I can feel something coming on. I don’t know what it is, whether it be a breakdown or a breakthrough. I am struggling. In moments like these my initial reaction is to disengage. I’ve lost a lot of friends along the way because of this but I have to do whatever is necessary for me to keep my wits together. The older I get the more I realize how unfair I’m being.
I feel like I’m drowning in my emotions, with that comes the joy of drowning in my finances. I joke about being poor but it really is just a constant snowball of bill after bill and one obligation after another. Spending part of my unemployed time on government assistance has been the worst. I am given barely enough for me and my children to live on and I have to see the FB posts of my more privileged friends complaining about “people like us”. Anyway, bill collectors grow impatient and second and third chances are revoked and before you know it there is an eviction notice on your door.
I try like hell not to ask for much. I try like hell not to lean on the fathers of my children because I so badly want independence. Also, I’ve learned in this life to trust no one and not to rely on anyone for anything. In our basest forms we are all disgustingly selfish and heart breakingly disappointing. We lie and we steal, we cheat and we harm and we ignore the plight of others less fortunate. I’m learning not to be so surprised and affected by human behavior anymore. But I can’t help but be affected and to judge the actions of those around me.
He simply disappeared. It’s the modern version of the father that leaves to get a pack if cigarettes and doesn’t bother to return home. I haven’t seen him since our daughter’s second birthday and that was almost three months ago. We were friends, and I knew the transition from something more to friends and parents was not going to be easy but I thought it was possible and necessary. He left town never to respond to a text or a cute pic of our daughter again. He never asks about her…not one word. I am devastated for her.
Co-parenting is not easy but its definitely doable and it is absolutely unfair to leave one parent to fend for themselves. All these fantasies I have about running away, and my tendency to disappear into myself and take a brief hiatus–selfish. This is life: YOU DON’T GET A FUCKING BREAK! Or maybe you do, its just called death. Anyway, as I faced this urgent emergency I called him. He didn’t answer. I called him about 18 hours later…same. I emailed him twice and he never bothered to answer.
My soul aches for her. She’s a baby, so happy and carefree and she loves her uncle and her grandfather so she doesn’t want for that male role in her life at this time. I’m terrified I don’t know how long his hiatus from life and the real world will last, but I am determined to draw strength from it.
I am forcing myself to stay mentally present and to press forward with life. I don’t want her to feel that at any moment either one of her parents will check out of life and cease to be there for her. I want her to know that life is fucking hard but you press on and take care of your business because indulging in escape has potential to hurt the lives of others. When the mother of your child calls, you answer your phone. At least I know that I will care and I will be there if something were to happen to her.
Author’s Note: I wrote this as a guest blogger on my friend’s art blog about 18 months ago. I’ve been so beaten and bruised by love since then but my overall attitude hasn’t changed. Because of my passion and the way I live my life I know that whatever kind of love I have it will be unconventional…whatever the case may be I will not fear it.
I didnt want to write about this topic because I didn’t think there would be a way for me to mask the tone of my heavy heart. However, this is my foundation and the very reason I was drawn to Dali in the first place. The intensity and the complexity of Dali’s relationship with Gala appealed to me initially because it was such a foreign concept. How could a man so full of greatness and charm allow himself to be brought to his knees for the love of this insignificant woman? It wasn’t until I experienced this kind of rare, all-consuming love for myself that I was able to come to more of an understanding of the dynamic of their relationship.
Toward the end of their lives together, Gala’s numerous affairs with younger men began to take their toll on the relationship. In addition, her gambling habits and generosity toward these men put a strain on the pockets as well. Even in her eighties, Gala showed a resentment toward growing older, creating yet more tension–enough that she was now giving her husband drugs that led to the eventual breakdown of his nervous system leaving him unable to paint. Eventually Gala moved alone into a castle Dali had built for her, unseen unless upon written request. Still, when Gala passed away, the elderly painter embarked on a downward spiral struggling with depression. There were even a series of freak “accidents” that hint of possible suicide attempts. With his muse forever gone, was there any reason left to live?
It is a beautiful thing to simply fall in love. It is quite another to find your reason to live. All control is lost as you allow yourself to be poisoned, broken and lost yet unashamed of your shameless weakness. In the end, the intensity of the obsession proves to be maddening and a certain pathway to your psychological demise. You have found in this person the perfect blend between reality and illusion, and you refuse to be awakened from this dreamlike state. A glitch in the system has been discovered that allows you to somehow exist in this world and be able to escape to a parallel universe with this person. A utopia where each other’s flaws don’t exist and it doesn’t matter if this person is draining everything from your life’s force. In that world, dull moments are extinct and no tomorrows are the same. You have given in to complete insanity making the complexities of common love totally void. By giving in to this kind of love you have given in to destruction.
Memento mori, my friend! Destruction is inevitable. Endure the pain, suffer all consequences, and take all risks for a love most surreal. Drink heartily of the poison, and before you do, look your muse in the eyes and say “cheers”!
It’s been hitting me in the evening everyday. I don’t know what it is, I don’t KNOW what IT is, I DON’T KNOW WHAT IT IS!! I can’t release it.
I feel like sobbing and I want to fall apart. I feel like I’m out of control. I’m kind of lonely, maybe sad, mainly empty. I’ve stuffed these things down and it creates a pressure…bubbles up and rises to the surface but it will not flow over. I am stuck in it. I just want to be free.
I managed not to stab my bro to death this morning as he stood in the doorway of my bedroom at 4am trying to wake me to go to the gym. He was nice about it– just sang a song about the importance of physical fitness and left the “fat ass” part out of it. Anyway, I ignored him and chose to skip the gym this morning.
Fast forward about an hour later and I’m in my maternity work pants wondering if I had really sunk as low as to resorting back to maternity clothes. Also, these clothes are meant to show off the belly and while it might get me a seat on the metro from some confused passenger (IS she fat or pregnant?) It wasn’t worth the blow to my self esteem. SO…I took a stab in the dark and a risk of nervous breakdown, and tried on my cute little navy blue Express slacks (with a safety pin in the hem because they are kind of expensive but Express can’t make clothes for shit) and THEY FIT! I couldn’t get these past my thighs a few weeks ago.
It’s going to be a long time coming, but this is definitely a breakthrough!!! And though I am popping out of these pants at least I’m wearing them, dammit! This is going to be the best (most uncomfortable) day ever. Unfortunately, it looks like I’ll need to hit the gym after work…fuck.
I usually make it a point to hate on Beyonce, for no other reason than the fact that it’s so unfair that she’s so freakin beautiful and talented. Life is just so awesome for pretty chicks, right? Maybe not so much. Watching her flawless face crying prettily and lamenting “Why don’t you love me?” endeared me to her and made me realize that we are not that different from each other.
What she expressed in this song is a sentiment that can bring even the hottest of bitches to their knees. Everyday I hear beautiful women talk of loneliness and sharing messages of longing on social media trying to satiate some need of being wanted. It’s not unheard of to seek out the validation and approval of others, and it’s nothing to be ashamed about. It’s a message; a generic message to reach just the one. The one who snuck underneath your skin and permanently resides in the fold beneath your heart. The one that makes your pulse rate quicken in reaction to an innocent thought, and the one you dare to dream about although you know that life is not made of fairytales and it will only ever be a fantasy. You look in the mirror and your eyes aren’t as bright as before, your smile no longer alluring, your body no longer shapely. People may look at you in desire and envy while you’re out and about, but you know in your heart that you’re ugly, because that one person can’t see just how beautiful you are.
I forget to set aside time in the morning to cry as I realize that more than half the outfits I’ve set out for work no longer fit me. Mini nervous breakdowns are never that productive.
I have a few back entries I have yet to post as I am feeling censored and scared. Narcissism sometimes mixes with pure insecurity and makes a nasty concoction that paralyzes my writing. I’ve been thinking of this as a way to finally connect and bring myself closer to people but I fear its only succeeded in alienating me even more. I worry I’m sharing too much and its taking its toll. And I wonder if I am the car accident you drive slowly by that you can’t turn away from. I didn’t intend for this to be public record of my demise. Hopefully this depression is at its peak and I can somehow emerge from this local insanity.
There’s a blueberry pop tart in the bottom of my purse.