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| Aimee Mullins, born without fibulea she grew up to create record-breaking cheetah legs! We are capable of so much greatness. I am in love with her story because I think it's a lot like mine. |
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Read the previous entry here.
*Trigger warning. This was my darkest moment. Read with caution.
** Note to Mr. Scabs, I know this one hurts. Sorry.
November 2010
You wake up anxious with your heart pounding and in those first moments of lucidity your brain tells you it's all been a terrible dream. That's when your hand reaches up to rub your eyes as they focus in the dim morning bedroom light. Your fingers scratch lazily at your neck and shoulder, then stretching high in the sky your left arm reaches for your right arm but grasps at nothing but air. Again, confused you yawn and reach your left arm intending to clasp fingers with your right and do a morning stretch. Still, you grasp nothing but air! Fear strikes you, the tightening in your chest, the lump in your throat, the rhythm of your heart speeds, the sickening in your stomach turns and your eyes widen. Racing thoughts hint that your dream wasn't a dream. Your eyes turn toward your right shoulder, gasping your left hand clenches the stump of wounded flesh were you arm was attached. Your arm has been cut off, severed, removed from your wholeness.
There's no turning back. You can't regrow an arm or sew it back on, a prosthetic is just that, prosthetic. It's gone, your life forever changed. You will adapt. You have no other choice.
March 2011
Mr. Scabs would ask me what he could do. What could he do to fix this living nightmare? Shaking, with consuming pain I would scream,
"build me a time machine!"
Decisions had been made, conscience had been ignored, rules of marriage had been thrown out, lies had been told and retold. There is no way to fix it. I want a DeLorean. I want to travel back like Marty and Doc to some event altering time in the past. A place where I can make this all disapear. Clenching my eyes, I hold my breath.
A heavy black fog fills my heart. I walk daily with lurid feelings of betrayal, depression and loneliness. I eat nothing and then I eat a whole bag of Oreo's and then I eat nothing again. Days pass before I wash my hair or take a shower. Flat and shallow, my eyes stare out the window. My brain, my self-purpose and self-love know his addiction does not reflect me but my heart can't feel the truth in that statement.
His lies and sticky darkness have jumped ship and spread across the once clear ocean waters crushing me. Like a bird drenched in oil spill slick, unable to fly and unable to escape.
I wished I were dead.
My bright-eyed children skip into the room. I watch them in slow motion. Their laughing and giggling turns to teasing and then hurt feelings. My daughter reaches down for her brother, holding him close. Her bright eyes now regretful, she's sorry. I witness the clarity and genuine feeling of a simple apology. And just like that they are up and playing again.
I struggle for life. I struggle to feel. Numbess is a new state of normal. Flattly, I stare out the window. Life is still moving, even renewing. It's spring but I am dead inside, whithering, like the darkest coldest day of winter.
And then, something shifts. The dark longing for death shifts focus. I'm no longer the target. The long boney fingers of death reach for my spouse.
I wish he were dead.
Hit by a bus, suffocated in an earthquake, eaten by disease, anything that would free me of him. I felt ambushed. My heart and mind slipped into labrinth of darkness wishing death on the man I called my husband. The women who went ballistic and shot their husbands to pieces or cut off their penisis in the middle of the night were not so far from who i had become.
My sanity was fragmented. My mind ill and diseased for never-ending lies and betrayal. My neurosis had reached it's peak. The only way through this hell was the death of one of us. Divorce would eat away and erode our children. If we stayed together I would decompose into nothing. Death would be hard to get over but it could be done. In my darkest, most cheerless morbid moments, remembering all the times he screwed me over, I wished death upon him.
"Now and then I think of all the times you screwed me over
Part of me believing it was always something that I'd done
But I don't wanna live that way
Reading into every word you sa
You said that you could let it go
And I wouldn't catch you hung up on somebody that you used to know"
May 30, 2012
In case you are worried, he is still alive and so am I.
If this is your first time reading and you need a pick-me-up after such a dark post, read about Mr. Scabs remorse here, or here. Or if you need to get away from sex addiction all together check out one of my favorites Tomboy Style or be sure to read Aimee Mullins story.
