How do you convince a therapist that you should stay with a married man who you only see a few times per year?
ONly if you have a romantic one.
Even the most hopeful of all therapists (this model would be my first psychiatrist ever who does therapy) would be worried about Mommy hitting Daddy, and still no separation filed.
I was drowning at this point in the story, and there was no psychiatrist to give words to me. I could see the sunlight shining through the water as my hands grasp towards the air. In one month, I would crack open and be psychotic. All would be dark and lost.
There was no romance in domestic violence nor was I well suited to give advice on the matter. I laughed slightly in the cab of the truck when MOrpheus told me about it, but order a therapist and a lawyer. My advice like my chuckle was ignored.
WE can all look back, and say this moment. You have a moment to walk away from a bad situation, and you have the balls to stay. There's just sad stories to be told. I called Morpheus back after I left him at his truck.
NO one is willing to say that love saves all, cares all, heals all, and makes all better. The truth is: it does, but the individual has to do the work too.
Saturday, October 29, 2011
Cheating is STill WRong
AFter a while you realize that going to a therapy room and listening to common sense remarks to critical remarks to down-right bitchy ones don't help.
NO therapist is going to hold my hand, and tell me she feels sorry for me too even though I've been through hell. Some of the loneliest places I've been have been after break up's. There is no comfort, no rest, no joy found. You're on your own to soothe yourself.
The stigma against the Other Woman is great. NO writing I've read has been complimentary. It's about how we have as many issues as the married man we're involved with, if not more. Low self-esteem, etc.
Why treat the Other Woman bad? BEcause society still says that cheating is wrong. It's against our social norms. That's reason enough. Also, out of the three people involved, the Husband, the Wife, and the Other Woman, the Other Woman has the least amount of power.
NO therapist is going to hold my hand, and tell me she feels sorry for me too even though I've been through hell. Some of the loneliest places I've been have been after break up's. There is no comfort, no rest, no joy found. You're on your own to soothe yourself.
The stigma against the Other Woman is great. NO writing I've read has been complimentary. It's about how we have as many issues as the married man we're involved with, if not more. Low self-esteem, etc.
Why treat the Other Woman bad? BEcause society still says that cheating is wrong. It's against our social norms. That's reason enough. Also, out of the three people involved, the Husband, the Wife, and the Other Woman, the Other Woman has the least amount of power.
More On Therapy: The Family
Sitting on the therapy couch it's hard to argue the value of having a lover you only see once every few months. The longest I went? Nine. This is during the birth of his third.
I have a picture of him holding his youngest. He looks more scared than anything.
I see a therapist sitting on the chair, asking me without even words what am I doing in a family mess this size.
It didn't start out like that. He was sitting on a hotel (Quality Suites, to be exact) bed, and said to me, "It's not like I have a coach." It was a plead that I took seriously and with all my heart. It kept me from walking out of the door and never coming back (as I was ready to do after the first time we had sex). Asking me for help handling the responsibilities of mixing our relationship and his family (and keeping them separate). How do you juggle the juggle?
Scratch that. It did start out like that. A huge family problem I could never solve. But I was too naive, and too in love to care--this is selfishness in plain view on my part. You think you fall in love and it's just you.
This is again where therapists lose interest in arguing. It was so obvious, wasn't it? He's married. He comes with other people connected to him, who can be hurt by his actions with me. MOst therapists give a "He's the one married, not you" line to lessen my guilt, but I never forget the shake of the head. I seem so wise. Years ago, growing up, I was more mature for my age. Why fall into this trap when it can clearly be avoided?
Why not pick someone single, without kids, why not the guy next door? The guy holding the beer at the bar? For god's sake, there must be another guy.
Another guy never really stepped up. One of my boyfriends was so insecure about it, he always had a girl waiting for him, it's hard to tell who did the worse damage to whom.
ARguing that kids are baggage is like saying that my mother is baggage or any other family member. It's cruel for one thing. They're not dogs you can take to the pound when you don't want them anymore. I've had therapists argue about that. I find it appalling and bad taste. So, he has three kids. They're not mine, and I don't make decisions concerning them.
I have a picture of him holding his youngest. He looks more scared than anything.
I see a therapist sitting on the chair, asking me without even words what am I doing in a family mess this size.
It didn't start out like that. He was sitting on a hotel (Quality Suites, to be exact) bed, and said to me, "It's not like I have a coach." It was a plead that I took seriously and with all my heart. It kept me from walking out of the door and never coming back (as I was ready to do after the first time we had sex). Asking me for help handling the responsibilities of mixing our relationship and his family (and keeping them separate). How do you juggle the juggle?
Scratch that. It did start out like that. A huge family problem I could never solve. But I was too naive, and too in love to care--this is selfishness in plain view on my part. You think you fall in love and it's just you.
This is again where therapists lose interest in arguing. It was so obvious, wasn't it? He's married. He comes with other people connected to him, who can be hurt by his actions with me. MOst therapists give a "He's the one married, not you" line to lessen my guilt, but I never forget the shake of the head. I seem so wise. Years ago, growing up, I was more mature for my age. Why fall into this trap when it can clearly be avoided?
Why not pick someone single, without kids, why not the guy next door? The guy holding the beer at the bar? For god's sake, there must be another guy.
Another guy never really stepped up. One of my boyfriends was so insecure about it, he always had a girl waiting for him, it's hard to tell who did the worse damage to whom.
ARguing that kids are baggage is like saying that my mother is baggage or any other family member. It's cruel for one thing. They're not dogs you can take to the pound when you don't want them anymore. I've had therapists argue about that. I find it appalling and bad taste. So, he has three kids. They're not mine, and I don't make decisions concerning them.
Next weekend is my friend's wedding. I always figured she would marry before me, but I'm ill prepared to go. Going to the wedding brings up what my therapist says is anger (that I never deal with as I'm disassociated from my feelings).
I'm in love too, I asked a man to marry me, to which he gave no reply.
I don't feel like celebrating marriage--not that I'm unhappy for my friend.
There will also be the temptation to drink.
I'm in love too, I asked a man to marry me, to which he gave no reply.
I don't feel like celebrating marriage--not that I'm unhappy for my friend.
There will also be the temptation to drink.
If you had a towel in your hand, and were headed to the shower room with voices in your head telling you to hang, what would stop you?
This morning I took an "ethics quiz" for University of Phoenix, which reminded me of SAT and the military. Who are you, and what will you do if you find yourself in a fire-fight?
I promised "DAD" seven months (that I would not hurt myself nor committed suicide). DAD, of course, turned out not to be real. The threat of death in a sense turned out not to be real.
I thought about turning it into a sci-fi story. What if the government could hack into your brains, what if this technology was new, and they--in the spirit of Skinner--killed people this way if only to know how? The goal was to do it faster and better than anyone. Most people state the obvious if you can do that, you can induce a seizure, and kill someone within seconds, within minutes without the fun of driving them to attempt or commit suicide.
What if it was more of a military experiment on stealing the one thing we never thought we could--free will? And you can't get that by inducing a seizure. It could be a story about misuse of military technology being tested on ordinary private citizens, every paranoid person's worst nightmare.
It would be easy to write, although I wonder if it would be somewhat dangerous at this point (as if giving into my delusions again). The idea of free will, delusions, auditory hallucinations, etc is interesting to play with.
This morning I took an "ethics quiz" for University of Phoenix, which reminded me of SAT and the military. Who are you, and what will you do if you find yourself in a fire-fight?
I promised "DAD" seven months (that I would not hurt myself nor committed suicide). DAD, of course, turned out not to be real. The threat of death in a sense turned out not to be real.
I thought about turning it into a sci-fi story. What if the government could hack into your brains, what if this technology was new, and they--in the spirit of Skinner--killed people this way if only to know how? The goal was to do it faster and better than anyone. Most people state the obvious if you can do that, you can induce a seizure, and kill someone within seconds, within minutes without the fun of driving them to attempt or commit suicide.
What if it was more of a military experiment on stealing the one thing we never thought we could--free will? And you can't get that by inducing a seizure. It could be a story about misuse of military technology being tested on ordinary private citizens, every paranoid person's worst nightmare.
It would be easy to write, although I wonder if it would be somewhat dangerous at this point (as if giving into my delusions again). The idea of free will, delusions, auditory hallucinations, etc is interesting to play with.
The Pipe Dream
"We sold ourselves a pipe dream that everyone could get rich and no one would get hurt — a pipe dream that exploded like a pipe bomb when the already-rich grabbed for all the gold; when they used their fortunes to influence government and gain favors and protection; when everyone else was left to scrounge around their ankles in hopes that a few coins would fall.
We have not taken care of the least among us. We have allowed a revolting level of income inequality to develop. We have watched as millions of our fellow countrymen have fallen into poverty. And we have done a poor job of educating our children and now threaten to leave them a country that is a shell of its former self. We should be ashamed."
--America's Exploding Pipe Dream
A Make Believe Therapy Session
Sit down in a make believe therapy session. The therapist has out her pen and writing pad in a chair across from the couch.
"Do you think he'll call soon?" I think to ask, but don't. I just sit there on the dark pink couch with my eyes out the window. The butterflies are thick this time of year.
"Did you really think you two would end up together?" She thinks (in reality that question has been asked to me from another therapist).
Love is the biggest dreamer, is it not? It doesn't help if every time he's on the phone he dreams with me. He told me once I was the prettiest girl in the world.
"It takes more than sex and charms to make a relationship work," she says to me.
For how long? Because we have been doing this for four years. I have heard of worse stories, people and sex staying together for twenty years even though the rest of the relationship was bad, having sex right up until the final papers were through the court. People underestimate good or great sex. WE stupid people call it being in love. Define sex. Define being in love. YOu find yourself searching for words for a reason. They go together, and we can't easily separate them out.
I keep playing it out, over and over again, sitting in a little room, the children's room for kids with mental disorders--which has a big window to look out--my escape. My therapist sitting there, not wanting to talk about mOprheus. I ask the same silly questions a five year old would, no doubt his does when Mommy and DAddy fight. He says the fighting is so bad, he has to leave, and then come back later. I dissociate--Mommy and DAddy don't affect me anymore. Still, I ask, "What do you think he'll say?" My imaginary therapist is critical and sensible. When will Daddy be back?
"Yes, he will get a separation magically just because you finally said so." She replies with some humor.
In reality, no one has shown any humor. INstead, they want me to find out odds. 70% chance? 30%? What are we working with here, Lacey? All the while, the therapist(s) nodd and then sigh and want me to admit that the situation is hopeless. There's a maze. A rat. And some cheese if you get away from the married man. IF you grieve enough, you are rewarded. For most of this, I can't tell if I lie.
"Maybe he will hurry up then if he can't see me." I've never really said that, but that's the point right? WE break up. He has incentive now, more anyway, to get his separation. This says nothing about the odds. I don't have my calculator out. I didn't take statistics in college.
"And just exactly how long are you planning on waiting for a man to divorce when his mother runs a Bible bookstore, and his wife comes from a conservative background? A year? Two? Five?" The therapist sighs.
"So, do you think he'll call me this month? Probably not. It's like too late, huh?" This is a dip into the central portion of my thinking. Maybe the Wife took them to the second house for Trick-Or-Treating, and he stayed here in SLO. The therapist is not amused. "I'll know when it's time to give up. Or I'll find someone better." I lie. Even to a pretend therapist I lie. I can't stand talking about MOrpheus in therapy because you're always bound to lie. I can't see the point ahead in my future where I give up. That was closer to the truth. Was I just a kid who learned to bash his brains into the wall repeatedly? Was this my punishment, therapy?
She rambles on about how he isn't good for me. They all ramble at this point. He's not available.
I'm more of an act in a tragic play. CAn't they see that?
"NO. He's just taking advantage of you."
IN therapy, there was always that angle, which I loved. He was taking advantage of me, yet I went willingly and happily into his house without exception and this was not 1800's. It was hard to explain how happily I went into the bedroom without giving gross details of the sex to a new or bashful therapist. We were equals in how bad we were fucking with each other. Lately proved an exception (the psychotic break), but you can't say that was directly his fault. Even if it was (some of it, sure), did he do it on purpose? NO.
People confuse lack of insight into behavior with malignancy.
The whole circle is "people want better for me," and while I'm in love with Morpheus.
"Do you think he'll call soon?" I think to ask, but don't. I just sit there on the dark pink couch with my eyes out the window. The butterflies are thick this time of year.
"Did you really think you two would end up together?" She thinks (in reality that question has been asked to me from another therapist).
Love is the biggest dreamer, is it not? It doesn't help if every time he's on the phone he dreams with me. He told me once I was the prettiest girl in the world.
"It takes more than sex and charms to make a relationship work," she says to me.
For how long? Because we have been doing this for four years. I have heard of worse stories, people and sex staying together for twenty years even though the rest of the relationship was bad, having sex right up until the final papers were through the court. People underestimate good or great sex. WE stupid people call it being in love. Define sex. Define being in love. YOu find yourself searching for words for a reason. They go together, and we can't easily separate them out.
I keep playing it out, over and over again, sitting in a little room, the children's room for kids with mental disorders--which has a big window to look out--my escape. My therapist sitting there, not wanting to talk about mOprheus. I ask the same silly questions a five year old would, no doubt his does when Mommy and DAddy fight. He says the fighting is so bad, he has to leave, and then come back later. I dissociate--Mommy and DAddy don't affect me anymore. Still, I ask, "What do you think he'll say?" My imaginary therapist is critical and sensible. When will Daddy be back?
"Yes, he will get a separation magically just because you finally said so." She replies with some humor.
In reality, no one has shown any humor. INstead, they want me to find out odds. 70% chance? 30%? What are we working with here, Lacey? All the while, the therapist(s) nodd and then sigh and want me to admit that the situation is hopeless. There's a maze. A rat. And some cheese if you get away from the married man. IF you grieve enough, you are rewarded. For most of this, I can't tell if I lie.
"Maybe he will hurry up then if he can't see me." I've never really said that, but that's the point right? WE break up. He has incentive now, more anyway, to get his separation. This says nothing about the odds. I don't have my calculator out. I didn't take statistics in college.
"And just exactly how long are you planning on waiting for a man to divorce when his mother runs a Bible bookstore, and his wife comes from a conservative background? A year? Two? Five?" The therapist sighs.
"So, do you think he'll call me this month? Probably not. It's like too late, huh?" This is a dip into the central portion of my thinking. Maybe the Wife took them to the second house for Trick-Or-Treating, and he stayed here in SLO. The therapist is not amused. "I'll know when it's time to give up. Or I'll find someone better." I lie. Even to a pretend therapist I lie. I can't stand talking about MOrpheus in therapy because you're always bound to lie. I can't see the point ahead in my future where I give up. That was closer to the truth. Was I just a kid who learned to bash his brains into the wall repeatedly? Was this my punishment, therapy?
She rambles on about how he isn't good for me. They all ramble at this point. He's not available.
I'm more of an act in a tragic play. CAn't they see that?
"NO. He's just taking advantage of you."
IN therapy, there was always that angle, which I loved. He was taking advantage of me, yet I went willingly and happily into his house without exception and this was not 1800's. It was hard to explain how happily I went into the bedroom without giving gross details of the sex to a new or bashful therapist. We were equals in how bad we were fucking with each other. Lately proved an exception (the psychotic break), but you can't say that was directly his fault. Even if it was (some of it, sure), did he do it on purpose? NO.
People confuse lack of insight into behavior with malignancy.
The whole circle is "people want better for me," and while I'm in love with Morpheus.
That Married Man Business, Part II
Even though MOrpheus has seen me in public with and without his wife, he has never acknowledged my presence with a wave or a nodd. He pretends not to see me after a good long stare.
I am invisible to him.
Out of all the men I know, I want to take mOrpheus to my friend's wedding the most. He could meet some of my high school friends, and we could spend the day together. This won't happen.
If you were sick or dying or needing to get to hospital, you cannot call Morpheus and get help. I tried. Ten phone calls in one single day.
What do I get out of this relationship?
I am invisible to him.
Out of all the men I know, I want to take mOrpheus to my friend's wedding the most. He could meet some of my high school friends, and we could spend the day together. This won't happen.
If you were sick or dying or needing to get to hospital, you cannot call Morpheus and get help. I tried. Ten phone calls in one single day.
What do I get out of this relationship?
That Married Man Business
Being involved with a married man means we never celebrate any holidays together, no birthday's, no Valentine's DAy's, much less any of the other more important family holiday's.
Historically, if my lucky, I get to see him just before.
Historically, if my lucky, I get to see him just before.
"Up again in the morning to hit the gym. If I can grind hard enough, I can chase away much of my introspection and her from my thoughts."
--Life in the AGe of Byrony
--Life in the AGe of Byrony
Alcohol and ON Being Ordinary
Being ordinary and being happy have nothing to do with each other.
Can you get a fill of life's experiences, to hell with other people, and still end your life with a deep sense of fulfillment?
CAn you be ordinary and be a waste of a life and still be happy at your meaningless end?
EVeryone knows my end will come faster if I drink, whether psychosis will call for me like siren or in the physical sense. I could lose years to a thought disorder, losing friends, money, all helped by vodka.
I could drown myself to faceless death.
Some days it feels like it wouldn't matter--shot or no shot--but this is the depression over my shoulder bullying me around.
I quit opiates without looking back. I sigh at people who won't because of the withdrawals.
Drugs make you ordinary because there are a separation because you and people, your community, not to mention the damage done to you. The feeling is one of being extraordinary, but it is illusionary.
There are days when nothing matters.
Yesterday, I saw a homeless man in the parking with a beer in a paper bag, mumbling to himself, probably hearing voices.
I wonder how different we are from each other. Was it just the alcohol?
Can you get a fill of life's experiences, to hell with other people, and still end your life with a deep sense of fulfillment?
CAn you be ordinary and be a waste of a life and still be happy at your meaningless end?
EVeryone knows my end will come faster if I drink, whether psychosis will call for me like siren or in the physical sense. I could lose years to a thought disorder, losing friends, money, all helped by vodka.
I could drown myself to faceless death.
Some days it feels like it wouldn't matter--shot or no shot--but this is the depression over my shoulder bullying me around.
I quit opiates without looking back. I sigh at people who won't because of the withdrawals.
Drugs make you ordinary because there are a separation because you and people, your community, not to mention the damage done to you. The feeling is one of being extraordinary, but it is illusionary.
There are days when nothing matters.
Yesterday, I saw a homeless man in the parking with a beer in a paper bag, mumbling to himself, probably hearing voices.
I wonder how different we are from each other. Was it just the alcohol?
Friday, October 28, 2011
Therapy Session
I feel like he's gone.
I hate going to professional advice, and getting it--the ol' "you deserve better," and variation on theme.
From there, they point to me. What was lacking in my psychology to make me cling so hard to someone who is so obviously unavailable?
IN this, we (Morpheus and I) are both at fault.
From there, they only dig a little deeper and say that I like it this way, mourning and grieving for what is gone because better gone than clinging back at me. Better sorrow than love.
That is the box they fit me in.
After MOrpheus, I will find another man just like him. "Nevermind, I'll find someone like you..." Adele, "Someone LIke YOu."
He's not gone, they say. He'll come back. Or they won't say anything at all, staring at their paper because it's not important if he comes back. There's a pause and then they'll move on to a different subject.
"Does he love me?" I'll almost ask.
The silence is short. WE talk about my feelings. What are my feelings? Name them, one by one.
"Are you sure he's coming back?" I'll almost ask. It's right there. The question.
"What do you want me to say? Do you want me to pacify you with an answer even though I don't know?" The therapist almost says back. Her head is down, watching the paper closely.
"What if I'm different?" I want to say.
"But you're not." She wants to say. She's seen a case like mine before. A little girl all grown up, still looking for a daddy. Grow up, or you'll be stuck with the distant, father figure forever. YOu know? Alcohol, barely pays attention to you. Morpheus is not special.
"What if we're in love? What if it's forever?" I want to tell her over and over again. Therapists never see love. They never respect love. YOu walk into a therapy room, they will tell you 1,000 love went wrong. I wait for a little jerky remark about getting a dog. Or something cliche like "Morpheus won't be the last man in life you'll ever love." Sometimes I respect silence. Respect what love does to a heart, makes it hurt so bad that no words will be believed. You can't talk a heart out of love. You can talk it to death.
In my mind she points to all the bad ways Morpheus has influenced my brain. The voices, the mood swings, the psychotic break. What the fuck is next? IN reality, she's just sitting there in her chair, not at all concerned with Morpheus.
Talking people out of love, I've realized, is like talking them out of delusions. The more you talk the less people trust you. Who doesn't love love? And yet, there are people on the planet, therapists are a good example, who go around criticizing love as profession.
"HOw do you know he won't cheat on you?" The therapist asks. A real question, one of her first.
I was caught. MY grandmother in the room. The real answer was silence because I didn't know. NO one knows for sure. I loved a gamble. I openly admitted that. Did that make me a bad person?
"You deserve better," I hear the therapist saying as she sits in her chair, silent. d YOu didn't need voices for that shit.
"There's no one better," I want to say. I never have a chance to say it. I sense the therapist inwardly mocking me. YOung love, blind. WE will find and replace, easily. Give me six months. A few years, tops. I'm pretty, I stay in shape. I'll walk into a bar once, and find Mr. Right. I'll regret the extremist statements I've made about MOrpheus.
"He has baggage..." She almost says. "Three kids is a lot of work. Time away from you. All that responsibility even if he does get his separation. And he deals with his problems by drinking."
I picture my stepfather's alcoholism, and the environment. IF I ever want to leave that. If it's possible. CAn you believe someone is the greatest man in the world if he's an alcoholic too? Or does that make you at fault?
Does it make you at fault every time he was supposed to do something and disappointed you because you know what type of person he is?
The therapist wasn't interested in answering those questions as she sat in her chair.
I hate going to professional advice, and getting it--the ol' "you deserve better," and variation on theme.
From there, they point to me. What was lacking in my psychology to make me cling so hard to someone who is so obviously unavailable?
IN this, we (Morpheus and I) are both at fault.
From there, they only dig a little deeper and say that I like it this way, mourning and grieving for what is gone because better gone than clinging back at me. Better sorrow than love.
That is the box they fit me in.
After MOrpheus, I will find another man just like him. "Nevermind, I'll find someone like you..." Adele, "Someone LIke YOu."
He's not gone, they say. He'll come back. Or they won't say anything at all, staring at their paper because it's not important if he comes back. There's a pause and then they'll move on to a different subject.
"Does he love me?" I'll almost ask.
The silence is short. WE talk about my feelings. What are my feelings? Name them, one by one.
"Are you sure he's coming back?" I'll almost ask. It's right there. The question.
"What do you want me to say? Do you want me to pacify you with an answer even though I don't know?" The therapist almost says back. Her head is down, watching the paper closely.
"What if I'm different?" I want to say.
"But you're not." She wants to say. She's seen a case like mine before. A little girl all grown up, still looking for a daddy. Grow up, or you'll be stuck with the distant, father figure forever. YOu know? Alcohol, barely pays attention to you. Morpheus is not special.
"What if we're in love? What if it's forever?" I want to tell her over and over again. Therapists never see love. They never respect love. YOu walk into a therapy room, they will tell you 1,000 love went wrong. I wait for a little jerky remark about getting a dog. Or something cliche like "Morpheus won't be the last man in life you'll ever love." Sometimes I respect silence. Respect what love does to a heart, makes it hurt so bad that no words will be believed. You can't talk a heart out of love. You can talk it to death.
In my mind she points to all the bad ways Morpheus has influenced my brain. The voices, the mood swings, the psychotic break. What the fuck is next? IN reality, she's just sitting there in her chair, not at all concerned with Morpheus.
Talking people out of love, I've realized, is like talking them out of delusions. The more you talk the less people trust you. Who doesn't love love? And yet, there are people on the planet, therapists are a good example, who go around criticizing love as profession.
"HOw do you know he won't cheat on you?" The therapist asks. A real question, one of her first.
I was caught. MY grandmother in the room. The real answer was silence because I didn't know. NO one knows for sure. I loved a gamble. I openly admitted that. Did that make me a bad person?
"You deserve better," I hear the therapist saying as she sits in her chair, silent. d YOu didn't need voices for that shit.
"There's no one better," I want to say. I never have a chance to say it. I sense the therapist inwardly mocking me. YOung love, blind. WE will find and replace, easily. Give me six months. A few years, tops. I'm pretty, I stay in shape. I'll walk into a bar once, and find Mr. Right. I'll regret the extremist statements I've made about MOrpheus.
"He has baggage..." She almost says. "Three kids is a lot of work. Time away from you. All that responsibility even if he does get his separation. And he deals with his problems by drinking."
I picture my stepfather's alcoholism, and the environment. IF I ever want to leave that. If it's possible. CAn you believe someone is the greatest man in the world if he's an alcoholic too? Or does that make you at fault?
Does it make you at fault every time he was supposed to do something and disappointed you because you know what type of person he is?
The therapist wasn't interested in answering those questions as she sat in her chair.
IF there's one scenario you can forget, it's that there will ever be a family made up of MOrpheus and me.
I started to write a novel about the "what if's" in life, but quickly stopped. I didn't have enough fuel. What would we be like if we got everything we wanted?
That was unfortunate. AT the time, MOrpheus didn't want any more kids, and I wanted one.
I started to write a novel about the "what if's" in life, but quickly stopped. I didn't have enough fuel. What would we be like if we got everything we wanted?
That was unfortunate. AT the time, MOrpheus didn't want any more kids, and I wanted one.
All The Traditional Things You Give Up When DAting A Married Man
I think about all the traditional things I'm missing by being in love with a married man.
On FAcebook, it says that I'm single even though I won't date or commit to anyone else because it would be unfair to someone as I'm in love with Morpheus.
Morpheus and I have never actually made it to dinner (he asked me once, and then we got into a fight about his wife, and plans were canceled).
None of my friends have met him. My parents have not met him, although my mother use to talk to him all the time.
Then there is the lack of communication because he has to sneak around his wife. It is here-and-there txt-messages, and only seeing each other, at best, once every two months. I can't just call him, and say, "Hi." I have an easier time, I fucking swear to god, of getting ahold of the fucking Pope.
WE have never gone on dates.
WE have never made it to coffee, despite the fact that I have called and requested this several times.
WE are always dreaming, never putting into action for today, for tomorrow.
None of my other relationships with men will develop into anything because of him.
Morpheus gives no prior notice to when he is available. He just calls when he wants me to come over or meet somewhere. I am expected to show up.
There's no pictures. I've known the man for four years, and all of the pictures I have of him are from his wife. There are none of him and I together.
It's hard explaining my relationship with him to friends and family without pissing "traditional" people off. Everyone has an opinion, and they want to share and help and make things worse by judging.
I can never find the master bedroom. What is with that fucking house? Why? Because I've never been there when it's light outside!!!!
It's been four years, all those one night stands, and he doesn't know I drool on the pillow or that crusty morning look because why? I leave before then.
The dude has a hang up about coffee. One morning, I point to the coffee maker on the kitchen counter. "YOu make coffee?" NO. d "Okay...." He drinks fucking coffee. I went home that morning coffee-less. He just didn't want me to hang out in the AM, ruining his regular schedule. Really cute, right? I'm waiting for the morning when he leaves for work, I come over. It's me and the Wife. WE have coffee. Call him over then. "Honey. WE have stuff to talk about over coffee."
Our fights takes months. I'm learning this--this is new. A normal boyfriend or guy. YOu get into a fight, it lasts a few hours. Someone gives up, someone apologizes. Done. Not with MOrpheus. This shit is getting strung out. For god's sakes man. What the fuck are we doing?
Here's the obvious: You put in all that work. You stay up late. YOu answer your phone always. YOu provide interesting, entertaining sex. You can't marry a married man. A normal boyfriend after four years would be ready for the big question unless he was a complete dumbass.
On FAcebook, it says that I'm single even though I won't date or commit to anyone else because it would be unfair to someone as I'm in love with Morpheus.
Morpheus and I have never actually made it to dinner (he asked me once, and then we got into a fight about his wife, and plans were canceled).
None of my friends have met him. My parents have not met him, although my mother use to talk to him all the time.
Then there is the lack of communication because he has to sneak around his wife. It is here-and-there txt-messages, and only seeing each other, at best, once every two months. I can't just call him, and say, "Hi." I have an easier time, I fucking swear to god, of getting ahold of the fucking Pope.
WE have never gone on dates.
WE have never made it to coffee, despite the fact that I have called and requested this several times.
WE are always dreaming, never putting into action for today, for tomorrow.
None of my other relationships with men will develop into anything because of him.
Morpheus gives no prior notice to when he is available. He just calls when he wants me to come over or meet somewhere. I am expected to show up.
There's no pictures. I've known the man for four years, and all of the pictures I have of him are from his wife. There are none of him and I together.
It's hard explaining my relationship with him to friends and family without pissing "traditional" people off. Everyone has an opinion, and they want to share and help and make things worse by judging.
I can never find the master bedroom. What is with that fucking house? Why? Because I've never been there when it's light outside!!!!
It's been four years, all those one night stands, and he doesn't know I drool on the pillow or that crusty morning look because why? I leave before then.
The dude has a hang up about coffee. One morning, I point to the coffee maker on the kitchen counter. "YOu make coffee?" NO. d "Okay...." He drinks fucking coffee. I went home that morning coffee-less. He just didn't want me to hang out in the AM, ruining his regular schedule. Really cute, right? I'm waiting for the morning when he leaves for work, I come over. It's me and the Wife. WE have coffee. Call him over then. "Honey. WE have stuff to talk about over coffee."
Our fights takes months. I'm learning this--this is new. A normal boyfriend or guy. YOu get into a fight, it lasts a few hours. Someone gives up, someone apologizes. Done. Not with MOrpheus. This shit is getting strung out. For god's sakes man. What the fuck are we doing?
Here's the obvious: You put in all that work. You stay up late. YOu answer your phone always. YOu provide interesting, entertaining sex. You can't marry a married man. A normal boyfriend after four years would be ready for the big question unless he was a complete dumbass.
On Death Threats
The voices told me I wouldn't live to see twenty-ninth birthday, which doesn't leave a lot of room for major life adjustments. You can't finish an education, buy a house, get married (perhaps this is the easiest of the bunch to accomplish), or find a soul-enriching job in just a matter of a few months.
It's easy to run to a life coach, and say, "Fix me."
YOu can, however, get pregnant in a matter of months.
I made the first step in going back to school in order to finish my education, even if it wasn't my first choice school.
STraightening out my personal life takes time, and a lot of looking inside. This is unusual. My therapist doesn't want to talk much about MOrpheus, and neither do I--and yet I'm accused of being dissociated from my feelings--and need help getting reconnected. I'm left with doing it on my own with my writing.
A part of me is still spooked by the voices and their "deadline" (pardon the pun). This is my third brush with death, thanks to mental illness. I keep waiting for the voices to just pop up and take over again like they did in the past. "You thought we were gone! Ha!" I go for a drive on May 27, 2012, and BAM! Die in an auto-collision. The voices knew the whole time.
It's easy to run to a life coach, and say, "Fix me."
YOu can, however, get pregnant in a matter of months.
I made the first step in going back to school in order to finish my education, even if it wasn't my first choice school.
STraightening out my personal life takes time, and a lot of looking inside. This is unusual. My therapist doesn't want to talk much about MOrpheus, and neither do I--and yet I'm accused of being dissociated from my feelings--and need help getting reconnected. I'm left with doing it on my own with my writing.
A part of me is still spooked by the voices and their "deadline" (pardon the pun). This is my third brush with death, thanks to mental illness. I keep waiting for the voices to just pop up and take over again like they did in the past. "You thought we were gone! Ha!" I go for a drive on May 27, 2012, and BAM! Die in an auto-collision. The voices knew the whole time.
I go downtown, looking over every vehicle, and walk and walk and walk, trying to find him.
I've turned this into a daily exercise.
I'm facing the hard realization that the conversation we have will not be a good one. I picture us fighting in my head. I wonder where this will lead.
I wonder if we will see each other again.
I wonder if you can stay broken-hearted forever. The correct answer is yes, my grandmother did.
I've turned this into a daily exercise.
I'm facing the hard realization that the conversation we have will not be a good one. I picture us fighting in my head. I wonder where this will lead.
I wonder if we will see each other again.
I wonder if you can stay broken-hearted forever. The correct answer is yes, my grandmother did.
On Being Ordinary, Part II
Is it grandiose even to ask: am I meant for better and greater things, if it only means to give back to this earth?
Will life hold any significant meaning?
Or will I always struggle to apply justice?
To me now, life is life. It is meaningless because there is no "God" to give it meaning. WE make our own meaning as individuals whatever that is to us as creatures of biopsychology. Greater good is determined in actuality by others. You can be a great friend, a great spouse, a great parent--this collects into making you a great person, but still "ordinary" by social standards. For instance, you, this great person, never won the NObel PRize or became famous.
Then, sometimes "ordinary" is still just plain "ordinary" as you did not contribute any value back to society. Perhaps you were even harmful at times.
Faced with death everyone wants to have done more. Face with death at twenty-eight years old, I realized what I had done enough of--
LIfe had filled me with plenty of experiences already. I had felt no ordinary amount of passionate love. I need not to ever fall in love again. I knew the sensation, felt the consequences of it. I could live without it for the rest of my life.
LIfe had filled me with plenty of dangerous, impersonal sex. The other end of the spectrum and the scale.
And yet, at twenty-eight, my life was horribly empty of many things. I never talked back to the voices as they were intent on killing me. I never cried. I never whined or begged for my life. But I noticed. I still had things in life that I wanted at twenty-eight. My life was ordinary in both sense of the word. What had I contributed to society?
What had I given back to my fellow citizens?
I have a rule. IF I have a dollar in my wallet and I see someone who is homeless, I give it away (unless it's the last of my money).
What do I do to make other people's life better?
I came up with nothing. FAlling in love, and loving someone unconditioningly from afar isn't a substitute for a real, day-to-day relationship that is the cornerstone of our society. IT is the family.
Will life hold any significant meaning?
Or will I always struggle to apply justice?
To me now, life is life. It is meaningless because there is no "God" to give it meaning. WE make our own meaning as individuals whatever that is to us as creatures of biopsychology. Greater good is determined in actuality by others. You can be a great friend, a great spouse, a great parent--this collects into making you a great person, but still "ordinary" by social standards. For instance, you, this great person, never won the NObel PRize or became famous.
Then, sometimes "ordinary" is still just plain "ordinary" as you did not contribute any value back to society. Perhaps you were even harmful at times.
Faced with death everyone wants to have done more. Face with death at twenty-eight years old, I realized what I had done enough of--
LIfe had filled me with plenty of experiences already. I had felt no ordinary amount of passionate love. I need not to ever fall in love again. I knew the sensation, felt the consequences of it. I could live without it for the rest of my life.
LIfe had filled me with plenty of dangerous, impersonal sex. The other end of the spectrum and the scale.
And yet, at twenty-eight, my life was horribly empty of many things. I never talked back to the voices as they were intent on killing me. I never cried. I never whined or begged for my life. But I noticed. I still had things in life that I wanted at twenty-eight. My life was ordinary in both sense of the word. What had I contributed to society?
What had I given back to my fellow citizens?
I have a rule. IF I have a dollar in my wallet and I see someone who is homeless, I give it away (unless it's the last of my money).
What do I do to make other people's life better?
I came up with nothing. FAlling in love, and loving someone unconditioningly from afar isn't a substitute for a real, day-to-day relationship that is the cornerstone of our society. IT is the family.
On Being Ordinary And Under Water
One thing I learned while patiently waiting for the voices to kill me--how ordinary my life is. How I will live and die and not make much of a mark on this planet.
When we are younger, we have much larger aspirations, thinking this will somehow guard us from death.
I, instead, have succumb to an ordinary, plain, average life.
What makes the total of a life? Some people the greatest they contribute to this planet is their children.
Some of us have this realization, and battle it at certain points throughout our lives, we call it "midlife crisis," or other terms. WE wake up one day, and wonder where all the time has went, and you understand that the flexibility to be anyone you want to be, go anywhere you want to go--is closing. LIfe feels set. Bad choices. Good choices. Here you are. Try moving with kids, mortgage, with high unemployment rates, with a marriage.
For some of us it doesn't take "voices" screaming that they are going to kill you to ponder this.
I haven't paved my way for myself in a long time. Was prostitution and dancing an act of desperation? IN the beginning, it was, although I came to enjoy it. Losing dreams means settling for less than even second best. It means conforming to other's wants and expectations. When you sit in a hospital with raging "voices" your priorities re-align. You're stuck on survival, not kicking the world's ass. Your brain is taking hostage.
I wish I could say that I put up more a fight, but the vast majority of the time, I was ignorant of my delusions and paranoia. I can only be proud that I avoided the shower room at STanford while the voices were trying to make me hang there.
I lost nine months to illness, a psychotic break (stopping only when the voices disappeared completely). It was not my longest episode, but clearly my most severe and insidious. A few people knew there was something wrong with me, but no one knew how severely I was affected--including myself. Always previously, I was all informed of my own condition, and could help seek on my own without anyone prompting me.
The voices were sometimes pleasant, but you never remember that stuff. A large part of their banter was about my IQ, how smart or how stupid I was. I read a research article that says they can't find a link between auditory hallucinations and previous history of trauma. I can't figure out why the voices went after my IQ level unless it's just something I'm especially sensitive about. Again, this goes back to my ordinary status. My IQ is probably above average, but it's not genius level--the voices argued about this too.
After going through what I went through, I have a new sense of humility. I feel beaten down even though the voices are gone.
Sanity is thinner, the ice covered pond we all skate on. WE watch others fall through, our hands dipping into the cold water in hopes of helping, thinking we will never be there ourselves.
Schizophrenia besides HIV is the only disease that scares me. NOw I join it's family with Schizoaffective Disorder.
I was under water. The person I talked to the most, RAndy yelling and screaming at me because he didn't understand that I was experiencing delusions. I didn't know who he was. Capgras delusion. In a world in which everyone was unrecognizable.
The treatment to come back to the edge of the pond, safe and sound, was impersonal. I barely noticed it happening in the beginning except that it worked, and that it was Zyprexa. The people were just people rotating in and out of my room. NO one stood out. In return, I never made a great connection with any of the doctors during either visit. I was left to sit in my room and ponder health and illness. Open my mouth for the meds. Close. Therapy done.
I had no relative idea of how sick I was, and still don't to this day. The doctors seem to take it all in without affect.
Would they show it on their faces if I was dying? NO.
I didn't look at the other patients. Or talk to them. I wondered if they heard voices too.
I was at STanford. To this day, I wondered, even as a patient, if I belonged at STanford as student. Sick students end up there too. One of them was my roommate. The doctors didn't seem particularly concerned about my cognitive abilities or if I was high functioning or not. None of them gave me a pep talk on the way out, either visit. I would have to do the pep talk on my own. Or just do it. LIfe. Be the success story.
LIving the ordinary life is okay if you have love. If you married the greatest guy in the world to you. Then, an ordinary life isn't so ordinary, and your priorities change.
I wait patiently for MOrpheus to call, and I know he will. I have my script ready. I will address the fact that I asked him to marry me (while being completely psychotic). I will tell him about my bipolar symptoms (ignoring the diagnosis of schizoaffective disorder since it's too complicated at this point), and address the fact that I went to his house while his wife and family were there.
It's been over three months since we've talked to each other since I expect he will show up in one form or another soon.
I'm not looking forward to fighting about the no sex before separation papers rule.
When we are younger, we have much larger aspirations, thinking this will somehow guard us from death.
I, instead, have succumb to an ordinary, plain, average life.
What makes the total of a life? Some people the greatest they contribute to this planet is their children.
Some of us have this realization, and battle it at certain points throughout our lives, we call it "midlife crisis," or other terms. WE wake up one day, and wonder where all the time has went, and you understand that the flexibility to be anyone you want to be, go anywhere you want to go--is closing. LIfe feels set. Bad choices. Good choices. Here you are. Try moving with kids, mortgage, with high unemployment rates, with a marriage.
For some of us it doesn't take "voices" screaming that they are going to kill you to ponder this.
I haven't paved my way for myself in a long time. Was prostitution and dancing an act of desperation? IN the beginning, it was, although I came to enjoy it. Losing dreams means settling for less than even second best. It means conforming to other's wants and expectations. When you sit in a hospital with raging "voices" your priorities re-align. You're stuck on survival, not kicking the world's ass. Your brain is taking hostage.
I wish I could say that I put up more a fight, but the vast majority of the time, I was ignorant of my delusions and paranoia. I can only be proud that I avoided the shower room at STanford while the voices were trying to make me hang there.
I lost nine months to illness, a psychotic break (stopping only when the voices disappeared completely). It was not my longest episode, but clearly my most severe and insidious. A few people knew there was something wrong with me, but no one knew how severely I was affected--including myself. Always previously, I was all informed of my own condition, and could help seek on my own without anyone prompting me.
The voices were sometimes pleasant, but you never remember that stuff. A large part of their banter was about my IQ, how smart or how stupid I was. I read a research article that says they can't find a link between auditory hallucinations and previous history of trauma. I can't figure out why the voices went after my IQ level unless it's just something I'm especially sensitive about. Again, this goes back to my ordinary status. My IQ is probably above average, but it's not genius level--the voices argued about this too.
After going through what I went through, I have a new sense of humility. I feel beaten down even though the voices are gone.
Sanity is thinner, the ice covered pond we all skate on. WE watch others fall through, our hands dipping into the cold water in hopes of helping, thinking we will never be there ourselves.
Schizophrenia besides HIV is the only disease that scares me. NOw I join it's family with Schizoaffective Disorder.
I was under water. The person I talked to the most, RAndy yelling and screaming at me because he didn't understand that I was experiencing delusions. I didn't know who he was. Capgras delusion. In a world in which everyone was unrecognizable.
The treatment to come back to the edge of the pond, safe and sound, was impersonal. I barely noticed it happening in the beginning except that it worked, and that it was Zyprexa. The people were just people rotating in and out of my room. NO one stood out. In return, I never made a great connection with any of the doctors during either visit. I was left to sit in my room and ponder health and illness. Open my mouth for the meds. Close. Therapy done.
I had no relative idea of how sick I was, and still don't to this day. The doctors seem to take it all in without affect.
Would they show it on their faces if I was dying? NO.
I didn't look at the other patients. Or talk to them. I wondered if they heard voices too.
I was at STanford. To this day, I wondered, even as a patient, if I belonged at STanford as student. Sick students end up there too. One of them was my roommate. The doctors didn't seem particularly concerned about my cognitive abilities or if I was high functioning or not. None of them gave me a pep talk on the way out, either visit. I would have to do the pep talk on my own. Or just do it. LIfe. Be the success story.
LIving the ordinary life is okay if you have love. If you married the greatest guy in the world to you. Then, an ordinary life isn't so ordinary, and your priorities change.
I wait patiently for MOrpheus to call, and I know he will. I have my script ready. I will address the fact that I asked him to marry me (while being completely psychotic). I will tell him about my bipolar symptoms (ignoring the diagnosis of schizoaffective disorder since it's too complicated at this point), and address the fact that I went to his house while his wife and family were there.
It's been over three months since we've talked to each other since I expect he will show up in one form or another soon.
I'm not looking forward to fighting about the no sex before separation papers rule.
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