Love Makes Suicide Sound So Cool

At my age, 31, I really thought I had already experienced plenty of versions of feeling low and the different stages of the oh-so-feared blues, or as I like to refer to it, depression.

But let me tell you, when you find yourself sobbing in a fetal position on the cold, hard bathroom tiles, abandoned and devastated, too weak to move, succumb to the darkness all around, so desperate never ever to open that door again. Well, that is just another, brand-new level of sadness I soon became familiar with. That was the next stage.

Exhausted from the pain, catching my breath, a pitiful mess staring back vacantly from the mirror (hard to avoid in this tiny bathroom), I slowly realized, I would simply have to wipe those tears, the snot, and embrace this emotional response experienced as a learning opportunity (yeah, right). Maybe, eventually, but first, the pain needed to subside enough for me to cope enough to act normal to others. Just superficially. Lots of practice on that particular ability to act normal. Act like my heart is not broken. Act like my hopes for the future are still alive and well. Act like I mean it when I answer, “Okay”. I scrape up the shattered pieces of my hopes and dreams. Muster every little bit of fight left in me. In this situation, after recovering enough to compose myself, I faced my mirrored self and thought,” Boy, that was pretty darn heavy, apparently that is as bad as it gets!”.

Ha.

Earlier, I was sitting outside smoking a spliff and randomly remembered this particular thought I had after collapsing on the floor of our only lockable room, desperately crying my eyes out after yet another setback, feeling a scary, sucking, dark hole of hopelessness and sadness within me. This, to me, was the intrusive thought of an unrelenting and stubborn optimist – I suddenly emitted an involuntary chuckle.
A chuckle – because, apparently, I am pretty stoned, and, in this current state, my otherwise high-maintenance mind decided to find this irony ironic.

So, I am truly sorry to burst anyone’s bubble out there in beautiful cyberspace, but it can absolutely get worse. And it sure did for me.

But, the more positive side of things is that the more you have to suffer these soul-jarring setbacks, overwhelming and all-encompassing sadness, hopelessness, and self-doubt, the more experience you have gained in getting yourself back together again. Whatever strategy you may have to use.  Note to self: remember, feelings of emotional distress are temporary, cope and gain distance, and know you can make it through this, because you have done in the past. Never seems like a reasonable suggestion at the time though.

However, you can make it back out of that ominous, deep, dark pit, just as you have before. A bit of thinking, acceptance, probably a bit of denial, rationalizations, and hopefully some valuable lessons learnt.
Emerge from that dreadful pit, and as time passes, hopefully, you will see the sunshine again. Ever the optimist.

Anyway, my life definitely has not gone as planned so far. All I have ever wanted, from as long back as I remember (guessing about 4 years old), is to love and be loved. That’s it.
I am not saying I haven’t received love, but I do appear to have a “type”. And yes, that “type” appears to be the category my mother may fall into. Needless to say, not very loving. And I recently realized, to my utter shock and surprise, that my husband of ten years (it was our 10-year anniversary yesterday – hence the hypergraphia helping me through a pretty major low) may fall into this category. Now, I am a willing participant and there are no fingers pointed in blame, but I keep getting myself stuck in the same type of relationship.

Anyway, I feel completely heartbroken to find out my husband has been using dirty, manipulative tactics all along. Taking all my efforts and my undying love for him and spitting it back in my face. I have been waiting for him to show me he loves me for 12 long years. He always said he does, but he shows me something very different. I felt I came so very close to being almost good enough, thought it was right around the corner, but I now think that may be a completely unreasonable thing of me to expect of him.
I think even if he wanted to, he couldn’t. This entire time, I was convinced I was not lovable. Thought it was my fault he doesn’t love me. I tried changing myself. Loose weight. Do shit he wants to do. Let him use me as he pleases in various ways. But, unfortunately, I ran out of things to fix.

This is truly my personal worst nightmare come true. My savior doesn’t love me. Doesn’t care. It is all so clear now, in hindsight, but I was truly blinded by love. Still am, in fact, as soon as he shows me a little bit of kindness.

So… I guess everyone has a “thing” they are into, something they learnt in childhood and it carries through into adult relationships fucking everything up for all of us. I’m sure I have more than one “thing”, but one of them is, the incessant need to “fix things”.
I remember being a tiny tyke with my floppy hair in my periphery vision, looking up, imploring, trying desperately to get my parents to make up and stop fighting. Pretty sure the bobbly kid’s head helped, because every now and then I did stop them from fighting, or at least my parents let me believe I helped and …. voilà! There is one of my “things” which tortures me to this very minute.

Apparently, this is how long I feel I can be productive. So, sorry for the convenient cliff-hanger as I reveal my intimate relationship issues in the next edition!

Please don’t mistake my obnoxious attempt at humour as me not taking emotional stress seriously, but coping with this feeling of stripped-down vulnerability with humour is just another “thing” I acquired on my fabulous adventures on the kiddie-sized roller coaster which was my life back in the 90’s.

I appreciate all your comments, likes, shares. I always hope to connect with people who have experienced something similar and our shared pain may turn into a laugh, I hope.

Peace. Love.

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