Heartbreak and Isolation

I'm starting to get emails from people I know. 

They're worried. 

They can't get through because something is wrong with the phone lines.   They haven't seen me at political rallies.  I used to be someone they could count on showing up but now....I'm never around.

I'm usually answering comments on my various web channels but I'm not doing it anymore.

I haven't been updating my blogs with the exception of this one.  I try to write daily so those closest to me know I'm still breathing. 

I'll start answering the emails tomorrow.

I'm in this weird place. 

I've been waiting for the bank statement, so I can figure out how much money we have. 

I haven't seen one for at least a year now. 

Do you know why? 

I found out today.  The man in the basement had the contact information switched on all of our accounts.  Everything is sent to his email address. 

I'll carve out time to go to the bank and get them settled out. 

I feel isolated. 

I'm scared to go anywhere because goodness only knows if the car will run.  My check-engine light has been on for four years.  Goodness only knows if I can get enough money to buy gas. 

When he has to drive my car, he'll fill the tank. 

I need a bus pass.  I've been pushing for more transparency in the pubic transit system, yet I'm going to find myself depending on it.  I feel like a freakin' hypocrite because I said that if we can't have transparency in the system, it should be abolished. 

I've been borrowing money from my business accounts to survive.  I think I have $81 left.  This is weird. 

I'm torn between trying to grow the business (given that my assets are so little now) and waiting for the dust to settle.  I'm scared to create more products for fear it will be something to fight about to drag out the divorce. 

So, I sit and clean a house I don't want....all day long. 

I need to take control of this crazy situation. 

This is weird.   This is new to me. 


At least I have a lot of time to think. 

I'm not sure if I ever had time for heartbreak in the past. 


When Tom left, he was always around.  I think he was trying to make sure that everything was tied up into a neat little good-bye package, so neither one of us would be burdened with baggage when we left high school and moved on with our lives.

 He was always there, even after we broke up.  I remember him poking his head into the band room and exclaiming his love for redheads weeks after we broke up.  No one believed that we weren't a couple. 

Maybe I just don't know how to break up with men.   

That is a weird thought, isn't it?     

There is one memory that I regret more than any other and if I could go back and do it all over again, I'd do it differently.  It is the memory that keeps me away from my home town.  It happened at a bus stop across from a Dairy Queen. 

I had to drive past it the other day to drop off clothing donations to the battered women's charity on Friday.  They were doing road work, so I had to take that particular route.   I can't drive by without crying.  The last time I had to go that route was to visit a church for a funeral.  I looked like I knew the deceased by the time I got there.  At least, that is the best place to go when you're holding tissues.

In '87, on the last day of school for me, three friends followed me as I left the school.  One grabbed her camera, while the other two posed with me and my camera.  That shot ended up in the year book; that shot always stirs up sad memories.  

As I crossed the street and waited for the bus, I could feel Tom standing behind me.  Since he left me, he's had this loving yet solemn presence that is hard to describe.  It is very loving, very kind, but always sad.....like he's in mourning.   I can feel most it when he stands behind me.  The last time I felt it was January 10, 2011. That feeling always reduces me to tears because of this stupid memory.

I'm a selfish snot, even when I don't mean to be. 

On that morning in '87, I turn around and he sighs the word 'hi', tears filling his eyes but somehow he manages to contain them without letting them fall to his cheeks.  I always admired him for his ability to keep his emotions from getting the better of him. 

That 'hi' is haunting, too.  Every time I hear it, to this very day, it makes me want to cry. 

On this day, I was running late for work.  I had just moved into my new apartment in the scary part of town.  The bus was coming.  There was so much I wanted to say but so little time.  I couldn't find the words.  I just stayed silent.  I wanted to hug him but I was holding a camera bag and a book bag.  I just stood there. 

Now, this was the eighties...many of the boys wore eye-liner.  Don't laugh.  It was the way it was. 

His eyeliner began to run.  Now, being female, I find a black streaked face to be one the worst fashion faux pas.  It's so bad, for me, that I rarely wear mascara and opt for black henna.  In my bid to be helpful, I said the most dumb thing imaginable.  My parting words to my best friend were 'your mascara is running.' 

I should've put my stupid bags down and hugged him.  We both needed closure. 

Hindsight is 20/20. 

hottie....I'll keep my hugs to myself on that day. 

I never really got to mourn that relationship.  Like I said, he was always around.  Within a week of the end of school, I was sexually assaulted.  I was mourning the end of my innocence and angry at myself for not throwing myself at my boyfriend when I had him.  If I had let Tom destroy my innocence, I think it would have not have hurt so much when a stinky old geezer took it. 

I'm beginning to believe that I was too busy healing from the assault to mourn the loss of that relationship. 

The guy after that was too violent to mourn.  It was easy to justify getting rid of him, I didn't like the ER and the restraining order made it incredibly final.   The judge didn't give me a choice on that restraining order.  He saw pictures taken by the police in the ER.  It is amazing that I survived with just a back injury.

I don't want to whine but he broke most of the fingers on my right hand and mangled my right wrist before hendrixing my guitar.  That man hated my bass and didn't like me playing it so much.  If you look closely, you can see two crooked fingers and my right wrist is thicker than my left.  I don't mind the scars, though, they remind me of a long lost friend who was stolen away by Hollywood.  He set my broken fingers.  I last saw him at a State fair where he was promoting a movie.  He still remembered me.  I'm hoping he is still a shining star. 


God always brings us angels in our hour of need. 
 
Why can't I end up with an angel?  Why do I always seem to end up stuck with the soul-stealing demons? 

There must be something wrong with me. 

This relationship...I think I've been in mourning since '00.  That is a long time.  It seems like with each passing day, he takes more and more from me.  I end up staying because he says that it is good for everyone else.  He promises to get better.  Things never get better. 

Every time I try to leave, it seems like he gets scarier.  I've got to stay silent this time.  I've got to plan my exit strategy and leave quietly.  I've got to go far away. 

Oh....I found the origin of my panic attacks. 

At night, my mind ponders the feeling of being alone.  I love the smell of clean sheets.  I love the feel of my satin pillow.  It is nice to be able to enjoy a good book prior to falling asleep without disturbing another human being. 

It is weird how sleep habits rarely change.  I still sleep on the left side of the bed while books and notebooks fill the right side. 

Books are not warm.   I still wake up at 5:55 a.m. and have the habit of looking to my right and crying.   I am now finally averaging about five hours of sleep a night.  This is a big improvement. 

The nighttime crying, though, has been going on for well over eight years. 

I feel helpless about improving the situation.   Mike expects me to stay married for the kids.  He isn't willing to have a relationship with me.   He is giving me conflicting information about his expectations.  I cannot see other people but if I do, he says that I must keep it out of the house. 

He also says he loves me but I'm not so sure he does... He wants to be with me but he doesn't.  He wants me to stay but he doesn't.  I'm confused. 

Why in the heck do men want wives they don't love.  Are they really afraid of the laundry?   Maybe they keep us around so they don't suffocate from the smell of their dirty socks. 

I don't know. 

All I know is that this isn't working for me. 

I'm stuck. 

Then, I remember those few times I've been asked to explain my love life. 

That is when the panic attacks set in. 

People will ask me why I look so sad.  They'll ask why I don't have a wedding ring.  They'll ask who Mike is.  They'll ask if I'm getting my needs met.

I try to make jokes out of it.  You know...it's been twenty years.  Men get bored eating the same thing day after day....you know how it is...don't you? 

People usually laugh. 

The questions I have a problem with the most are those that start with...

why?

That word sets in the panic. 

I don't know why. 

Maybe I snore.

Maybe I am so fat the bed falls on the left side. 

Maybe I hog all the covers. 
Maybe I look like a wildebeest at night. 

Maybe I look horrific without my make-up in the dark.

Maybe he's afraid he'll fall into the cellulite dimples and never return to this realm. 

Maybe I am possessed by a farting demon in the wee hours of the morning. 

Maybe I'm not pretty enough, sexy enough, or fun enough. 

Maybe I am simply not enough. 

That's the one that does it.   I mean, after years of not having a partner, one begins to question her worth as a woman.  It's not pretty. 

In the business, we call that stinkin' thinkin'. 

I've been hiding away from my friends, staying in the place in order to try to figure out what the heck is going on.  He's hiding the information from me, so I cannot make sense of it. 

I need to take control of my life and leave.  I wish he'd want to put everything in a neat little package and tie a nice pretty bow on it. 

This mess is killing me. 

Love,

S.