Nightmares about TJ upset me so much it makes my skin crawl. When I think about them, I want to bash my head into a wall over and over. Knock the images and feelings right out of me. They create so much doubt in me, in us. I find myself asking him "Do you still love me?" I beg him to stop them. And still they come.
The more I allow those visions to occupy my mind, the more darkness grows inside of me. As if a gate were opened, allowing fear to flow freely into the center of me. I have this mental image I can not shake. When I doubt him, I doubt all. I envision myself standing with arms outstretched, head thrown back screaming as swirling gray clouds flow into my open chest. I imagine that, as the stream flows inside, it causes my body to grow in size and length. I can almost hear my snarls trying to fight it. It turns my mind inside out and makes my chest ache. I feel like a monster. As if I have to change shape just to accommodate the growing disquiet.
It makes matters so much worse because I can't remember what it feels like to have his love. So each time there is any other notion placed as seed in my brain, the harder it is to discredit it. I want what I had. With each moment that passes I get farther and farther from it. Even the memories don't feel like my own anymore. I want to fight this, but I can't fight something that I can not anticipate.
Wednesday, May 9, 2012
WARNING: This installment might make you feel uncomfortable. I'm making up for all of those entries that should have been as true as this one. I am venting months and months of pain and frustration proving that that was then, and this... this is now.
Hot damn, writing tonight got me fired up. Re-reading my old entries is pretty crazy. When I write in this blog I read/edit my entry as I go, but once I publish it I don't ever look at it again. I don't want to bring up that terrible unrest by reading it after I've been able to abate it. But shit, I was a fucking wuss in the beginning. I'll share a bit of what I wrote for my book with you tonight. It'll explain what I mean:
weak, feeble attempts at rebellion in my early entries still irritate me to no
end. This is my blog, dammit. And it’s obvious that the people I was
longing to connect with weren’t reading it.
I doubt they even spared it a glance at all, let alone read it and kept
up with it. Those entries ooze passive
aggressiveness. It makes me angry. I should have been able to say exactly what I
meant and fuckall if someone takes it personally. Maybe they should. Maybe they should sit back and wonder “is she
talking about me?” Because odds are, if you're reading what I'm saying and thinking of only yourself, I most certainly am. I was so afraid to
say the wrong thing. I’m so glad I grew
some balls as time moved on. In this
entry from last year, I envision a weak little lamb, knees knocking when I read
“Please don't misunderstand; I love my family and friends with all my
heart. This is not something I see for myself. It's just a new
emotion.” For shits sake! I wanted to be alone! ... I
needed to protect myself from the rejection I was feeling. And yet I
still begged them, in my own way, not to give up on me."
I will never go back there. I will never be that fearful again. I am entitled to my feelings and the freedom to express them. There is no need to make excuses. They're feelings, how can they be wrong? It's all a matter of personal opinion, anyway. I am hurting. All the time. Some of my pain is exactly the same pain that I've been dealing with for the past 14 months. Some of my pain is new, evolutionary. But I am always hurting. There is no need for me to try to sugar coat it for my audience. If you really know me, if you spend time with me, talk to me, you know I cope. But some people see my expression of pain and I am bombarded with input. Some things that people say to me are bewildering. When I'm questioned I can't help but wonder if they even know me at all. Maybe if they paid more attention they would never say such things. If they think that I should be "moving on" or "getting over" these things, are you for real? If they think that I should be "putting on a brave face" or "being thankful for what I have" they can fucking call me after they watch their husband die right in front of them and tell me then how irrelevant that statement is. Until then, they can't even begin to imagine this kind of pain. I hope they never have to live with anything so terrible. I'm sorry if my pain makes you uncomfortable. How do you think it makes me feel? I'm the one who has to live it. You get to read this blog and then go back to your family; to your husband, to your wife. If I sound bitter, it's because I am. I've spent too much time longing for people to come back to me after they stopped checking on me, calling me, inviting me out. I've spent too much time wondering why it was happening, wondering what I was doing wrong to make them pull away. I've spent too much time pussy footing around my feelings in this blog because I didn't want the rejection to keep happening. I tried everything I could to be understood. But it didn't really matter what I said or what I did. And I finally realized all that matters is what I think, what I do. I've come this far all by myself. I did it. Me. I'm no longer afraid.
I choose to be true to my emotions. I choose to be proud of all that I have accomplished. I choose to embrace this pain in my life. And if others can't accept this about me, then they can kindly keep their judgments to themselves.
Tuesday, May 1, 2012
I feel really really sad tonight. Cool spring evenings remind me of cook outs with our friends. Sitting together outside, having the temperature drop. TJ loved it when it was cool outside; he'd always let me wear his warm fleece jacket. I'd bury myself in it. Enveloped in the residual warmth of his body and scent of his skin. I'd nuzzle deep and lean into him. Occasionally he'd drop his head down to kiss my temple. It was the most simple, yet decadent pleasure. I was never happier than I was with my head resting on his chest, feeling his heavy arm draped over me.
I think today will be the last time I go to my Grandparent's house on Market Street. It's been sold and we need to be out by Friday. My dad and brother are going to the beach house to unload the furniture that my grandmother still wants to keep. I took my time walking around inside today, feeling attached and yet detached. The house is more than familiar, but with all of the empty rooms and wide open spaces it was like a new place to me. I had always imagined that TJ and I would buy it. It’s in a good school district and I imagined us living there. I could practically see our children running through the yard. When it was decided to sell, I had no way to purchase it. No amount of hoping and praying would have been enough for me to afford it. So I had to give up yet another dream of mine. Even after TJ died I could still imagine myself living there with my kitties. Seeing it so empty today I couldn't help but imagine what my things would look like inside. How I would decorate it. But it's an impossibility. I stood in the empty dining room and cried. The hardwood floors were so beautiful. I’d never seen them without the practically wall to wall oriental rugs. I walked into the kitchen and cried to my dad and while he hugged me I found myself saying over and over “I wish I could have bought this house. The floors are so nice.”
And a year ago today I was told to move out of the house TJ and I were renting. A year ago I was faced with my own emotionally draining eviction. I didn't even make the connection until I continued working on my book tonight. I went by my grandparents today on a whim; to see if those hard working boys needed some lunch. I was in the neighborhood, anyway. It's curious to me now to experience these two moves, separated in time, but not date, and yet so weightily connected.