Good Times. in Phoenix

This entry was inspired by a couple of people. One diary I read here, and… well, almost more people than I could count. Perhaps I should make a list of names. A list of people I feel tremendous gratitude for. I think some entries to come in the next few days should be “Dear You” entries. Of course, 99% of the people who they would be written about will never read them, but that’s okay.

Good Times.

So important, having good times. I guess I went for so long without any real good times that I forgot how good good times could be.

Misery became my norm. Isolation and pain and loneliness and anger. Crippling anxiety. Paralyzing self-doubt, self-loathing. I’ve just spent years of my life in what was essentially self-inflicted misery. I’d lived with misery for so long, with mental illness and with mentally ill men who couldn’t heal themselves, much less allow me to heal. It sometimes feels like maybe they just hurt so much themselves that they could only feel better if I hurt more than they did, if I was more miserable, and more needy.

I’ve had Stockholm syndrome, in a way. I wasn’t physically held captive, no, but I was mentally and emotionally held captive. Held by the idea in my mind that I should just be grateful there’s this one person in the world capable of “putting up” with me. I completely and utterly accepted that I was a burden to be carried, an inconvenience to be tolerated, a thing less than human only good for whatever I can give to make their lives easier. I lived with the idea that I deserved that. With one, it was this, exactly this, for 13 years. I was nothing but a burden, an annoyance. I was a useful burden, though, you see? I worked and I provided and I cooked and cleaned and made babies in my body and nursed them and still worked and provided and cooked and cleaned and did homework with children and colored pictures and played games and read books and paid all the bills and and and… I was a useful idiot, that’s what I was. That man convinced me that I was so fucked up in the head, that my depression and anxiety and PTSD and all the fucking things were my own fault. As if wishing for death on a daily basis was a choice I made.

And then the next, #2. He didn’t abuse in the same way. And he never hit me - a fun fact which one of my dearest friends reminded me was that this? “At least he doesn’t hit me?” The ultimate of bare fucking minimum. If that’s the only good thing you can say about a person you’ve let into your life, if that’s the only redeeming quality? Yeah, that person is fucking garbage and they need to be eliminated from your world as swiftly as possible. Trust me on this. Don’t let the bag sit there and start to stink for fucking years, take that garbage to the dumpster to be hauled away from your sight for eternity. #2 also didn’t abuse me in the same verbal way. Oh, no, he always built me up, told me what a great job I was doing, how proud he was of me, how far I’d come, how far I could go. But he’d also express disappointment if I didn’t do something he thought I should do, if I didn’t feel ready for it. He would shame me for not being “strong enough” to do what, in his opinion, needed to be done. Like the job I currently have. I wanted to apply there almost 2 years before I actually did. My lack of confidence and low self-esteem prevented me from applying because I was certain I wouldn’t fit in. It was purely ridiculous on my part, but I just wasn’t there yet. The thought of applying and interviewing with a real chef was horrifying, paralyzing. Just nope. He shamed me for that. Recently, he shamed me for that. Well, if only I’d applied 2 years ago, maybe things would have been different.

Oh, you mean you wouldn’t have gotten drunk, started a fight with me, called me every shitty name in the book, and then put your hands on my fucking son if only I’d have gotten a better job sooner? If only I’d compromised my own halting but steady process of achieving something resembling mental well-being, you wouldn’t have been a fucking monster?

No. No, no, no, no. Just. Nope.

Other than his drunken ravings over the years, #2 abused me with silence. We did not communicate. We small-talked. We watched TV shows together and small-talked about those. We small-talked about my job, my day at work, his day of crafting jewelry or writing music or playing a video game. Nothing of depth, nothing of meaning. We couldn’t discuss politics or religion or world events or history because he was always right and I was a naive fool. Let’s all keep in mind here that I’m a college-educated woman, got the piece of paper to prove it and all, and he’s essentially a high school drop out. I mean, not really a drop out, but… He’s knowledgeable about some things that I know nothing about and I am knowledgeable about many things that he thinks he knows something about. He mansplained every fucking thing to me. I swear to god, if I’d mentioned tampons to the man, he’d probably have tried to explain to me how I should be using them.

That kind of behavior, living with someone who exhibits that kind of toxicity, for someone like me… I went from the frying pan to the fire when I left (let’s just call him…) sperm donor and moved forward with #2.

It brought me to the brink of actual suicide more than once. I’ve lived a life full of suicidal thoughts, death wishes. #2 took me right to the edge of genuine suicidal thoughts. Serious thoughts. I can’t remember a time in my life before that I was ever so close to the edge of actually making a very serious attempt. I’ve made half-ass attempts. There. That’s a thing you all know now. And I’ve wished for death so hard that I thought the wishing itself would kill me.

All I could see, then, was how they treated me. That was the me I saw. The me that they saw, and obviously she was what they saw, she was exactly what they said she was. Because, well, just look at her there, crying and weak and scared and begging for kindness, love, compassion, empathy, anything! Anything other than abusive bullshit! Of course she became exactly what they said she was. For years, she was weak, sad, pathetic. She believed all the things sperm donor said about her.

Only now do I realize that all I needed to do was to stop listening. All along, all I would have had to do was stop listening and stop believing the bullshit. I will never listen to another person degrade and belittle me again. Fucking. Never. From this day forward, if anyone even hints that there is anything about me that is less than fabulous, they can just fuck right off.

GOOD TIMES!

I went out with a couple of friends last night and their husbands. I hadn’t seen one of the ladies in years. We had wonderful conversation, I made everyone gasp in shock, stare in wonder, laugh hard, and probably envy the new me a little bit. I know at least one friend was feeling a bit of envy at my newfound level of personal freedom. I wasn’t there very long, maybe an hour, had one white Russian, and we said goodbye with much hugs and kisses and see-you-soons. I decided to go hang out at work after closing time with the world’s best co-workers while they closed up. There was great conversation, laughter, and we made beer ice cream floats with a couple of our beers (I work at a brewery) and shared and giggled and it was just carefree fun of the likes I haven’t known in a million years. Then I went home with a co-worker, a guy I’ve been friends with for a few years, we’ll call him Scoot (because that’s what we called him last season at work). We’ve been friends for years and I only just realized the night before last that we’d never gotten high together. Like, how are we even real friends?! So I rolled a joint and we hung out and smoked and talked and laughed our asses off at each other’s catch-up stories (he is only in the area for the summer season, spends the rest of the year in Florida and just got back a couple of weeks ago). It was just damn good times.

All of these new people in my life, and some old friendships renewed, have had such a tremendous impact on my life. I have all the good times with them and I needed that so much in my life. I needed to break the seemingly endless cycle of misery.

And now that I have? Oh, look out, world! I am done being something for someone, I’m done putting on whatever mask someone else things I should wear, playing whatever role I need to so someone else is happy or comfortable. I’m just going to be. All of me, my 100% authentic, genuine self. I’ve only just met her, but she’s goddamn fun, and I think we’re going to have a ball.

Last updated April 27, 2019