Creative Writing · Dark · depersonalization · Depression · Free Write · Healing · Hope · Melancholy · Prose · Reflection · Relationships · Self-harm · Survivor · Writing

Moving Day

In march of 2015 I moved what few precious possessions I had decided to keep into this tiny studio apt that I would call home for the next 2 years. I did not have a bed. I threw out my dishes, clothing and books and gave away nearly all my furniture.

My first night in my little apartment was spent full of despair and confusion in my heart and mind. I was more than broken.  At the time I saw myself as hideous and unfixable. Undesirable in every way.  Though I sat troubled in this tiny room with my kitty wondering what possible terrible thing lay waiting for me next, I still had clarity enough to notice the quiet calmness around me. For the first time in several months I felt safe and the ton I had been carrying on my shoulders with chains dragging by my ankles were suddenly gone. I knew it was over and I felt guilty for enjoying that moment because I truly did not want any of it to be real.


I wanted to still be with the man I loved, even though his sickness was literally killing me. I did not want to feel peace without him. I wanted him and I wanted contentment but it was evident that those things could not coexist. Life with him was chaos. Unrelenting emotions at the blink of an eye. Unsuspecting pain and sadness that became a habit. Much like everything else of him, an addiction.


I struggled. I spent hours on that tiny bathroom floor sobbing. Sometimes putting slices in my thigh. Early into this journey it was late on a spring night and it was pouring rain and I just couldn’t be inside anymore. I took off down the street running. Soaking wet and panting. I walked up to the library. Everything was dark and dripping. There was a brick wall with a good ledge for sitting. I climbed up into the bushes and sat behind them. The trees above kept most of the rain off me, still I could not tell the difference between my tears and the earth’s weeping.


I lay there in the dirt for a long time. I do not know how long but my fingers became numb like the rest of me. I should have felt pain but I did not. I did not feel anything.


Around that same time. I had another evening. He called and got my mind all twisted again and I called my mom upset. I felt like I had no one anymore and she was far away and defending the others. I hung up and shut my phone off and climbed up the street and sat on the ledge looking down the cliffside. I could jump I thought. I could hope for a broken neck. Unlikely I considered and I sat looking into the dark tree tops waiting for this to end.


I spent my days working at my neighbor hospital. Watching mostly dead people roam by. It helped take my mind off my own suffering but watching people slowly die takes a lot out of one, one that barely had enough to give.


I never told my best friend that his anger at me pushed me over the edge. I called my boss in the morning and said “I’m not coming into work today. I haven’t slept because I spent the night pondering how best to kill myself.”  It goes without saying really that this did not end well. I panicked everyone and ended up naked on a ER bed with all my personal belongings taken away from me. I laid dead and numb for hours in that bed. I probably should have been admitted but I hated not having clothes and my phone so I played it off and instead got an uppage in my dose of medication and a leave of absence from work.


I never made it back.


My grandfather died a couple months later. I sat on that floor again. I wept until I passed out. I cried for hours, everyday for months. Sometimes the pain of missing him skips a beat of my heart and I find myself literally gasping and grasping at my chest. How does one recover from death? I do not think we ever do. One’s existence changes completely. You wake up a different person.


When you spend hours and days on days alone you learn things about yourself you previously thought incapable of. You forget the sound of your own voice. You have to talk out loud to remind yourself that you still exist. I would punch my skin to insure I was still alive. And indeed, this was all unfortunately not a dream.


Wake up. Go back to sleep. Forget. Remember and do it all over again. Write three papers, two at a time. Remember this is your purpose now. Just survive.


Today I packed up that tiny apartment, that hole I ran to as the world crashed all around me. I remember those days like a story, a novel of some other lifetime. Written and dedicated to me. I will not forget those days anytime soon but I look back as a proud mother. I nurtured myself along the way. I had to because no one else could or would.


Tonight you called me. I noticed a message four hours after. I do not listen. I do not read your words and I know you are waiting. Today I left the place I ran to because of you. Because of you I had to hide and I was begging for your calls.


Today I run only for myself. I despise what you did but I look back with a smile. Today you are begging for my calls. You long for what I used to crave. I go to bed at peace. 

Creative Writing · Free Write · Healing · I Miss You · Melancholy · Personal · Poetry · Pondering · Reflection · Relationships · Sleepy · Writing

I Always Will

I loved you more than any other chosen person in my life.

I still do.

I still miss so many pieces of you.


Sometimes I hear or see something that only you would get.

And I hear your voice echoing in my mind.

I hear your laugh next to me.

It is almost like you are here again.

And all the terrible things you did never happened.

Other times I feel lonely because I know there are

Aspects of this life, of this world that only you and I could ever remember and find special.

There are so many generic things in this world.

Repeats and reproductions.

But you are not one of them, not even close.


You are more special and beautiful to me than words can ever describe.

Trust me, I have tried over and over again for close to a decade.


My only wish after all this time, is that you could somehow see what I could.

Oh how I tred for all these years to give you what will take a lifetime to discover.

I wanted it now and that was selfish of me.

I know that.

But still, I miss you.


I wish everyday that we could have been, should have been…but I am slowly letting that go because I have to for my own sanity.


Please know that when I sit alone at night, wrapped in a blanket or looking up at the stars on a warm summer night that I remember you.


Not the ugly.

Not the lies.

Not the addictions.


I remember the soul I fell in love with.

That person exists.

The goodness you fear and the struggles you tried to hide.

I remember your excitement and your eyes and your pain.

I remember that I loved you purely.


Everyday since the beginning of time and into our next lives, a piece of me will always be waiting for you.

I will love you always, even when I know I must do it from afar  

Creative Writing · Free Write · Healing · Personal · Reflection · Relationships · Writing

Beginnings

It was December 18, the day before my 20th birthday. It was lunch in the office and I had gone to Town n Country for a sandwich. He sat down across the table from me, with a sort of sad look on his face. He did not have any food in front of him so I asked “Are you on lunch?” He said yes. I asked if he had any food. He said no. So I offered him the other half of my sandwich and turned my bag of chips to face him. He turned it down at first but I insisted and he took the other half and thanked me.

Two days later and we are at the company Christmas party. He walks in, dressed to the nines. Black slacks and a green wool army jacket. My heart fluttered in my chest and stomach. I fell for him right then. He walked up to our table and someone asked if he came alone. He had.  I patted the bench seat next to me and said “You can sit with us.” He sat down.


We spent the evening taking shots of jager under the table and stole appetizers that the company had to pay for. I did not know in that moment that I would spend the next 7 years sharing food and watching him bring flasks to drink under the table everywhere we went.  I did not know that I would fall in love and back into pieces over and over again.


I loved him always from that day and into tomorrow. But l have come to find that love is not enough; and if it had been, we would not be on our separate ways.


It has been two years now since I left your side I miss your warmth and smile. I miss our memories and the ideas of what could have been.


You still call for me and I wish I could answer. I wish you were not terrible. I wish all that bad could be erased and all that was left was us. But I realize that the wounds run too deep and can not be unseen. The scars shine through my skin. You told me I always had your love but I was still left starving for your loyalty and honesty. I can not kill myself any more for you. I have died and risen too many times to travel in reverse.

Anxiety · Creative Writing · Dark · Depression · Free Write · Healing · Personal · Poetry · Reflection · Writing

Rise Again

When you died

A piece of me went with you

I knew that moment

Could never be undone

And that my life until then

Was over and through


There are some things you can never recover from

There are pieces that can not be forced

Or repaired and reassembled

Into a recognizable source


So you take the shambled pieces

And create a new painting

A sculpture

And you bleed into the seams

Watching as the thread passes

In and out you will weave


There is beauty in your imperfection

As we recite our lovers ways

The broken and the shallow

Pass through our later days


The fabric will burn

The color will fade

A pile of ashen color

Upon the earth displayed


You will recall the day you were broken

When you find yourself here again

So begin the ritual building

Your formation is your pain

Creative Writing · Dark · Depression · Emotional Abuse · Healing · Hope · Personal · Prose · Psychological Abuse · Reflection · Survivor · Writing

Two Years

I have been single more or less for two years today. The actual date is a bit ambiguous but officially i was moved into my tiny apartment and living alone. Two years ago I was a broken shell of a person. I could not stand being in my own skin. I would look in the mirror and see a person I did not recognize. A person I hated. I felt like the foulest, most disgusting thing on the planet.

I misplaced my rose colored glasses.


I think back to the true horror my life was then. I think about the last time I saw my grandfather alive and well, holding a letter in his hands. I do not remember if we hugged goodbye. I have pushed that guilt deep inside me, ashamed and saddened.


I remember putting my Stevie in the car, the back seat packed full, my sweet little kitty on top of everything, mewing at me through the window. I looked around me, attempting in vain to make sense of it all or even just a piece of it. I knew that day was the end something. I locked that door. I had every intention of going back to clean and to get my washer and dryer but I couldn’t make myself. I was incredibly exhausted mentally and physically; spiritually I was dead and I knew I had disappointed all of those around me.


A few days into my single and solo living I realized how quiet it was. Not just quiet, but calm and I liked it. I liked it a lot. It was the first time in many years I did not have the compulsive and never ending  thoughts of “Where is S? What is he doing? How drunk is he? What and who am I going to come home to?”


I knew within those first days things were over between us, even though he had promised over and over again that it wasn’t and that he loved me and still wanted to be with me. He played this part well. A month later I saw him and told him it was over. He Said he didn’t want it to be…even though he was loving someone else and moved away from me.


The cognitive dissonance ran deeply. I got to a point where I was pretty certain this person I had loved and sacrificed for years for was not real. The life I was living was a different world, so unrecognizable to my current state that I could not believe it happened. I remember I went to lunch with my best friend. I arrived first and sat in the booth waiting. When he sat down, with all sincerity I said, “I need to ask you a serious question.” I asked, “Is S a real person? Did everything really happen? Or have I been living in a hallucination that other people went along with?”


He took it well. This is a hallmark of true friendship. I was assured that indeed all of it was real. I believed him, mostly. It didn’t help that S used to actually tell me he wasn’t real. He said that he was my Tyler Durden. He would say, “What if you made me up to indulge in your bad side?” I told him that was silly the first few times but then the idea started to make sense. The longer I walked down the road of his psychopathy the more I believed that idea, or at least that I kept him around for my self indulgence and anarchic tendencies. He was that anti establishment part of me. The one that would not settle or conform. I liked it. I craved it.


My only addiction I have ever had was him. It was always him. And just like any addiction I had to detox and go through treatment. I had to learn to live without my drug.


I am still learning but somehow hitting the two year mark has given me new perspective. There should be chips for those of us that survive abusive and toxic relationships. Hell, there should be a god damn party for all of us. We will all get crowns and a pony.


The hardest part of recovery is the loneliness, guilt and shame. I know I am not alone when I say it is humiliating to admit that you were used, abused, lied to, cheated on and stolen from the person you loved most in the world. And the crazy thing is that everyone around you is telling you the other party is the asshole and that you did nothing wrong. But after living in a world so warped that you took responsibility for EVERYTHING, it’s quite difficult to let that consistency go. Even though that routine was self destructive and poison, you can not shake this feeling of still wanting it. Its confusing and embarrassing and you blame yourself for loving this person and staying with them for so long.


On the outside looking in at another’s life we can much easier judge. We say “I would NEVER do that or allow this…” and so on. But the truth is that you can never really know how difficult leaving an abusive relationship is unless you have experienced it yourself. It is also an experience I would never wish upon anyone else. It is too terrible and soul crushing for even the worst of my enemies.


As I write this I consider where I am at. I am about to graduate with my Bachelor’s degree. I have met so many good people in this last two years. I made new friends and worked interesting jobs. I had the opportunity to volunteer and to witness those so much worse off then I could imagine. I stand up straighter. I stand with confidence and pride, so much so that a family member recently commented on it. I have seen incredible beauty and gone on road trips and adventures. I have also experienced one of my greatest heartaches in the passing of my grandfather, something that still breaks my heart on a daily basis. But I have also lived to see my first nephew born who turns one this month.


Life and death.


I could not see all this two years ago. I could barely see an hour into my future. I would think, “Am I going to lose it today? Is this the end?”


I look back at those dark days sad but not destroyed. I am glad to be alive in this moment and in this time. I have to say that you can and will endure those dark moments. The days when you want to forget or even to die will pass. You will surely see the sun once again. You will find joy in different and simple things. And you will feel, oh yes you will feel incredible and beautiful moments much deeper because you have felt such pain and despair.


Hang in there; until morning, until noon, next week or next year. Sometimes you can only hold out for your next breath, but please keep breathing. Your life is worth so much more than you can imagine and the pain you feel just one stroke of the brush. You are a masterpiece in the making. Let yourself become.



In love and solidarity,



JRJ

Creative Writing · Depression · Disordered Eating · Healing · Personal · Poetry · Survivor · Thriver · TW:Rape Sexual Assault · Writing

On The Day I Was Raped

TW: Rape, Sexual Assualt, ED


The day I was raped I was wearing jeans and a t-shirt and a baggy gray hoodie. It was after school and I was at a friend’s house up the street from where I lived.

The day I was raped was a normal day. I went to school. I rode the bus home with friends. I wasn’t dressed up and I wasn’t alone.


Except there was a new guy. A friend of a friend from out of town. He was 19 and I was 16 and he seemed so much older. So cool.


In the basement of that house I sat on a bed with my friends and the stranger. I had been to that house many times before.


It was a normal day.


My friend liked that boy but the boy liked me so the three of us started kissing. Until it was just two.

My jacket got unzipped and his hands were up my shirt. I liked it but knew I needed to stop. I needed to go home.


On the day I was raped I had boundaries. I felt safe. I was with friends. I liked kissing boys but I was a virgin. I wanted to stay a virgin. I playfully took his hands off me.


I said, “I need to go.”

He slammed me down and I thought he was playing. I laughed but he wouldn’t let me up.


He was 19 and I was 16. He was over 6 feet tall and strong. I lay there in my sick and malnutritioned 100 lb body. I tried. I tried so hard but he held me down with little effort.


I started to cry. I begged him to stop. “Please stop. I need to go home. I need to go home. Please don’t do this.”


I was so polite in pleading with my rapist.


In one quick movement his hand reached at the top of my pants and he pulled my pants and panties to me feet.


It was so fast I remember thinking. I remember thinking “he’s not going to stop.”


I felt heat rise in my body. I covered my face, full of shame and embarrassment.  I lay there legs forced open and pants around my ankles.

I pleaded again, even though I knew he was not going to stop.


I let my body go weak. My hands still covered my face and I openly sobbed while he penetrated me. 


I waited.


After some time I felt his weight lift slightly off me and I took the opportunity. I readily rolled off that bed.

Pants only half on, I ran up the stairs and out the door to my laughing friends smoking in the driveway.


I kept running.

My girlfriend ran after.


I don’t remember what I said.

I don’t remember the next couple of days.


I do know that when I got home I took a shower that seemed to last for eternity but could not truly cleanse me.


Inside the walls of the shower I wept great despair until I was numb and the pain in my chest turned hollow, until the shower ran cold and the only thing left was exhaustion and confusion.


On the day I was raped I learned that I was not safe, even among friends. That the world was a dangerous place and would do whatever it could to me. I spent the next decade blaming and hating myself.


I allowed men to take from me. I endured abuse and accepted that the lies and betrayal were my life. I deserved this and I deserved to be raped.


I never told anyone this story, but after a few years I did admit to some that it happened, but that I was lucky. It was not that bad. I lived and that other people had it so much worse…


It was the story I desperately wanted to believe and be true.


I did not want to be a victim, but I saw my already wavering trust in others broken. I lived in continuing suspicion and on this untold story.


I write these words with fear and trepidation. At age 28, finally being able to speak it out loud.


I was raped. 

I was raped.


There is power in the admittance and I know that it is my story and I have the right to tell it. To own it. To understand and be free of it, but I had to face it. I had to look at the ugliness and feel all the shame and guilt that I put off expressing all these years. It was easier to pretend it never happened.


But it did happen and I accept it. I accept it now in order to heal and move on.


On the day I was raped many things were stolen from me, my trust in others and my innocence. My childhood ended on this day; but this boy, this day could not take everything from me. Not my spirit, my integrity, my compassion, my love for living beings and nature and now I will no longer allow it to take my joy and happiness.