Hurt

Miserable.  I don't deserve to be miserable.  This has been my mantra over the past several weeks.

I was stopped dead in my tracks shortly after my last post.  I went to therapy, minding my own business like I always do, and my therapist told me he had a possible solution for handling my vices.  Or addictions as they should be more accurately described.

REHAB

Are you fucking kidding me?  Turns out he wasn't.  And that was a sobering moment.  To come to the point in my life where I'm told that I am essentially out of control and I need to be locked up to gain control is probably enough to get most anyone's attention. 

I am all about control so coming to the reality that control is not something in my arsenal; well, that one is a tough one for me.  I came here and had nothing to say.  Perhaps out of embarrassment.  Perhaps out of fear.  Perhaps I was wordless.  And so I was quiet.

Back to the rehab thing; I used my daughter as a reason... excuse... and asked for a month to get my shit together.  I then went home, armed with a list written by my therapist for my husband.  And I actually gave the list to him and did a lot of explaining.

I've left my husband in the dark about a lot.  Especially when it comes to the food and cutting problems.  When I told him that I still cut his response was, "but that's what fucked up people do". 

I met his remark with a smile and a raised eyebrow and said, "yeah".

So I'm doing what fucked up people do.  I'm talking; not in my head but with audible words for real humans to hear.  I'm trying to express my feelings better.  I'm being honest about my habits.  And I'm letting people help me.  All novel concepts. 

To keep busy, I'm also quilting and sewing everything in my path.  I made two quilts in a week.  My husband is worried that he is going to wake up and find himself quilted to the bed.  I told him that if it keeps me sober then perhaps he should pick out some fabrics that he likes.

I'm doing better.  I am thinking before I eat, drink, or hurt myself. 

And politely speaking, really all of this has just been one form or another of hurting myself.  Impolitely, I have been self-destructing or fucking myself up.  Whatever it is, I don't deserve it. 

I've been hurt enough.

What

How far does one venture into the black hole of a childhood? 

The more I think, the more I write, the more I feel, the more I allow myself to remember, the more horror I unwrap.  One of my biggest fears is drawing near.

What if I cannot stop? 

Stop feeling, stop remembering, stop hurting, stop crying, stop traveling at light speed face-first into the fist of my past...

I have been this close to facing this fear before.  And then I found convenient excuses to stop.  Or run.  I'm pretty much out of excuses these days.  I am stable; my medications are doing their job.  I have good support.  I am not being abused.  I am not in the midst of any sort of crisis.  All of these positives are stepping stones in the right direction.  Great.

I enjoy writing; I think that is probably pretty obvious.  I enjoy the control.  I share what I wish and I conceal what I do not wish to share.  It works out perfectly.  Or at least I like to think it does...

My husband tells me to just start talking.  I think he's being ridiculous.  No one just opens their mouth and starts spilling their secrets.  When you spill something it is hard to control the mess.  I like control.  What if I lose the little control that I have?

I keep telling myself that I have already been through the worst of this.  But what happens when feeling and remembering leaves a mark?  What if who I find is maimed, ruined, and disfigured? 

Then what?

Toxic

What do you do when you love someone toxic?

Every time I speak with him, he poisons a little more of my soul. One step forward, two reeling stumbles back. I shouldn't love him. I shouldn't give him a second of my time or even a second thought. I shouldn't even speak to him.

But he calls and I answer.

Maybe today is the day he will tell me how sorry he is; how wrong he has been.

He tells me how sorry he is, just not in the way I wish. Thirty seconds, that is all I gave him. In thirty seconds he has reduced me to his whore, his obsession, his hole.

My head and my heart scream to hang up. I do and I go about my day pretending that I'm fine. In reality, I reek of shame and self-loathing. I am toxic and I fear the fumes will reveal who he has wished me to be.

I hate him. I hate what he did. I hate what he does. Yet, despite my hatred I am addicted to hope. Just one last time, one last chance. I will answer one last time. But deep inside I know what I have always known: he is never going to change. He is sick and he is toxic.

He does not love me. He loves to control me. He doesn't even love the idea of me. I have never even been "me" with him, only an object. From his mouth he spews words and phrases that should never be uttered aloud. Or to your own daughter.