“It’s a lonely road where the forgotten go…” ~Elle King

There’s a song for that. A lyric to compliment every thought, feeling. They come to me the way my brother quotes movies in place of conversation. But right now, I can only thing of two lines: This is the world’s slowest suicide & happiness is my writers block. I can lay claim to neither. They come from writers, bloggers such as myself, with a much larger following than I have. And rightfully so because of lines like that. I think “That’s it! That’s EXACTLY what I was trying to say but you found the words first”. Tipping my hat to “MyRedAbyss” here. Yes, this feels like a slow suicide. And yes, happiness, or really just apathy leave me too uninspired or tired to write. I also challenged myself not to write anything until I could spit out something lighthearted for a change. So I waited.
And still wait.
Depression sucks the life out of me slowly and yet…
I wonder if I’m getting better? Either the medication adjustment is working or I’m getting over him. Or maybe the medication is the reason I’m getting over him. The doctor tweaked the dose. Instead of the archaic formulary that the VA prefers, she wrote me a prescription to take to a drugstore. Because at least for the moment, I have health insurance and can afford ‘the good stuff’. I’m almost afraid to admit I’m regaining a sense of balance and control. Like if I acknowledge it, it will disappear. G-d is such a prankster. Ha!
But I’m also starting to hate him. Or so I tell myself. As pain ages, it turns bitter and black. Love gone rancid.
But I continue to get out of bed (most days), go to work, dance if I can muster the energy, go through the motions of living. Watch the days fall off the calendar and teeter somewhere between ambivalence and panic: three months since I saw him. I’ll never see him again. Four months until my birthday. I’m never going to have children now.
It’s always worst when I first wake and as I’m trying to fall asleep. That is when I feel my loneliness most acutely. During the day, I stay busy. Surrounded by living, breathing people. I am the walking dead among them. Then Im in bed, alone and the truth settles like mud around me.
I reactivated an online dating profile a week ago. Is it unreasonable that I ignore every message of “What up, gurl?” What. Not What’s. I could even accept ‘whats’ because I think punctuation is overrated. Maybe those gawdawful talk-to-text programs dropped the ‘s’. But even those programs do not spell “girl” with a ‘u’ so then I know it’s intentional. First impressions are important. Would you walk into a job interview and open with “What up, gurl?”  There are two men I have established some regular contact with…ugh, that sounds so alien and cold to put it that way: I shall establish communications with these humans and begin the vetting process to determine whether or not romantic relations should be pursued. Live long and prosper. I have a bad attitude going in though. Dating is a chore and I’m still unable to shake that feeling that there is no one else on the whole planet that I want or will ever want more than him. My Lightning Strike.
Even though he lacks integrity, used and abandoned me like I was less than nothing. I know this. I remind myself. I even wrote it down in case I ever ‘forgot’.
But back to feeling better.
I also caved and agreed to try therapy again. Cognative therapy is not the bloodletting like my past experience with counseling. Funny, we dont even really talk about him. Maybe she doesnt feel like we need to. What she is trying to do is train me to think differently. WHen I feel that trigger and the thoughts, which lead to feelings, begin the downward spiral, I hit ‘pause’, step outside myself and begin to dissect each thought by asking “Is this logical? Is it based on fact or assumption? …” I dont know if this is truly re-wiring my head or just putting it in ‘time out’.  This out-of-mind experience, if I keep it up long enough, is almost like counting to calm down. Re-direction, like making a loud noise to distract a dog whose hackles begin to raise and ears flatten.
Oh but it’s so poetic to suffer! I am a martyr! Am I no longer ‘legit’ if I put my demons to bed rather than dance with them?
I got my American Legion membership card in the mail today. Yay! Now I can karaoke in the middle of the day and get shit-faced for $10 alongside toothless Vietnam vets and my brethren spawned of this last decade’s fucked-upedness.
And I didnt go dancing tonight. I was half compelled to go. No, really less than a quarter compelled. I think I could have benefited from catching up with some friends there. I was even dressed for it. As if dressing the part would be enough to motivate me. But here it is, the time I would be leaving the dancefloor to come home and get to bed and Im alraedy there: in bed, wearing a teal swing dress and hair pinned up with a large flower. And typing. Exhausted but envious of the snoring dog beside me.
I anticipate a few restless nights as the moon fills up. Tomorrow is Passover. My mother said “Maybe next year…” when I asked if we would have a seder. Saturday is a blood moon and I’ll email him and ask him to think of me, of us, and the full moon illuminating the hills of Konar Province, Afghanistan. And I’ll burn stuff. And Sunday, Easter sunrise, I’ll join my family at my father’s graveside.
But here. Watch this. Like Taylor Swift’s Twerking Tunnel, this lifts my spirits:

Blood! And froggies! And lice all over their bodies!

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“I’m nobody’s baby” ~Judy Garland

Its not always a sex related fantasy. For instance, today…I go to work, then to a dance class, then the grocery store. And I imagine as I drive home that you and kids are waiting for me there. You help me with the groceries and I give you a deep grateful kiss with a promise of more to come. I pour a glass of wine amd start preparing dinner for everyone…its so blissfully domestic! Of course the daydream stars you because you are who I want but if that isn’t in the cards then someone else who is exactly like you might suffice. Maybe even a couple inches taller 😉

Im home and the moon is enormous. Lights up the entire yard. I light candles and put on a Judy Garland record and start dinner. Its just me and the fur alone in this big house. Im relaxed, content, a Mona Lisa smile on my lips. But lonely. I wish I had someone to talk to, sing to, crack jokes with, dance with, cook for, come home to…Is that so much to ask? I send that one up to G-d quite a bit these days.

This picture does the moon no justice. Its shining through the palms and reflecting off the water.

Im just being sentimental.

And then as if reading my thoughts, Judy starts singing “I’m Nobody’s Baby”…

“I’m nobody’s baby
I wonder why
Each night and day I pray the Lord up above
Please send me down somebody to love
But nobody wants me
I’m blue somehow
Won’t someone hear my plea and take a chance with me
Because I’m nobody’s baby now”

“Even when the brave break down, it ends in other ways” ~ Roman Remains

You shared your stories and I shared mine. Sadly, so similar, us sisters. If we lived closer, we might form our own group where we meet, drink, cry, and hold hands while we base jump without chutes.

No, that’s not positive thought. If you want someone to remind you of what you are worth, to encourage you to walk away from those who don’t want to stay, read Trent Shelton. Or TD Jakes. “The Way of Serenity” by Father Jonathan Morris just arrived in the mail today; I’ll let you know once I’ve finished if it helped.

What he doesn’t say is louder than what he does. What he doesn’t say is “Wait for me”, “Come see me”, “I love you too”. Nor does he say “I don’t have time for you”, “I’ve decided not to leave my crazy wife”, “I changed my mind. Fuck off.” So I wait for him to come around but still go on dates. Lots of dates. Even decided to try out the old adage ‘The fastest way to get over someone is to get under someone else” but all that left me with was a hang-over and a yeast infection. Next day, I’m stalling at the drugstore, waiting for a female clerk or when there is none, I stock up on all sorts of shit I don’t need in attempt to hide the Monistat from the guy at the check out counter. Ever do that?

My mind invites the ghosts. He tried so hard in the beginning but he was always putting his foot in his mouth. Like the time he said “My wife is a 28 year old version of you” and I slowly turned to glare at him. Realizing his faux pas, he back-pedals “I mean, you’re what? 29…” I cut him off “You WISH your wife was like me.” At least that much is still true, I think.

If I’m repeating myself, excuse me. Skip ahead.

She got to play the loving, devoted wife, meeting him at the airport despite telling him that she visited two divorce attorneys last week. She will never leave him. She’s mentally ill but she’s not stupid. She manipulates: I’ll leave you. I’m miserable. Stay home and take care of me. If he follows through (and I’m convinced he wont. Not yet anyway. And not for me) and tells her he wants a divorce, she will don her Batshit Crazy Woman suit, threaten to kill herself (again) and guilt him into sticking around on the pretense of “saving her”.

“You accepted less because you thought ‘a little’ was better than nothing.” ~Trent Shelton

I saw a bird get clipped by a truck today and while I sped up, trying to reach it in time, another vehicle got there first and finished the job. I sobbed for an hour. Over a dead pigeon.

THere are reasons to be happy. For instance, they make Sour Patch gum now.

But whatever you do, don’t watch “The Duchess”. I like period flicks so I thought it was a safe bet on Netflix. Holy christonacracker, if I wasn’t suicidal before watching that movie, I was ready to eat a muzzle afterwards. Note to self: IMDB the spoilers of every movie before hitting ‘play’.

Okay, quick pick me up! Watch Taylor Swift crawl the through “Twerking Tunnel” on her latest video. Or youtube videos of Garfunkel and Oates. Watch two of the sweetest sopranos crawl out of a giant inflatable vagina or sing along to the chorus of “The Loophole”. Feel better?

Other positives: I’m finally down to my “Army doesn’t have to tape me” weight thanks to the misery of tuck and hold, lift and freeze, tiny up, tuck hold… IHateItIHateItIHateItIHateIt but it’s effective. I’m not ScarJo Black Widow yet but I think I’m finally ready to face my Army Reserve Career Counselor now. Even with the purple hair.

It’s a full moon. He is home. I wonder if he will look up and think of me. I wonder if we will still be on speaking terms a month from now.

Time to blend, anoint, burn and pray.

Bombed and Bummed.

Afghanistan is a bad place to run out of anti-depressants. But it’s a full moon so I light a candle, sprinkle a mix of “P&P” (Positivity and Protection) over the flame and worry away at a thick piece of Jet. And repeat to myself, “I’m okay. I don’t really need medication” like thinking it will make it true.

Just like thinking thin helped me drop 10 pounds.

And believing, I mean REALLY believing that G-d would answer my prayer, that my father would wake from his coma.

But more days than not since then, I wake with the firm belief that G-d doesn’t exist at all. But that thought is as frightening as the infinite, vacuum of space: it’s dark, eternal, bottomless hopelessness. Eventually I dutifully return to reciting my prayers even as I eye the sky suspiciously.

But there’s nothing like a war-zone to put your life into perspective, for better or worse. Sure, I’ll come home, blissfully thankful to be reunited with my bed, my pets, palm trees, hot showers and cold sangria, but it doesn’t entirely alleviate that nagging doubt in the back of my mind that something isn’t right.

This is not a suicide note. This is more of a “Hey mom, if I happen to die today, I’m okay with that” note.  I’ve been ready to die for the last two decades. Not that I would ever take my own life but if G-d or the Taliban decided to take me out of the game today, I wouldn’t bitch. My affairs are in order. I’m insured. And I’m alone.

Sure, I love my mother and my family would be sad but they would get on without me. But what is there to keep me here? A husband and children, if I had them.

I don’t want to die (or live) like Dorothy Parker: alone and unhappy.

Even if Ruth wasn’t her husband’s first choice, she at least got laid and had kids.

I’m not so much alone as I am lonely. There are certain emotional and physical needs that just cannot be met by parents, siblings, friends, pets, and hobbies.

And I never worried about NOT having these things because I assumed it would ‘just happen’ eventually. Now I’m researching harvesting and freezing my eggs and fretting at the low odds of pregnancy from such procedures.

Maybe I just want kids so that I have someone to wipe my ass when I’m 90.

Maybe I just want a husband because I’m tired of my vibrator.

Okay, I’m DEFINITELY tired of my vibrator. It has been a long time since anything other than a tampon was up there. Just call me a Sexual Camel.

I am loved but I am lonely.

I will not leave a legacy, biological or otherwise.

It may have been General McChrystal who said that everyone’s military career ends in failure. On some sad level, that nearly makes me feel better. I don’t necessarily enjoy someone elses’ unhappiness and misfortune but I do take comfort in not feeling like the sole member of the Losers Club.

On other levels though, I’ve lived someone else’s dream. Scratched someone else’s itch. Although I’m certain I could have been successful given the opportunities, I will never win an Oscar, and Academy Award, a Nobel Prize, or a Grammy. Those things would have been nice but I never expected them. Never pursued them. I was and AM the Responsible One.

All I expected was a normal life: Married, couple of kids, a steady career…a comfortable, middle-class suburbia housewife who writes award-winning porn under an alias while the kids are napping. What everyone else has and takes for granted. I don’t have that. And I choke up to think about it.

My mother understands. She says, “This is not the life I would have picked for you.”

I’ve lived enough. I’ve hurt enough.

So if those Taliban fucks land a bomb right on top of me tonight, all I hope for is a quick death.

I think G-d at least owes me that.