Who Am I

What in the Hell is wrong with me?

Why would an adult person of average intelligence knowingly and willingly put herself in a situation that can only end in intense pain and heartbreak? What kind of person does that? A psychopath? A sadist? No. An intensely lonely person, desperate for someone to love them as much as they love the people in their lives.

I have spent every night of this weekend at B’s house. I have listened to her, I have held her while she cries, and I have genuinely tried to be a friend to her and not tell her how much it hurts. It should make me happy, even B said that herself. She loves someone who doesn’t love her back. M doesn’t love her, she never did really. She was using her for something, I don’t know what, but that’s really not important. Sound familiar? The way she is feeling right now is horrible. It hurts, and it’s numb at the same time. I know, all too well. I have been there, I am there.  However, I absolutely can not know that someone I know is hurting and not do what I can to help.

What makes me sad, though is it is very clear to me that B is either completely oblivious to my feelings, or I now mean so little to her that she doesn’t care how I feel. I have spent a week listening to her tell me how much she loves this woman, how she would do anything to get her back. She has read me text messages begging M to give their relationship another chance, All of the things I have wanted her to say to me since the day she walked away, she has said to another woman and then told me.

I don’t blame her anymore for breaking up with me. I always knew it would happen. I have a long history of not being enough for the people I care about. I wasn’t successful enough for G, I wasn’t disciplined or structured enough for K, my ex husband once told me my best isn’t good enough. I’m not pretty enough for B. I can’t change that. God knows I spend damn near an hour every morning and tons of money every month on makeup to cover up the ugly as best I can. I’m not very good at it yet, but I’m learning. I still hear her words, loud and clear every day. I don’t know if they will ever go away. I don’t know if I deserve them to.

B’s immediate problem of money and bills will be resolved by the middle of this month one way or another. I am really hoping I hear from her after that, but I really don’t know. I don’t know who I am to her anymore. I don’t know how long she will want me around this time, but I know only too well how easily I can be replaced.


So I saw B this week. I knew it would happen eventually. It was only a matter of time. Whatever the connection that we have is, is not gone yet. I haven’t decided if that’s good or bad. For better or worse, my entire being comes alive when I am around her in a way it hasn’t in years. It’s intoxicating, and addictive and like most intoxicating and addictive things, very dangerous.

We have been talking for a few weeks, mostly in text, a few short phone calls here and there. Apparently the woman she left me for, M, isn’t as perfect as B thought and she is pretty much miserable. Yes, part of me wants to laugh and thank karma for allowing me to watch, but honestly, I can’t know that she is sad and having a hard time and not try to help. Ill advised? absolutely. Stupid? Probably. I tell myself that I am doing it because I want to be a good person, and it’s the right thing to do and that is all absolutely true. Another reason is because I want to help her. I want to see her smile and know that I helped put that smile on her face. She has an amazing smile.

So I went over on Tuesday and was able to see her dogs, who I love and miss more than I could tell you. Apparently there is an issue with M and the dogs, and it breaks my heart. She has really amazing dogs. They should be happy in their home, but then again, so should B and I really don’t think she is. It doesn’t even look like a place B would or could be comfortable anymore. It’s frilly and girly, and pink. Good God, so much pink. Her apartment before was eclectic, her art was openly displayed, it was homey and comfortable and her. I don’t know what this is, but I don’t really know who she is anymore anyway, so I guess it makes sense somehow.

We went to lunch and drank too much, and listened to old music and for a minute, it was like old times, like tons of other nights in her apartment with old music and drinks. A song we both love came on and she asked me to dance, and I lost it. We stood there, dancing in this place that I don’t belong anymore, crying together. It was heartbreaking. I kept wondering what the hell I did to get here, but I know it’s not my fault. I was, and I am, good to her. I don’t know if she would admit that, but that is unedited honesty.

I saw her again today and clearly walls have been installed since Tuesday. I took her to lunch, but she didn’t want to drink, seemed to not even want to be around me. Right before I left she told me to stop my drama. MY drama. I have spent my vacation trying to help her out of the fucktastic mess that is her life, but I have drama? Whatever.

I left in tears, and went to have a drink alone, trying to figure out how a person of reasonable intelligence can allow myself to be trampled on repeatedly. Not just by B, by everyone in my life. I really do try to be a good person. I care about people. A lot. I don’t know why I am never good enough.

I don’t know if I will see B again. I will if she wants to of course. When I was leaving on Tuesday, she promised me she will fix this, and that meant so much to me, until she read me a text she sent M today, in which she said the exact same thing. I wish I knew what she really feels, what she really thinks. For now, all I can do is wait.

On Seeing the Person you Love, Love Someone Else

When she tells you about her for the first time, she will be drunk.

Don’t react.

Keep a smile in your voice and on your face.

Use short, concise sentences, like, “It’s all good”, or , “I wish you happiness.”

Don’t say much else.

Your voice will show you are running out of air.

The anvil she dropped on your chest just landed.

You haven’t gotten good at breathing around it yet.

Realize that she doesn’t love you. She never did.

Practice saying “it didn’t work out”

and “we broke up”

until you can say the words casually, without tears.

The first time someone asks you about her,

You will feel tears form.

Make sure to cough,

let the tears be explained away by allergies.

Make yourself as busy as possible.

Wake up at five am every day, so you can go to the gym before work.

After work, go to the gym again.

Volunteer for everything, say yes to every request.

Spend hours writing, late into the night.

You know how to do this.

You’ve gotten good at being used and discarded.

You need to fill every second of every day with as much activity as possible.

The goal here is exhaustion.

The long, endless nights in a dark, quiet house are the worst.

Avoid these at all costs.

That’s when the tapes in your mind, the ones you have had since childhood, will play.

On repeat.

They will bring your deepest, darkest insecurities to you.

They will belittle you.

Demean you.

They will try to make you believe you are worthless.

When you realize they are now playing in her voice,

it will crush you.

Begin a new practice of having a drink before bed.

Just one.

Drown her voice with bourbon.

The goal here is oblivion.

The first time you see a picture of them on Facebook,

you will be physically ill.

As you wretch over the toilet bowl, your stomach will turn itself inside out.

You will realize then that in the past week you have eaten exactly

five grapes

and two saltine crackers.

That’s why you can’t get sick.

Your stomach is like the rest of you.

It can’t tell when there is nothing left.

Know through all of this, that this is not your fault.

You love someone who doesn’t love you back.

She doesn’t love you.

She never did.

She never will.



It comes to me in dreams,

All the things I should have said to you.

Like you are an asshat

or, how can you lie so easily?

Or, call me if you change your mind,

or, please, don’t go.

I want you to know I don’t regret a second.

I will keep my memories safe,

tucked away in a corner, and one day,

when I need them

I will take them out, and like any good writer, edit them.

I will keep the time you told me

Anywhere I am is home,

and delete the fact that you were lying.

I will keep the fun we had singing bad music,

and delete the fact that you were lying.

I will keep the time you told me you weren’t going anywhere,

and delete the fact that you were lying

And I’m crying while I write this,

but I will delete my tears too.

Because you don’t deserve them.

Because they don’t matter to you.

when you said they did, you were lying.

I know the reasons you left me.

It’s not about my past,

It’s not about my looks.

It’s about honesty.

It’s about honest, real love, and that terrifies you.

My real-ness and my honesty scared the Hell out of you

and why wouldn’t it?

You have worked so long to hide the real you.

How could you possibly be prepared

For something real to touch your soul?

The last time I saw you,

I knew I would never see you again.

But you were still playing your game, so I played along.

I watched you pull a steady stream of fish from the lake,

so proud of each catch.

I imagined being that fish,

My mouth ripped open by your hook,

saying I’m so sorry.

I’ll try harder to breathe,

out of water,

for you.




A woman is like a tea bag.  It’s only when she’s in hot water that you realize how strong she is.  ~Attributed to both Eleanor Roosevelt and Carl Sandburg

In one of the highest compliments ever paid to me, my mother once told me I am the strongest person she knows.  I have never forgotten it, and never will.  I have repeated this to myself thousands and thousands of times, as a matter of survival.  I can withstand anything, I am strong.

This compliment has been repeated to me by other people, in different forms, but with the same central meaning.  My friends tell me with admiration how strong I am to have endured things I have endured in silence for years.  In a rare moment of honesty, my ex husband admitted to me that I am stronger than he ever was, something I have always known and he now denies ever having said.  I have always looked at strength as a positive character trait in anyone, but most especially in women, the supposed “weaker sex”.  These days, I’m not so sure I do.

What I have found is that the more strength you display, the stronger you allow yourself to be known to be, the more strength is required of you.  With every obstacle overcome, every challenge faced head on, the faster they seem to be thrown.  Still, to be considered a woman of strength, we face them all, and rise to yet another challenge, and reconstruct badly damaged and bruised egos and souls.  We may be strong, but to say that we are not permanently changed by each and every blow, physical or emotional, would be a lie of the darkest kind.

In the past year I have found myself wishing often that I wasn’t  strong.  I wish sometimes that I could retreat into alcoholism, or drug addiction, or mental illness and not have to keep going every day.  That is not the way I am made, and honestly, most of the time I am grateful that I’m not.  Still, at my lowest points, I sometimes fantasize about how easy it would be to have an excuse to give up, even if it was only for a while.  I hear about people staying in bed for a year after the death of a child, or having a mental breakdown that incapacitated them after years of physical and mental abuse is heaped upon them, and I don’t blame them.  I get it, I really do.  I just wonder sometimes about the human mind.  Why some people keep going, while others get the time to recharge.

I’m getting divorced.  Tomorrow morning, I will be in a lawyer’s office, dissecting the last 18 years of my life, and hopefully be given the tools to start rebuilding.  Starting over at 42 sucks.  It does.  I hate dealing with the process of disentangling my life from my ex.  I hate the vulnerability of doing all of this alone.  I hate all of it, and I know that it is going to get really messy from here on out.  everyone tells me I’m strong though.  I guess we are about to find out if they are right.

The Things I Carry With Me

Ten years ago, I carried a two year old little girl. She was loving, adorable, and instantly loved by everyone who saw her. Her two older sisters and one older brother were with me constantly, not carried, but attached none the less, with sticky hands and firm, sturdy arms. I carried a diaper bag, too. It held spare clothes, cheerios, boo-boo tape (band-aids) and blankies.

Today, that two year old is a beautiful, blonde, older than her years twelve year old. She has compassion, and a strong sense of right and wrong. Her oldest sister is now far away from us, living her own life, and missed terribly by all of us. Her other sister is now a mom with a diaper bag of her own, and her older brother has somehow changed from my beautiful little boy into a handsome, quiet teenager. They have been joined by another brother, now eight years old. My diaper bag has been replaced by one of many hand bags, depending on my mood, and the cheerios have been replaced by mints and gum, but they are still carried mainly for them, just like the cheerios.

Ten years ago, my son died. I carried the grief of his passing clearly, the pain raw and exposed, probably to the point of making other people uncomfortable around me. His name was spoken in whispers around me, kindness showed to me by caring people afraid to open the wound that had not yet begun to heal. I remember thinking at the time that it never would heal.

I was right. That kind of wound never does heal fully. After experiencing pain that deep, that all consuming, you are left forever with a void. The void can not be filled, not with more children, sex, alcohol or drugs. The pain, however, does lessen. One day you wake up, and you realize that you can breathe, that life has been going on all around you, and people are depending on you, looking to you to help them with their grief and pain. It is always with me, and always will be. The pain has changed me, and carrying it has made me stronger, I think, and so appreciative of my children it’s hard to let them grow up sometimes.

Ten years ago, I carried an engagement ring and a wedding ring on my left ring finger. They were symbols to the world, and to myself, that I belonged to someone. I wore them proudly, and in really bad times in my marriage, would look at them and tell myself they meant that I was okay, that I was loved. Ten years ago, I carried with me a deep, all encompassing need to be loved no matter what. I truly believed that if I was loved, if I was “in love”, nothing else mattered, I was complete, a whole person. I could overlook anything, as long as I was “in love”.

Today, my left ring finger is empty. My rings were taken off, and my marriage is over. They were replaced, briefly, wrongly by other rings, on two separate occasions. Not wedding rings, but symbols none the less. I was “in love”, someone loved me, so therefore, I was okay. I no longer carry that need. Today, I feel that the word love is so highly overused, and so misused, that I don’t believe in being “in love” anymore. It is a big realization for me to come to, that I don’t believe in love. Of course, I love my children, but the other love, the intoxicating, you complete me, you had me at hello, love? No, I honestly don’t believe in it anymore. That is kind of sad, I think, but it’s okay for now, I’m good with that.

Ten years ago, I carried a secret. I hid this secret from everyone, guarding it with everything in me. I hid it, most especially, from myself. I thought about it sometimes, during long, sleepless nights. I would quickly force myself to think of something, anything else. To reveal the secret to myself, to open it up, lay it out and examine it, would mean questioning everything in my entire life. It would mean questioning my motherhood, my marriage, my role as a daughter, a sister, a friend. Doing that would require a strength almost super human, I thought, although I knew that many, many people had. I applauded them silently, in some hidden corner of my heart even envied them, but I knew, no matter what, I could never be like them.

Today, that secret is still with me. It isn’t as guarded or protected anymore, shared with trusted, loyal friends and, finally, myself. The amazing thing is, I didn’t die! No one has turned their back on me, no one has stopped talking to me, no one has told me I am no longer welcome in their life. I am humbled and saddened that I didn’t give these amazing people the credit that they deserved from the beginning. Because of their openness, their acceptance, their love, I have been able to slowly, timidly, but with growing confidence, open my circle and share my secret with more and more people. People like me, people like you, people willing to turn a light on dark places, and prove, once and for all, that their is nothing so scary in the darkness. I lack the words to express my gratitude to them all.

My load was pretty heavy ten years ago, and I am so grateful that is is so much lighter today. There were a lot of bad things, a lot of painful, scary places that I wouldn’t want my worst enemy to go through. I wouldn’t change any of it though, looking back. All of the things I carried then have brought me to the place that I am now. While far, far, from perfect, I am in a pretty good place today, and for the first time in my life, I can’t wait to see what happens next.


“I don’t trust you.”

You say those words to me every single time we speak these days. I can’t help but find that amusing. YOU can’t trust ME?

When you held me, suspended off of the ground by my throat, my only thought a desperate prayer that my child wouldn’t see my dead body on the ground, I trusted you when you said it wouldn’t happen again.

When, years later, you begged me not to leave for 6 months, and promised you wouldn’t call me the horrible, nasty things you called me anymore, I trusted you. When, at the end of those 6 months, I was 3 months pregnant with our fourth child, you swore life would be better. I trusted you.

Later still, after knowing how unsatisfied you were with my weight, and my appearance, I lost 100 lbs. I felt confidence I never experienced before. When you told me I could lose 100 more pounds and it wouldn’t matter “because you can’t lose ugly” I trusted you.

After years of sobriety, when you started drinking again, and I again lived through the physical abuse that comes with your drunken anger, I held to the promise you made to me, that our family would always come first. We lost our home, because you would rather drink than pay bills, and still, I trusted you.

Finally, after years of ignoring bruises and hurtful comments, you told me you hadn’t loved me in years. I had worked my absolute hardest to be a good wife, and you told me that my best wasn’t good enough. I trusted you.

I know that I have done some things that seem unlike anything I would ever do. I know that I hurt you, and that you are confused by my actions. I am truly sorry that I hurt you, I really am. I don’t even try to use your past actions and behavior to justify myself, because I am not about making excuses. I don’t expect you to understand me, I don’t ask you to like me, but you don’t TRUST me? I’m sorry, you have one Hell of a nerve!