Scar Tissue That I Wish You Saw

Soft spoken with a broken jaw;
Step outside but not to brawl.
And autumn’s sweet;
We call it “fall”.
I’ll make it to the moon if I have to crawl

Do I exist?  Sometimes I wonder if I actually died when I gave birth to my son.  I wonder if, instead, he died and my mind couldn’t handle it and has created this elaborate scenario of anguish.  I wonder if I died that night last year when I was found unresponsive in my car and spent a night in the hospital only to wake up confused and alone.  Lucille wouldn’t even get out of bed to come get me when he found out that I literally nearly died and required 5 pints of blood.  I wonder if today is simply a bad dream because I’m afraid that I cannot handle it.  I want to wake up.

I want to know what I did to deserve this.  All of the bad things that started before my birth and snowballed into a complete breakdown over the past 32 years.  A good person does not get that much in the “you can handle it” category, do they?

I feel like my childhood taught me little about the real world and yet far too much.  I learned to pretend to be strong and in control because it was expected.  I learned to stop talking because either no one was listening or I would be belittled for my words.  Ignored.  Made fun of.  Yelled at.  Accused of being melodramatic.  It was all there in different relationships throughout my first 18 years.

Today I don’t blog or comment because I’m afraid of all of those things.  I don’t talk to anyone, including my mother, because of those things.  I live in fear of it happening all over again, and so I distance myself and feel guilty for not opening up to those who seem to truly care.  Because many of those other people either seemed  care or were supposed to care but never followed through with what I needed to survive.

I met Lucille when I was 18 and completely naive.  I was madly in love a year later because he listened to me.  He talked to me and made me laugh.  He cared.  Nearly 13 years later he told me one day that he simply didn’t love me anymore.  Somewhere in my breakdown process he had stopped listening and talking and caring…and loving.  How did I not see it?  I adored him like no one in my entire lifetime.  He was my entire world.  The only person I talked to about how I really felt.  Weak.  Helpless.  Afraid.

I have more to say on this topic.  Much more.  Because people seem to believe that I can be strong, that I can survive, that I can move past this.  It will have to wait for another post, though, because right now I wonder if any of that is remotely possible.

I exist.  I just don’t know who I am.

With the birds I’ll share this lonely view….

My life as a Kenny Rogers song…

I’ve had some bad times
Lived through some sad times
But this time the hurtin’ won’t heal
You picked a fine time to leave me Lucille

Have you all ever heard the song Lucille?  Songs like that one will stick in your head for decades, I swear.  And now I’m living it to some degree, and it eff’ing sucks shit.  I need to document what took place from 1998 until this hellish 2011, and here seems as good a place as any.  Better than facebook, right?  Having nearly 500 ‘friends’ over there makes it hard to open up, you know?  So hang on tight and listen all about how I went from madly in love at 19 to nearly divorced at 32.  Throw in Infertility, pregnancy losses, Obesity, weight loss, Fibromyalgia, BiPolar Disorder and a few other medical issues – oh, and bankruptcy complete with homelessness – and I have plenty of trainwreck to keep coming back.  I am in survival mode right now…this cannot be allowed to break me.  This time the hurting must heal.