Category Archives: birth defects

Letter to Mom 4/8/2012

Dear Mommy,

I’ve thought and thought about this letter while taking the girls out for their pre-dinner potty break, during their dinner and while taking them out for their post-dinner potty break. There’s so much to say. In fact, if you were alive, I don’t think I’d say any of it for fear of an argument, but I sense you’re at peace now and can listen to me when you couldn’t before. I envy you that. I am anything but peaceful. I ache inside.

I haven’t quite learned how to manage the house yet. That’s mostly because I stay so depressed that I don’t move. I lost an entire day last week. I have no idea where it went or what happened. I just know that I woke up one morning and couldn’t remember what happened the day before or the day before that. I guess it’s fair to say, then, that I lost two days. It was distressing at the time. Now, it’s more like, “Oh. OK.” It’s as though I’ve shut down because I’m in so much pain I’ll overload if I don’t. I guess you know now that I don’t overload because some of the pain goes elsewhere to crop up at some unexpected time, usually very inconveniently. That’s what happened this go ’round with Glenn. He was the last person I wanted to think about, but I also needed the Glenn who was supportive and who cared for me once upon a time.

Mom, I know that even though you never liked him, you knew how much I loved him. I know that you wanted me to marry someone older who would let me be all of who I am. I thought that Glenn, even though he’s only a couple of years older, would be that person. He’s the only man I’ve ever seriously thought about marrying. Otherwise, I’d be perfectly happy to live a nice, quiet, woman-focused life with dogs, adopted grandkids and a lovely wildflower garden where my partner/wife and I could sit and just enjoy the life we’ve made for ourselves. Well, at least after I get the magazine off the ground. I really feel good about that possibility. No, that opportunity. I think I’ve found just the right investigative piece I was looking for. It will help me make a name for the magazine and, at the same time, establish the demo I’m looking for. Sometimes God fools ya and drops things in your lap when you least expect it. But I’ve got to get out of this funk if I ever plan to get started. Is it right to dump the other piece I was working on periodically for this? My gut doesn’t feel right about it, but I can’t see doing them both right now. There’s still too much going on in my head and in my heart.

Right. Glenn. Mommy, what happened to him? What turned that sweet, yet sometimes insensitive, sometimes volatile, man into whatever it is he is now? I want to understand so badly that I don’t know what to do. I don’t think there is anything I can do anymore. I had to start protecting myself. In the shape I’m in, he could finish what was started years ago, only this time, you and I would be reunited in heaven. No more failures. You’re not here to inadvertently save me. If I ended up in ICU again, it would be because I’m about to die and I’m an organ donor. It’s the girls who’ve kept me going. Add in Glenn’s penchant for inflicting non-consensual pain and I wouldn’t survive even with them. My God, Mom, I can’t even begin to fathom the things he’s done. If he didn’t live 500+ miles away, I think I’d be seriously concerned for my safety. As it is, I had to draw the Daddy card on him and may well have to use it. If I think I’m in a nightmare now, that could easily turn into something worse. I called Glenn on all his shit. I should have done so years ago, but didn’t. Maybe I didn’t because then, I didn’t have confirmation of things I knew–those things I can’t even write or else I’d get a knock on the door asking me about cold cases. Even with the family’s help, I don’t think the non-related cops would understand how I just knew some things that were only confirmed last year. You remember, I’m sure, the barber shop I took you to. The barber, whose name shall remain with us, started asking around. He told me what he discovered. He confirmed what I knew and added something I didn’t. It’s what he added that’s my ace should I need it. I only hope the barber has the sense God gave him and keeps his mouth shut. He doesn’t know how close he is to more truth that would most assuredly get someone knocking on his door and it may not be the cops.

Mommy, I keep hearing you in my head telling me to be patient with Glenn and that he will come back. Yet, you never say why you know this to be true. I long ago stopped asking how you knew some things. Again, I just learned to accept. You were right too many times like a few other women in our bloodline. There is usually a basis in the old ways and now I get it. Since you’ve been gone, it’s as though your gift has passed itself along to me. I always had it in relatively small quantities, but I feel it getting stronger. Again, it’s just one of those things I accept. “Oh. OK.” What I always found utterly amusing about you is that you accept that you’ve got the sight, but can’t accept that this house has at least one spirit. The girls see it all the time and have for generations. It doesn’t bother me and I don’t bother it. It’s the same way Micki knows there’s a critter out in the back even though I can’t see it. She’s right too many times for me to disregard her. I just have to brace myself in case she decides to go after it. Unfortunately, I don’t know if Glenn fits into the category of “I just know.” It isn’t that way for me, probably because this is the one thing I’m fighting like Muhammad Ali. I can’t be wrong. I can’t hope. Yet, I also can’t deny that I love the man he was before whatever happened to him happened. I know that he was seduced by the Benjamins. I don’t know that he’s happy at home, even though I’m sure he’s fucking that Tilman chick. She’s a yella gal like you and he and Daddy have that in common. In having to re-write this post, I am seeing that they have more than that in common. I hope his daughter was a Daddy’s girl like I was once we finally got together. Anyway, where women were concerned, the lighter the better. It’s sad, really. Very sad. It’s not like he’s all that dark. We were virtually the same shade, although I had more red thanks to Grandmother Clara.

You said that I never considered that Glenn treated me so badly because I was the one who really could threaten his marriage. Maybe. Again, I can’t hope. I hate that he’s crushed that part of me. If he were to come back to me and explain everything, tell me he loved me, he was sorry for hurting me, yada, yada, yada, the only thing I might believe is his explanation for doing what he did. I might believe that he loved me, but he’d have to be extremely convincing. I’m not sure I’d buy it then because we both know abusive men go through a honeymoon period where they apologize, say they won’t abuse you and things are fine until it happens again. It is so hard for me to write or say or think: he is an emotionally abusive man. He wasn’t that way before, but he is now. I wish that I could scream into the night and ask, “Why?!?!?!” Of course, I’ll never know. That hurts a great deal. It’s in my nature to ask questions and not be satisfied until I get an answer that makes sense. I don’t think I ever will with this one.

I think the thing that hurts me most is that he never accepted my disability. I thought he had, but he didn’t. I think I even confronted him about it when we were together. I seem to remember him saying something about being younger then. While that’s true, he obviously took it into consideration when he asked Robin to marry him. What would he have said if I’d asked him to marry me? I wasn’t even thinking about marriage then, but what if I did? He’d probably tell me no and then marry Robin. I don’t like this part of myself, but I wish she would find someone else, decide she didn’t want to be married or just die. It’s the last one I hate. I don’t want her to die. I just want her to go away. I want him to have a chance to be who he wants to be within reason, and find his way back to me. He always felt like home to me. Am I totally pathetic for thinking of him that way? Yes, I am. After everything he’s done to me, it IS pathetic and I’m not sure I care. That’s what this has been about from the start. He’s my home and I can’t break the link. I want to. Mom, you know I’ve tried. This is the first time I’ve admitted it to myself, to you, to anyone. Damn it, I now have to send this to him. I love him and I dislike him all at the same time. He damn near destroyed me thanks in part to Dr. Trouble’s magic pills; I let go for years, only to find him in my mind and heart again, up from the basement where all the deep, dark, bad is kept; I’m pestering him for an explanation that I do richly deserve and have every right to require; he lets me swing in the breeze with nothing, laughing all the while. I deserve better and I know you agree. He’s an incredible disappointment as a human being, much less a potential lover/partner as things are now.

I sent him the lyrics for Lady A’s “Dancin’ Away With My Heart.” It fits so perfectly with the exception of the age. Mom, I have never loved anyone like I loved him and still love some deep, nearly-inaccessible portion of him. He is a part of me and always will be. I can’t lose him even though I  have already. Why did he do this to me? Why did he treat me like garbage? More accurately, why did he do the equivalent of throw garbage at me? I hadn’t done anything to him at all except tell him how I felt. I didn’t know I felt as I did, but it all came flooding back and I made that horrendous tape. He mocked me, embarrassed me, tormented me, shamed me. Tell me, please, why do I still love him? I keep thinking that was an anomaly, but he hasn’t had the guts to face me since. What does that say about him? What does that say about me? I deserve better. I know I do. But I also know that there’s something I’m missing. He’s behaving like a sociopath with narcissistic tendencies. Granted, they don’t have to go together, but they often do. I wish I had a DSM. I think it would help me understand what’s up with him and what is going on with me.  Am I experiencing something like battered wife syndrome even without the paper between us? Am I experiencing some sort of PTSD?

It’s nearly two and a half hours into Easter. I tried to save as many flowers from the sprays as I could. I don’t know if any of them will bloom again. I should be grateful for having them as long as I did. I think that’s what Mandy was trying to say to me: At least I had a mother for nearly 50 years; she didn’t and that’s affected her. Anyway, many lasted nearly a month. As I watch them die, no matter what steps I take to make them last, they eventually give way to what is termed the “natural order of things.” I miss you, Mom. The natural order took place, but gives me no comfort. This is a rite of passage. I remember how cold your beautiful hands were the last time I touched them. I still can’t believe you’re gone. You looked like you were asleep. Now, I think I’m glad that you wanted to be cremated. I don’t think I could bear thinking of you in the cold ground. I do feel your spirit around me. It’s why I can write to you now when I couldn’t talk to you before. I just wish you were here to hold me while still being at peace. I don’t think you had much peace in your life. I am sorry for anything I did that caused you to have more aggravation than you deserved. I love you. I forgive you. I want you to rest in peace now, but feel free to come back when you feel the urge. Like I said, I miss you.

Love always,

OnX

Metamorphosis

Dear Glenn,

I’m writing this letter publicly, but you’ll more than likely receive a version privately as well. The readership here is much lower than my other blog, so the danger of someone either of us knows finding this blog is nearly non-existent unless they’re searching for you. If so, frankly, I just don’t care anymore. I’m sorry, but I just don’t. I’m tired of caring about someone who couldn’t give a damn about me.

These last few weeks have been filled with sadness, then action brought about by practicality, then sadness again. In other words, it’s been a rollercoaster between Mom’s death; my realization that we really are over; the pain I feel because I didn’t have a chance to say goodbye to her; and the pain and anger that I feel toward you, often at the same time. I’m all over the place and I want it to stop. Now I understand why those who deal with grief regularly tell people not to make any major decisions for at least a year. If only I had that luxury! I don’t. I’ve got to deal with all of this myself, even though I do have a brother, as I believe I pointed out to you in a letter. John is Daddy’s son and Mom made sure that I didn’t know him that well. I think of all the crap she had floating around in her head about my father and realize it’s a minor miracle that I basically said, “Screw you! I’m going to call my father and learn who he is for myself.” After that, she was helpless and jealous. Indeed, I’d say very jealous because Daddy was my best friend and she wasn’t. He was so ashamed of John that I only met him when our father lay dying in a hospital bed. We’d talk about him if I asked, but Daddy never brought him up. The reason he was ashamed was because he got another woman pregnant while he was engaged to my mother. Knowing her, she made his life hell because of it.

I didn’t write to talk about John. I wrote to talk about you and about me.

There is a part of me that is in so much pain I can barely breathe because of what you did to me and what you continue doing by not explaining yourself and sadistically keeping me twisting in the wind. I know you’re a narcissist and that you’re getting off on all of this the same way you got off on sharing my honest, loving feelings toward you with someone else and laughing about them later. I have braved major depressive episodes, suicide too many times for me to count and bouts of mania. A lot of it somewhere between helped and caused by you, with an emphasis on the “caused” sided. However, at no time did I purposely set out to cause damage or even hurt to anyone other than myself. You have. Not only have you set out to cause damage and pain, but you also set out to humiliate, trample, emotionally abuse and generally bully me all because you could. And you could do so only because I loved the person I once knew, assumed he was still there and, therefore, let him in. I already know what that makes me. What does that make you? I wrote a letter to you with the Subject “blame it on lady antebellum.” I briefly told you about the song, but that’s it. Here are the words.

Dancin’ Away With My Heart

I finally asked you to dance on the last slow song
Beneath that moon that was really a disco ball
I can still feel my head on your shoulder
And hoping that song would never be over

I haven’t seen you in ages
Sometimes I find myself wondering where you are
For me you’ll always be eighteen and beautiful
And dancing away with my heart

I brushed your curls back so I could see your eyes
And the way you moved me was like you were reading my mind
I can still feel you lean in to kiss me
I can’t help but wonder if you ever miss me

I haven’t seen you in ages
Sometimes I find myself wondering where you are

For me you’ll always be eighteen and beautiful
And dancing away with my heart

You headed off to college at the end of that summer
And we lost touch
I guess I didn’t realize even at the moment we lost so much

I haven’t seen you in ages
Sometimes I find myself wondering where you are
For me you’ll always be eighteen and beautiful
And dancing away with my heart

Nah nah nah nah (x3)

Away with my heart

Nah nah nah nah (x3)

Here’s the video if you’ve never seen/heard it.

For me, you’ll always be the adult man who hadn’t turned into a narcissist yet. You didn’t feel a need to get off by non-consensually hurting people, me especially. Still, I should have seen this coming. I didn’t because I was blinded by love, to use an old cliche. The fact that we couldn’t stay away from each other even after your marriage should have told me that you thought you were above the rules instead of telling me that you still cared very much for me.

Look, you married Robin because you loved her. I understand that. However, there was more. You needed an image, which meant that you had to have someone worthy of fucking on your arm. While you may have been attracted to me, and you knew that other men would be attracted to me, there would always be that segment who’d say that I was too fat or why be with a cripple when you could be with that chick over yonder who has everything you want or at least should want? Pretty soon, I would make you look weak because you’d bow to the shallowness of the industry you wanted into in a bad, bad way. So, just as you cheated on Robin, you’d cheat on me. The difference would be that as long as I could do what I wanted with whom, I wouldn’t have stopped you from hanging out with whoever you wanted as long as you didn’t bring anything unwanted into our home. You see, there were certain rules of the game you never understood. Seeing more than one person and loving them both was very possible. I loved you for life, but I also loved another man nearly as deeply. In the end, we exhausted each other and we each went our own way. That happened in part while you were still part of my life, but mostly when you saw fit to leave me alone for two years and then called because you wanted phone sex. That, in and of itself, was crass and insensitive as hell. I wasn’t your personal phone whore.

So, we have Robin as an able-bodied, fuckable woman who made other men envious of you and other women envious of her. Personally, she’s not my type, but that’s just me. Oh, don’t get me wrong, her body was fine. She was just a snooty little bitch who was into playing games. Both of you were into the great mindfuck and I wasn’t and never will be unless I absolutely can’t stand a person and then the gloves come off. There was no reason for me to feel that way toward her. She was simply a fact of life.

The thing that really sealed the deal was cold, hard, cash, baby. I realize that when she began practicing as an attending, salaries were lower to reflect the economy. However, today, she’d make about $250,000 to a little over $300,000 a year. She could afford to buy you any toy you desired to get you started. I don’t doubt that you added to the pot and that you raised the one daughter that I know about. That, alone, saved a ton of money. I just wonder what you’d say and do if someone treated the little girl you’d raised to adulthood the way you’d treated me. In all probability, you’d tell her to dump that bastard because she doesn’t need him. And you’d be right. I don’t need you. In fact, I don’t even want you–finally. But back to the Lincolns.

There’s no way in hell a lawyer, no matter the firm, would ever make that much money. Sure, it was very possible if I made partner in eight years or so. But that’s five years AFTER Robin would have become an attending. Remember, when you decided to marry Robin, I hadn’t come down with fibromyalgia yet. The fibro only made your gut instinct about me having continued physical problems right on the money. No pun intended, but fits nonetheless. Robin was healthy and showed no signs of being otherwise. I was, as you said, “cute,” but depending on one’s taste, a yella gal will always beat a latté with people into intraracial colorism as so many of us are. In other words, Robin would pass the paper bag test while I might pass, depending on the bag’s manufacturer. Since Mom was a yella gal herself, it didn’t make any damn difference to me. I thought all of you were laughable for even thinking about something so petty and felt awful for dark-skinned women for the slings and arrows thrown at them because they were very beautifully dark chocolate.

When all is said and done, based on your perception of appearance; your discomfort with my disability that might put me in a wheelchair one day and, therefore, unable to in any way help your image, and; Robin’s money tree to help get you set up with the right equipment and other perks that go with being the husband of an anesthesiologist meant I was never really in the running to be your wife. It didn’t matter how much I loved you; what I’d do for you; that I was really opening up to you in ways I never had before because I was feeling a whole lot more secure than I’d ever felt, and; that we’d had a long history that began only six months after you and Robin got together. No matter what I did, I was never truly in the running. It is only now, in writing this letter, that I am beginning to see how used I was and how shallow, cruel and narcissistic you are. It has taken me all these many years to work everything out. I kept thinking that there was something inherently wrong with me and there wasn’t. The only thing “wrong” with me is that I had blinders on where you were concerned. Oh, yeah, I could see a lot of your faults, it’s true. I just didn’t see one of them as being a bigot more concerned with the way his armpiece looked than who she was and how much money she would bring home. Actually, I’d already suspected the difficulty you had with my disability because of the first time we had wild, monkey sex. You may not remember, but I do. You asked me to keep my prosthesis on even though it was very uncomfortable for me. I forgave and overlooked. That’s more than you’ve done for me in all these years. I can do so no more.

In the extremely unlikely chance you don’t get the reference below, (you are, afterall, the only living male I know who’s at least as intelligent as I am), 17 years. Think of the old ways.

Glenn , I renounce thee.
Glenn , I renounce thee.
Glenn , I renounce thee as the selfish, shallow, cruel, materialistic, narcissist you are.

May God forgive you. I doubt that I can. Oh, I’ll still love the person I knew, or thought I knew, but that person isn’t you. Perhaps it never was. And, as I previously wrote privately, in case you get any goofy ideas about harming a hair on my head or anywhere else on my body, or harming those I love, you won’t make it back to New Jersey one way or another. And if you do, you’ve committed a federal crime. I told you about who Daddy was and that some young gang banger looking to earn his stripes wouldn’t mind bragging about protecting his daughter even though Daddy is actually sitting on my dresser. I’ve told you about the family’s heavy background in law enforcement as judges, prosecutors and defense attorneys, not to mention a boatload of cops both retired and active duty. Hence, think at least ten times and if you still can’t see how dumb it would be to come after me if only for your family’s sake, I’ve got enough to make the cops look your way first. I hate this entire mess, but it’s one we both caused. But, as I said, I never set out to hurt, harm, damage, humiliate or cruelly play with anyone. You did and you will deserve anything fate dishes out.

OnX

Edited to change: added the redactions because there is at least one innocent; explained the renunciation in the off chance you didn’t get it, and; to say that this way is better for all concerned. You stupid, stupid, man. However, I stand by what I wrote 100%. The whole sorry business didn’t have to be, but I’m done feeling love or sympathy for you. You’ve made your bed.

What Is It With Men?

Let me start by saying that I am depressed. I was already depressed before my mother died (I can’t believe I used the word), but it’s been so much worse since. I’ve been in something of a fog for over a month. Most days, I don’t want to get out of bed. The only reason I do is the girls, my blessed furbabies. I remember that I am all they have and I love them so much. Without them, I probably would have said “Screw this! I want to get out of this soul-sucking life.” It’s as if the pain has no end and I don’t want to stay in the dark anymore. I am so, so tired, even though I can sleep 13 hours at a time. Part of that is the fibromyalgia, but most of it is stress and depression. I probably need to increase the dosage of Elavil I’m on to 75mg/day. I only dropped down to 50mg/day because my mother hated it when I slept all day, even though it was temporary until my body got used to the increase. Now, she’s gone. As long as the girls are cared for, I can sleep. But after seeing their little faces, I can’t leave them in crates all day while I sleep. If Micki would just not counter-surf on my dresser or go into my laundry to find whatever treasures it may contain, I could just let them out. Snippet would get on the bed, Micki would counter- and laundry-surf before getting on the bed and all would be well. The only problem would be that both Mick’s and Snippet’s claws are in dire need of trimming. I can see them tearing up my sheets.

I’m not sure what I want. It seems that there are men out there who want to fuck me. I wrote about the neighbor last night. He’s married and there’s no way I’m going to be with him–ever. He’s not my type at all. He’s not bad to look at, but I don’t like the way he wants money for everything. He doesn’t do anything without expecting money in return. That’s not to say he doesn’t care, because he does. He just also cares about how much he can get for things a good neighbor would do because he’s a good neighbor. Plus, I honestly like his wife. I don’t want to hurt her. I also don’t want to be in a situation where I have to shut this guy down. That would create a serious PTSD attack. I’m freaked just thinking about it. What if what I say doesn’t matter? I know he’s got a record, but I’ve never plunked down the bucks to find out what he was in prison for. Maybe it’s time I did. For all I know, he could be a sex offender. God, I don’t think I could go through with that again. I’d be trapped, though. I have to survive because of the girls.

I went to my favorite music store to see my favorite, totally too-cute-for-words musician/salesman, Corey. Now him, I’d like to more than fuck. He reminds me of someone I saw while at Kent named Morgan. For some reason, I can’t remember Morgan’s last name. Oh well. What I do remember is his wild, flaming red hair. My musician/salesman has a darker shade of red hair, but it is most definitely red. I am such a sucker for wild, red-headed music types. Where Morgan was a roadie and general all-around stage hand. Corey is a real musician who, from what I’ve gathered from others, has serious guitar chops. He’s less than half my age and I don’t even care.

Anyway, I went into the store and tried to find a book that would help me with scales and chords because that’s the best way to train my ear so that I don’t need a keyboard in order to bang out a melody. I waited and waited, learned that he was on a conference call; waited some more while he went to lunch with no idea that I was even there. I waited for an hour, not realizing he’d come back until I heard him paged, finally caught his eye and finding the kind of book I needed, sauntered over to see him and wait until he finished with a customer, then waited some more after he was paged again and just gave up. I asked the sole woman who seemed to work there to ring me out, handed her a business card and asked that she pass it to Corey and I left. I’d been there about two hours. That just looked bad for both me and for him. I think I did the right thing. It wasn’t his fault that I waited so long. He would have talked to me but I told him that money always came before socializing. *shrug* That’s just the way it is. I didn’t want him to lose money because of me. So, I left. I called the store later, but he’d left for the day.

I went from the music store to Burger King. The only reason I did was because I had to use the restroom. I also needed to eat something because I felt too dizzy to stand up. I got my food and sat down to eat, something I almost never do in fast food restaurants. There was a not-too-bad looking older man there with a thick accent. He asked what happened to my leg. I gave him the short version, no pun intended. I told him that I was born with something wrong with my leg. I didn’t feel like going into the entire story because, in fact, it was none of his business. But, since he was clearly an elderly gentleman, I cut him some slack. Somehow, we started up a conversation. I think he was talking about the weather and Mother Nature. As I listened to him, I realized that he was a very interesting man. He’d almost be the kind of man Mommy wanted for me: self-sufficient; totally into me, and; basically gave me whatever I wanted. I could see myself as his lover. He made it very clear that he wanted to be, but that he thought I should lose weight. *sigh* If it’s not one thing it’s another. Why won’t someone just care for me as I am? For Glenn, it was my disability. For God only knows how many others, it’s my weight. If they only knew how little I truly do eat, they’d be astonished. Maybe weight loss isn’t as simple as 1, 2, 3. My weight didn’t stop him from feeling me up which, probably because I felt so much like crap, I took some satisfaction in knowing at least someone appreciated my boobs. A good bra is priceless. One of these days, I’ll wear my white shell over one of the good bras and show some cleavage if Corey doesn’t get it yet.

I’m going to sleep. I still feel like crap, but there’s nothing I can do about it. I don’t think time will heal these wounds. There’s too much loss, too much grief and too much loneliness. I’d say that I feel pathetic, but that would BE pathetic.

The Unabridged, Unadulterated, Ugliness of Truth and Life

I can feel some psychological pathologies coming back because of the excruciating, unrelenting pain I’m facing with each minute of the day. Although I’m overweight, I have been a borderline anorexic for many years. Whenever I get depressed I refuse to eat. It’s the one thing that I can do to myself by myself other than the obvious, cutting. Yes, it’s a control issue. I am absolutely terrified that I will end up in a hospital within a few days to a week because I’ll momentarily lose control or I’ll be so distracted that I’ll have an accident. I’d bet on the former more than the latter. Right now, I want to lay in a fetal position and just fade into nothingness. If it weren’t for my girls, I would have ended this hell days ago.

My mother did everything she could to come back to me. I watched the hospital personnel working on her and I am so deeply grateful to them. If there was anywhere in the world she could have been saved, it was Cleveland Clinic. She died within less than an hour of collapsing, but not because they didn’t try. Funny, I immediately knew who they were working on even though I couldn’t see into the room because of all of the people. Now, she’s in an urn in a cabinet as I hope her spirit roams free to learn all that it can before coming back again.

Glenn is a completely different story. There was no closure at all. I’m not sure there ever will be. I am haunted by it, hounded by it and can’t cope without it.

Glenn’s silence makes me feel ugly. I feel as though I’m as big as a house–a fat Miss Frankenstein that he can’t stand to look or talk to. For him, I’m nothing. I am as insignificant as an ant in the street. There’s an argument going on in my head that says he’s an ass and that I’m so much more than either he or I believe myself to be. I admit to being obsessed with learning why he did what he did. I strongly believe he owes me at least that much. But he’s male and males do the dumbest things on earth and call it “funny.” His “fun” nearly cost me my life. I’m not sure he gives a damn. I sent word and asked him to phone. He hasn’t. All the speculation in the world won’t give me an answer that will be satisfying. I wonder how he lives with himself. I could never do to someone what he did to me. Most people couldn’t do it. That level of cruelty is characteristic of bullies. When did that happen? Why did that happen? Was I right all those years ago when I called him a sociopath? I know that some are made and some are born. He’s always had a fairly hostile relationship with his mother and his father seemed to be a much nicer (non-pedophile) version of my mother’s second husband in that he’d immerse himself in the newspaper to keep from dealing with whatever was going on around him, like his wife.

I wear an artificial leg on the right side. I am what’s called in the UK a “thalidomider.” My mother took the drug thalidomide in 1961 when she was pregnant with me. It wasn’t approved by the FDA because there were a large number of babies born with major birth defects both externally and internally. Many didn’t live at all. It’s killing me, but what if Glenn made the decision to marry that woman, Robin, because she was whole? This isn’t a new idea, but has popped up very strongly this moment. I can’t argue with him for it. She was a med school graduate when they married and I’d just learned that I had fibromyalgia and would never work a consistent 9 to 5 again. I’ll work again, but it will be on my own terms.

I started this post very early this morning. I stopped at the above paragraph and did what I said I wouldn’t do again and that’s write him another letter. I got a lot out, but I just want to stop chasing him and be discarded at every turn. I feel pathetic because I need and want him in my life. I’ve got this incredibly strong feeling with no basis at all that there’s something else going on that I know nothing about. Whatever the case, I can’t make him say anything. If he did say something, would it be kind and compassionate or will it be emotionally abusive? If I have to ask that question, what am I doing trying to find the beautiful man he’d become instead of a twisted, narcissistic hot emotional mess of a man? I just keep hoping that some portion of decency is left in him. And if it’s that hard to find, is he really worth it? If I had a friend in this situation, I’d counsel her to seriously re-think whether she wants to be an emotional and, possibly, physical punching bag.

I don’t need anyone who, for whatever reason, makes me feel like I’m worthless. The grief I feel is so damn powerful and it’s fucking with my brain in ways that I’d never expect. I don’t understand why this is happening? I don’t understand what I’m doing? I know that I really want to take a razor blade and start cutting again. I haven’t done that in years, but it’s as though the words I’m typing aren’t enough. I feel like I’m screaming and no one hears. I have an appointment with my therapist tomorrow. Maybe she can help me figure out why I feel so utterly hopeless, helpless and worthless. When will this hellish nightmare end?

Fiction vs. Reality

I first noticed it over a month ago. I turned on my television one Sunday morning in a fit of absolute frustration with my bi-weekly bout of insomnia. Nothing on that I wanted to watch. The least offensive program turned out to be a movie based on a series I found offensive in the extreme when it was on HBO’s regular schedule. Yet, I was trapped. It was Sex & the City or nothing. I chose the Sex.

Sex and the City Main Characters

Sex and the City Main Characters

The reason I found Sex & the City offensive is because it was, and apparently remains, so damn hetero! It makes me pull out what little hair I haven’t cut that these four women are such utterly neurotic stereotypes, save one–Charlotte. (I had to go to Wikipedia to even look up the character’s name.) Yes, she’s kind of a Miss America wannabe, but she is the most reasonable and stable of them all. My guilty pleasure, however, was Samantha. That’s the kind of woman I want to be when I grow up. In reality, she isn’t that much older than I am, but I don’t consider myself “grown up” yet. In fact, I want to remain forever young. I think Samantha does too. Lord knows she’s got the body to defy any number her years may reveal. But I digress.

The main character, Carrie Bradshaw, is a twit. Sorry to all the show’s fans, but that girl (and I do consider her a girl child) needs to buy fewer Manolo Blahniks and invest in more than her current two brain cells. While I may never want to grow up, I don’t want to remain a teenager either. This character isn’t too far off from the character the actress, Sarah Jessica Parker, portrayed in Square Pegs, the television vehicle that first brought her to national attention almost 20 years ago. Square Pegs was set in high school where she was a neurotic Type A personality student. In Sex, she’s a Type A personality serial dater in her 30s who desperately doesn’t want to be single and writes about her adventures in dating in the Ginormous Bad Apple. Her column is supposed to give readers advice on fashion, trends and men. Still, she accepts crap from her supposed soulmate, Mr. Big, aka John, (more than ably portrayed by Law & Order alum Chris Noth) for a good part of the series and more than half of the movie. What is that about? Who gave her valuable column inches to blather on and on about her screw ups for something close to a decade by the time the movie takes place? Most editors I know are smarter than that. Then again . . .

After nearly two hours of this movie with its requisite happy ending, there was a part of me that thought, “I’m smarter than these people. I have more depth of character than all of them combined, including their supporting males, and; I have more skills than three of the four. But here they are on my television screen with beautiful clothes, successful careers and significant others who love them.” I was jealous. No, I was envious and ashamed for being so. These were, after all, fictional characters in a fictionalized setting. I knew that, but I kept thinking that I should and would have that life but for my body. My life doesn’t suck, but it does keep me from doing the things I would have done if I didn’t have very unstable disabilities that keep me in doctors’ offices at least three to four times a month for something. For the first time in my entire life, I have come to resent the fact that my body has me trapped with no way out except death. And I have no desire to die.

When I think about it, this phase should have happened when I was much, much younger–I’m thinking when I was a teen or pre-teen. Now, it’s happening in my 40s. I believe it’s because this is the time when I should have achieved certain things in my life and I haven’t been able to do so. I was on my way when I developed fibromyalgia to go with my birth defect. That led to a great deal of trouble in law school and the powers that be suggesting that I leave since I was sick. This was the same year the Americans with Disabilities Act became effective but I was too sick to fight. Now, I have yet another disability that would sideline the average person all by itself. Nevertheless, I will one day get my law degree and pass the bar. I don’t care if I’m 70 years old when I do it. I will do it.

The envy came over me again tonight while watching Parenthood. This time, it hit even harder. I am so frustrated with my body even though I am preparing to make things better by having my knee replaced. There is a great deal that needs to happen before I go in for surgery, but at least that’s the path I’m on. I just have my doubts about how much better a knee replacement will make my life given my other disabilities. While my knee is certainly an issue, there are bigger problems that often seem insurmountable. No doubt I will blog about them in the days to come. For now, all I want to do is drill into my head that life is not a television program. Life is what it is and I can check out or I can try to live it as best I can. That doesn’t mean, however, that there aren’t days and nights when I just want to cry and wish I didn’t have this body, Easter weekend or not.

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