, and she understood every ounce of my boiling rage. It was lucky for everyone that I could barely keep up with work and sleep and had no time to activate any of those vindictive vandalistic plans.
I listened to Halestorm non-stop, worked 12-hour nights, rarely slept, rarely ate, and over and over again I talked myself into speeches I never gave [to Steve]. I let myself get so strung out I lost a pants size, dropping to less than 140 lbs, and became amenorrhic. I got into my car after shifts and just screamed. I fell asleep on the floor at both my jobs, once while sitting up. I stayed awake for 35 hours at one stretch and consumed obscene amounts of coffee.
And then one day both jobs were over. I slept for 13 hours, and then started my new life, unscheduled and directionless, headed for fresh new stretches of hell.
Monday, August 22, 2016
The Long and Short
I've been handed some empathy recently for what it's like to be with me. I can be standoffish, unclear about what I'm feeling, depressive, non-communicative, and inflexible with my priorities. I require someone else to break the ice and offer me a safe space before I'll open up about myself.
When someone else acts this way with me it drives me nuts, and I find myself saying things like, "I don't understand why this person is acting that way!" In fact, I think I understand quite well, and it's so close to my face I can't focus on it. The ugliest revelation to accept is self-reflection. I'm looking in a mirror and not liking what I see. I was proud of myself for having opened up so thoroughly in my relationship with Aiden and expressed everything I was thinking and feeling, but now I'm realizing that the whole process required for that to happen was unique to that relationship and doesn't translate to any other locale.
In the interest of bettering myself and not being a hypocrite, here's some clarity, because I wish I had some more access to clarity myself:
Aiden, when you decided not to come with me, I was completely crushed. Had you changed your mind the next day, I would've taken you back and been on top of the world; I was too blinded by pain to understand the problems with that situation. Once I had some time to realize I was going to survive, I also realized that the way you made that decision illustrated exactly why we shouldn't be partners. Since we got together, I spent a lot of effort trying to help you bust out; my role in life is to be the X factor, to fly into others' lives and shake them up and add a wild card. You always talked big and said that you were interested in the adventures I craved, but when it came right down to it, eight times out of ten I was left disappointed when you chose safety over freedom and the known quantity over the unknown one. In offering you a new start, I gave you one last chance to jump off the cliff and fly; and you turned it down.
I can't say there isn't a second chance, because in fact there have been many. However, I can say with absolute certainty that there isn't another one. Jerking me around because you're too much of a coward to take an opportunity when it's offered is not fair to me, and you won't get another chance to do it. I'm sick of waiting for you. I'll find someone else who's not afraid of their own shadow, or I'll go on my own damn adventure. Either option is better than waiting indefinitely for change where there isn't any.
You asked why I act like I hate you, and my answer to that is: give me one reason I should like you right now.
I answer your messages because there isn't any particular reason to be rude to you. You've never been rude to me, and out of respect for that fact I will return the courtesy. I also want to keep a civil relationship with you for practical reasons, as we belong to the same league and need to be able to work together for everyone's sake. However, I don't have much interest in spending time with you or chatting for the sake of chatting. The energy you want from me is energy that I need to put toward other activities and other relationships. You had your chance with me, and you chose to end our relationship. If you regret that choice, it's not my problem. I deserve the space to find what I want and need in life.
There's a subset of things I know about myself that I'm willing to share, and another subset that I'm not; and that second set is really what's required to be able to say that I'm open and honest with someone. I still default to just flashing the shiny side and hiding all my emotions until they're invited. That's really not a helpful habit. It's fear that keeps me from changing. I'm afraid to bust out with "this is how I feel" and have it belittled, not accepted, or unreciprocated.
Maybe a little of it is PTSD; I ripped my heart out trying to save my last relationship and got it stepped on. If that were to happen again so soon I'm not sure I could take it.
On the other hand, I didn't think I could take the end of that relationship either, and I was wrong. If there's one thing I've learned from all this it's that I'll be okay no matter what happens.
Returning to the first hand, though, if I destroy enough of my support mechanisms even I will have to crumble eventually, when there's nothing left to hold me up. Maybe waiting for the table to grow a few more legs before doing surgery on one of them is the better plan.
There's that fear thing again. "Can't let the table collapse, I might fucking die." I won't fucking die. I walked out on the bridge, and then I walked back again. I have a lot of new scars but I'm still here.
It's only after we've lost everything that we're free to do anything.
My heroes: Tyler Durden, Harley Quinn, and Deadpool.
When someone else acts this way with me it drives me nuts, and I find myself saying things like, "I don't understand why this person is acting that way!" In fact, I think I understand quite well, and it's so close to my face I can't focus on it. The ugliest revelation to accept is self-reflection. I'm looking in a mirror and not liking what I see. I was proud of myself for having opened up so thoroughly in my relationship with Aiden and expressed everything I was thinking and feeling, but now I'm realizing that the whole process required for that to happen was unique to that relationship and doesn't translate to any other locale.
In the interest of bettering myself and not being a hypocrite, here's some clarity, because I wish I had some more access to clarity myself:
Aiden, when you decided not to come with me, I was completely crushed. Had you changed your mind the next day, I would've taken you back and been on top of the world; I was too blinded by pain to understand the problems with that situation. Once I had some time to realize I was going to survive, I also realized that the way you made that decision illustrated exactly why we shouldn't be partners. Since we got together, I spent a lot of effort trying to help you bust out; my role in life is to be the X factor, to fly into others' lives and shake them up and add a wild card. You always talked big and said that you were interested in the adventures I craved, but when it came right down to it, eight times out of ten I was left disappointed when you chose safety over freedom and the known quantity over the unknown one. In offering you a new start, I gave you one last chance to jump off the cliff and fly; and you turned it down.
I can't say there isn't a second chance, because in fact there have been many. However, I can say with absolute certainty that there isn't another one. Jerking me around because you're too much of a coward to take an opportunity when it's offered is not fair to me, and you won't get another chance to do it. I'm sick of waiting for you. I'll find someone else who's not afraid of their own shadow, or I'll go on my own damn adventure. Either option is better than waiting indefinitely for change where there isn't any.
You asked why I act like I hate you, and my answer to that is: give me one reason I should like you right now.
I answer your messages because there isn't any particular reason to be rude to you. You've never been rude to me, and out of respect for that fact I will return the courtesy. I also want to keep a civil relationship with you for practical reasons, as we belong to the same league and need to be able to work together for everyone's sake. However, I don't have much interest in spending time with you or chatting for the sake of chatting. The energy you want from me is energy that I need to put toward other activities and other relationships. You had your chance with me, and you chose to end our relationship. If you regret that choice, it's not my problem. I deserve the space to find what I want and need in life.
Maybe a little of it is PTSD; I ripped my heart out trying to save my last relationship and got it stepped on. If that were to happen again so soon I'm not sure I could take it.
On the other hand, I didn't think I could take the end of that relationship either, and I was wrong. If there's one thing I've learned from all this it's that I'll be okay no matter what happens.
Returning to the first hand, though, if I destroy enough of my support mechanisms even I will have to crumble eventually, when there's nothing left to hold me up. Maybe waiting for the table to grow a few more legs before doing surgery on one of them is the better plan.
There's that fear thing again. "Can't let the table collapse, I might fucking die." I won't fucking die. I walked out on the bridge, and then I walked back again. I have a lot of new scars but I'm still here.
It's only after we've lost everything that we're free to do anything.
My heroes: Tyler Durden, Harley Quinn, and Deadpool.
Thursday, July 28, 2016
Strength
June 2017
My new apartment was under renovation. It belonged to my friend Zoe, who had made me a deal - I could live in it in exchange for working on it. It sounded good to me.
It was a mess, though. No one was supposed to be living there. There was no furniture and no fridge, and everything was covered in a thick layer of golden dust that had been sanded off the wood floors. Zoe's boyfriend and cousin wrestled an old fridge up to the second floor for me, and then she and her daughter and another cousin came up and cleaned it out and made sure it was working.
Ninja had joined the moving crew on its way from A to B, and she stayed late and went out shopping with me. I was setting up a new home from scratch; I bought a bed, some sheets, and some curtains. The walls in my room were lime green with patches of white spackle, and the ceiling was a lumpy mess that needed sanding.
The next morning I set about making the kitchen functional. I cleaned everything, from the tops of the cupboards to the cracks in the baseboards. At least once I collapsed in the middle of the floor and just cried. I wasn't supposed to be there. Everything had gone so wrong. I kept hoping that Aiden would call and say he had made a terrible mistake and wanted me back, but my phone stayed silent. I wondered what he was doing. Probably crying on Shelby's shoulder about how bad his life was.
By the afternoon the kitchen was sparkling. Zoe invited me to go ride motorcycles with some friends, and I jumped on the distraction.
I spent a lot of time with her, and it became obvious that I was very lucky to have her as a friend. She was supportive and helpful and adult, but also badass and crude enough that I felt like we might be related. She was understanding when I shared pieces of what had happened with Aiden and Shelby. She made it clear that I was to go to her if I needed help, without being an intrusive asshole about it. She fed me protein shakes when anxiety wouldn't let me eat.
She came to me for help too, when things weren't going well with her boyfriend or her daughter. She knocked on my door one night and said she just couldn't take it and needed to escape. I brought her into my room and we shared a bottle of wine and commiserated about life. Some mornings I brought her lattes, and some evenings she made me margaritas. We watched movies and I braided her hair.
A few days into my new arrangement, my friend Hawk messaged me to check in. He realized immediately that I was a disaster and invited me to go along on his upcoming motorcycle trip across the country. What the hell, I thought. I'm free. Might as well act like it. Ninja encouraged me to go, even after I came clean to her about the details of my involvement with Hawk years earlier.
"I knew," she scolded me, like a mother hen. "Do you think I'm an idiot? Please. I know you, and I know Hawk." We had a good laugh.
Hawk and I spent ten days on the road, and it was a blast. He egged me into doing 1,000 miles on the bike in a day, and I did it because I have a chip on my shoulder. I hit it off with his friends. I introduced him to my cousins. I dumped his bike twice, and to his credit he was completely chill about it. We drove through hours of rain, soaked and freezing, and we baked ourselves senseless under the blazing Midwestern sun. I realized I was better off without someone who held me down and refused to adventure with me.
The day after I returned, Aiden showed up on my doorstep. He had made a terrible mistake. He wanted me back.
I told him to go to hell.
My new apartment was under renovation. It belonged to my friend Zoe, who had made me a deal - I could live in it in exchange for working on it. It sounded good to me.
It was a mess, though. No one was supposed to be living there. There was no furniture and no fridge, and everything was covered in a thick layer of golden dust that had been sanded off the wood floors. Zoe's boyfriend and cousin wrestled an old fridge up to the second floor for me, and then she and her daughter and another cousin came up and cleaned it out and made sure it was working.
Ninja had joined the moving crew on its way from A to B, and she stayed late and went out shopping with me. I was setting up a new home from scratch; I bought a bed, some sheets, and some curtains. The walls in my room were lime green with patches of white spackle, and the ceiling was a lumpy mess that needed sanding.
The next morning I set about making the kitchen functional. I cleaned everything, from the tops of the cupboards to the cracks in the baseboards. At least once I collapsed in the middle of the floor and just cried. I wasn't supposed to be there. Everything had gone so wrong. I kept hoping that Aiden would call and say he had made a terrible mistake and wanted me back, but my phone stayed silent. I wondered what he was doing. Probably crying on Shelby's shoulder about how bad his life was.
By the afternoon the kitchen was sparkling. Zoe invited me to go ride motorcycles with some friends, and I jumped on the distraction.
I spent a lot of time with her, and it became obvious that I was very lucky to have her as a friend. She was supportive and helpful and adult, but also badass and crude enough that I felt like we might be related. She was understanding when I shared pieces of what had happened with Aiden and Shelby. She made it clear that I was to go to her if I needed help, without being an intrusive asshole about it. She fed me protein shakes when anxiety wouldn't let me eat.
She came to me for help too, when things weren't going well with her boyfriend or her daughter. She knocked on my door one night and said she just couldn't take it and needed to escape. I brought her into my room and we shared a bottle of wine and commiserated about life. Some mornings I brought her lattes, and some evenings she made me margaritas. We watched movies and I braided her hair.
A few days into my new arrangement, my friend Hawk messaged me to check in. He realized immediately that I was a disaster and invited me to go along on his upcoming motorcycle trip across the country. What the hell, I thought. I'm free. Might as well act like it. Ninja encouraged me to go, even after I came clean to her about the details of my involvement with Hawk years earlier.
"I knew," she scolded me, like a mother hen. "Do you think I'm an idiot? Please. I know you, and I know Hawk." We had a good laugh.
Hawk and I spent ten days on the road, and it was a blast. He egged me into doing 1,000 miles on the bike in a day, and I did it because I have a chip on my shoulder. I hit it off with his friends. I introduced him to my cousins. I dumped his bike twice, and to his credit he was completely chill about it. We drove through hours of rain, soaked and freezing, and we baked ourselves senseless under the blazing Midwestern sun. I realized I was better off without someone who held me down and refused to adventure with me.
The day after I returned, Aiden showed up on my doorstep. He had made a terrible mistake. He wanted me back.
I told him to go to hell.
Wednesday, July 27, 2016
The End
June 2017
I never did explain what happened after June of 2016. I was hurting too much to go over it again.
I did what I said I was going to do; I found a place to go by myself. The night before I moved, Aiden told me he had made his decision, and that he'd be staying with Shelby. This after he had already told me he was coming with me.
I lost my fucking mind. That's not how it was supposed to go. I did exactly what I'd been trying so hard not to do and I begged. I never beg, for anything, but I did. I was more desperate than I think I've ever been.
He told me no.
I walked out of the house, crossed the road, and headed for the bridge. I had no shoes, no wallet, no phone; I wouldn't need them where I was going. On my way up the north side I spotted something shiny on the ground - the tip of a fishing knife, broken off to the size of an arrowhead. I picked it up and started digging it into my palm as I walked.
At the center of the bridge I stopped and stood at the railing, just me and the drop and the rushing water in the middle of the night. I squeezed the knife tip until blood welled up around it, then squeezed it again, and again. I drew it across my palm, chasing the life lines around my hand until they were crimson.
After some time I saw movement out of the corner of my eye and realized Aiden was walking toward me. Baffled, I didn't run. I wanted to know what he could possibly say, what right he thought he had to be out there with me.
He told me stop doing what I was doing with the knife. I snatched it away from him, refused, continued trying to let the pain out through my skin. He told me come home. Home? Where the fuck was that, exactly? At least back to the house. No, I never want to be there ever again. I don't want to be anywhere. That place is poison, what the fuck have I been telling you.
Eventually he walked away. I jumped over the railing as soon as he turned his back. There was a ledge on the open side, and I sat with my back against the metal bars and my feet dangling into the blackness over the river. A patch of cracked concrete rose from the water below me.
It's not high enough.
Oh come on, people die from falls off smaller things.
By chance. People have also survived multi-story falls by that same chance.
I'll just go head-first.
You can't even dive into a pool, you idiot. You'll land on your back and end up paralyzed and stuck.
Hours later I walked back into the house. There was nowhere else I could go without a wallet, a phone, and some car keys. I snuck into the spare room and lay down on the futon.
It had been years since I made myself bleed like that. Seven years, almost to the day. I couldn't stop cutting, and I couldn't stop crying.
At some point he came in and laid down next to me. He talked for a long time; I can't remember a word of it now. None of it mattered. All I remember is asking him to stay one last night with me, and him telling me no. I told him it was the last night that would ever happen, and he could spend all the rest of the nights of his life with Shelby, but he walked away and spent it with her instead.
The next morning he came back, apparently to give me a third blow: I tried to take his pants off and he told me no and backed away. I rewound the tape. It's the last time. Then you can be rid of me forever. No, I won't. Don't touch me.
I found my sub collar in a drawer and gave it back. The look on his face told me I'd hit the pay dirt I was looking for. Three good headshots deserve at least one in return.
Then my friends arrived and there was a whirlwind of boxes. When everything was packed into vehicles and I'd gotten behind the wheel of the moving van, I dropped my head into the steering wheel and sobbed. Bruce, riding shotgun, held my hand until I could drive again. I'd been wearing socks on my arms, but as we idled through traffic I pulled them down and showed Bruce my new marks.
"I had a feeling," he said. I knew that he knew, and that he wouldn't judge me. "Please call me if you're going to do that again."
I promised I would, but I knew it wasn't going to happen again. It wouldn't help.
I never did explain what happened after June of 2016. I was hurting too much to go over it again.
I did what I said I was going to do; I found a place to go by myself. The night before I moved, Aiden told me he had made his decision, and that he'd be staying with Shelby. This after he had already told me he was coming with me.
I lost my fucking mind. That's not how it was supposed to go. I did exactly what I'd been trying so hard not to do and I begged. I never beg, for anything, but I did. I was more desperate than I think I've ever been.
He told me no.
I walked out of the house, crossed the road, and headed for the bridge. I had no shoes, no wallet, no phone; I wouldn't need them where I was going. On my way up the north side I spotted something shiny on the ground - the tip of a fishing knife, broken off to the size of an arrowhead. I picked it up and started digging it into my palm as I walked.
At the center of the bridge I stopped and stood at the railing, just me and the drop and the rushing water in the middle of the night. I squeezed the knife tip until blood welled up around it, then squeezed it again, and again. I drew it across my palm, chasing the life lines around my hand until they were crimson.
After some time I saw movement out of the corner of my eye and realized Aiden was walking toward me. Baffled, I didn't run. I wanted to know what he could possibly say, what right he thought he had to be out there with me.
He told me stop doing what I was doing with the knife. I snatched it away from him, refused, continued trying to let the pain out through my skin. He told me come home. Home? Where the fuck was that, exactly? At least back to the house. No, I never want to be there ever again. I don't want to be anywhere. That place is poison, what the fuck have I been telling you.
Eventually he walked away. I jumped over the railing as soon as he turned his back. There was a ledge on the open side, and I sat with my back against the metal bars and my feet dangling into the blackness over the river. A patch of cracked concrete rose from the water below me.
It's not high enough.
Oh come on, people die from falls off smaller things.
By chance. People have also survived multi-story falls by that same chance.
I'll just go head-first.
You can't even dive into a pool, you idiot. You'll land on your back and end up paralyzed and stuck.
Hours later I walked back into the house. There was nowhere else I could go without a wallet, a phone, and some car keys. I snuck into the spare room and lay down on the futon.
It had been years since I made myself bleed like that. Seven years, almost to the day. I couldn't stop cutting, and I couldn't stop crying.
At some point he came in and laid down next to me. He talked for a long time; I can't remember a word of it now. None of it mattered. All I remember is asking him to stay one last night with me, and him telling me no. I told him it was the last night that would ever happen, and he could spend all the rest of the nights of his life with Shelby, but he walked away and spent it with her instead.
The next morning he came back, apparently to give me a third blow: I tried to take his pants off and he told me no and backed away. I rewound the tape. It's the last time. Then you can be rid of me forever. No, I won't. Don't touch me.
I found my sub collar in a drawer and gave it back. The look on his face told me I'd hit the pay dirt I was looking for. Three good headshots deserve at least one in return.
Then my friends arrived and there was a whirlwind of boxes. When everything was packed into vehicles and I'd gotten behind the wheel of the moving van, I dropped my head into the steering wheel and sobbed. Bruce, riding shotgun, held my hand until I could drive again. I'd been wearing socks on my arms, but as we idled through traffic I pulled them down and showed Bruce my new marks.
"I had a feeling," he said. I knew that he knew, and that he wouldn't judge me. "Please call me if you're going to do that again."
I promised I would, but I knew it wasn't going to happen again. It wouldn't help.
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