I looked up some old haunts today.
People I haven’t even thought about in years, simply because I have been busy with other things. Relationships, schooling, grabbing up credits, health, things like that. Reading up on them, I felt a little inadequate, to say the least. One of my fellow writers from back twelve years ago is published now. With the exception of publishing my nephew’s journal entries on being a terminally ill teenager with DID, I have not been officially published, as in having a book on the shelves. If it wasn’t for my nephew’s insanity, I would not have my name out there, at all.
Then there’s one of my old pains in the ass. She’s gone from a liar who had potential, to a burned out drug addict with a child who has been taken away from her. I could look at her mistakes and see where I am better off, but I choose not to go down that road. Of all the horrible things she said about me on her various blogs and websites over a decade ago, to trying to get into my hosting because she wanted to take down my site, I’m sure that she does not remember me. She has just that many enemies. Even though I remember her very well, she has fucked over so many people in her journey, she can’t possibly remember them all.
My downfall is that my memory, at times, is too good. I remember the lies, the abuse, the most vibrantly. I suppose that is a coping mechanism, a way of survival, of some sort. I just spend hours taking medications to erase those memories, only to have the better part of my memory bank erased.
That’s the funny thing with my research. I can achieve the goal of erasing a memory, permanently, but I cannot specifically choose said memory. It’s usually something benign, and harmless. Survival method. I have to find a way around that.
I feel as though I am standing still while even the most hateful people I have encountered in my life are progressing. They don’t deserve it, not in the least, but they are getting ahead, they are achieving their goals, such as they are, and I feel as though I have done nothing progressive. I have not reached my research goal that I started six years ago. My kids are not any smarter than they were years ago. Here I sit. But I am still standing.
In a random news: I am going to another party chosen by Matt. This time with Dennis. The doors are opening in about an hour, so I must get ready to go. I don’t think I will wear fish net stockings under rainbow knee-high socks this time!
During my daily waltzes around the web, I came across this:
There is no fault in being skeptical. If you are skeptical, it’s probably the other person’s fault for either
- Being too vague or flakey in their descriptions, or
- Flat-out lying
I am guilty of the first.
There have been many times that one friend of mine, Scott, has had the courage and the appreciation for me to tell me that I am “too vague” in my Facebook updates. While I could blame that on Facebook’s interface being as intimidating as Twitter’s, or that I have somewhat long nails and type on an iPhone when I update my Facebook statuses, there is no real excuse when I update my blog. Naturally, people don’t frequently visit my blog. What good would it do anyway? I’m just as vague here, mostly because I am trying to protect the identity of my husband and children. See, I’ve been around the block a few times, and this is not my first rodeo. I know the people of the web, and how vicious they truly are. In my thirteen years of having a public website, I have had people call child services on me, simply because I exposed their hoaxes, called out their lies they published on the web, or found the photographs of the people they had ripped off. In other words, I butted my big nose into some lunatic’s fantasy world, and presto. I earned a nemesis for life. They didn’t want me to simply shut down my web page, they wanted me to suffer in the real world.
It wasn’t always like that. When I first had a blog, I wrote about everything and anything in such a candid manner that I never gave it a second thought. People generally ignored me then, too, but I had the energy and the stamina to write in great detail of my life, my trials, my tribulations. It opened my world up to someone who wanted to become me. I have since censored myself. I leave out what I consider important facts from my life, and I stopped posting so many pictures of myself, my husband, my friends, and my children.
I encourage questions, though. With the disruption in my path of thinking, I know there are things that I have left out in my writings, and I apologise for that. It wasn’t too long ago that I could write entire research papers without notes or even rough drafts. I sat down, I typed up the finished, polished paper, and I turned it in. Not so any more. I miss what I used to be able to do. I can see the deterioration that has been happening over the past five years, and it really saddens me. I am not the person I used to be, and I have changed forever, not for better. I remember times when I could keep track of my friends’ birthdays, anniversaries, anything, really. Now they fly by and I wonder what the hell happened.
So if there’s any loose ends that I have failed to tie up, please email me, comment, PM me. I promise this was not done intentionally, and while I can’t promise that I will spill more information out in the future, I can promise that if anyone asks, and they ask nicely, I will reveal all that is (generally) needed to know. Just keep in mind that this is my blog, not my children’s, my husband’s, my friends’, my family’s. They don’t have any control over what I write here, but I would like to keep their privacy just that: private.
I want to write more. I want to sit down and just write and write and write. I want to read more books. I want to interact with others more. I feel that I am missing out on the fun things in my life that made my life worth living, simply because I hold back too much. I want to enjoy what little bit of my mind that is left while I can still do it. I know that sounds bleak, but I promise it’s not meant to be! I feel that if I can do amazing things again, I will start to feel better about myself and no longer slash my wrists out of frustration and anger. That I won’t chew up my narcotics and opioids out of despair. That I won’t spend hours sobbing about things that I cannot help nor change.
There was a time when I knew that I was a good person and I truly liked who I was. I’m not sure what happened to change that, possibly my harasser constantly kicking my personality was what lit the fuse (even though at one time that person wanted to be me!), but it has been chipping away at me for so long now that I have gone under with what seems like no point of return. I want to patch things up with Dennis as well. I want to save what is left of our marriage. I don’t really want to leave him, and certainly not for someone else in the same business as him. I don’t want to split up our children, I don’t want to have to move, unless we move as a family. It would be nice to wake up and think “You’re a good person!” again, but I know that I am a long ways away from that. I know that I have to work to get there, and I know that once I do get there, it will be so much more rewarding, so worth it. In the mean time, I must start taking better care of myself physically. I must keep on my medicine. I must keep my doctor appointments. I canceled three of them this past week, and that was wrong. Why did I do it? Sheer fatigue and hopelessness.
It’s a long road ahead. Will you join me? I just can’t make it alone.
Thirteen years ago, I was contemplating sex with a stranger, at the risk of being labeled a slut. Today I am contemplating screwing the lead guitarist of a band that my father bought every album of, just because I will be covering the band’s concert here this spring. Open relationships mean one thing: Trust is more important than monogamy, and “hunk o’ burning love” is taken literally. The problem arose when Dennis did not want me sleeping with any man except himself, something that wasn’t fair, as he confided in me that he had had several “encounters” on the road, then “clarified” that they had all been between bandmates. What? He’s screwing other men? It’s not surprising to me, but it really threw our therapist back a few inches.
But if I had sex with another woman and he could watch, that was fine.
Isn’t it always?
I have been in conversation with the guitarist that I am planning on conquering this spring, and he’s really a nice guy. He doesn’t know what I’m planning, yet, and a good groupie doesn’t divulge what they are planning until the moment happens, but he offered to buy me coffee and talk about the tour. How nice. I needed a shot of insulin after that conversation.
Hey, my manager says I have to be nice to the bands that I interview! It’s out of my hands! If we give them bad publicity, they may shit on our publications, and we’ll lose readers. Normally. Knowing today’s youth, if a band said “[This] magazine sucks!” millions of people may jump out and buy it or order subscriptions. Unfortunately, the managers don’t think like that, and if we get bad publicity from a band, the reporter who caused that bad publicity is fired. Permanently. So, it’s my motto to be a groupie in disguise of a reporter! Besides, I’ve been a groupe since I was fifteen, and I’m still waiting for that one “bad thing” to happen to me to spoil it all.
Dennis has been trying to get me to rethink many things on my agenda. Things such as sleeping with this guy, packing up and leaving the family, and other “mistakes that I am going to regret” in the future. I replied that he sounded like a middle school teacher, preaching about “the future” all the time. I’m at that point in my life where I don’t care about the future anymore. I just want to make it through the present and learn to let go of the past. If that means that I am a whore or a slut, or a “druggie whore” as one of my lovely blog visitors has referred to me as (I can see those referrer logs, dumb ass!), then so be it. It’s amazing that people really care that much about what I think of them that they are willing to insult me over an invisible media. There’s the discussion of what this may be “setting for Chloe.” I can honestly say that my own mother’s promiscuity had no effect on how I grew up, other than I wish she had not physically and emotionally abused me in the process. Other than that, it’s her body, her pussy, her choices. I’m not married to her just as Chloe is not married to me. If Chloe grows up and has sex with Marilyn Manson, good for her! I hope she at least gets his autograph out of it all!
My biggest concern is that I don’t know if I can go through with it. I’ve been having that problem for a long time now. Call it a conscience, call it chickening out. I don’t know what to make of it. Ideas?
Before any rumors start to fly, why yes, I did some dumb shit and hurt myself this week:
Here are a couple of videos I shot while in the hospital the last time. Filmed on the cardiac floor, with my “Stupid iPhone.”
I’d also like to point out that it’s 1:30 in the morning, and someone is running a chainsaw in the wooded area out back. If any creatures with someone else’s face over their face jumps out of the woods (it quit for a few minutes, and now it’s back running again!), I am outta here! Seriously! I’ll leave tracks across whomever that is, and be three continents away before they realise that I was ever there!
So stay in those woods, Leatherface!
Also, I made a video of my stubborn family dog:
Last, you saw it first here!
There’s been some changing brewing in my life. Not necessarily bad changes, but changes none the less.
It started about a week ago when I had a dream about a friend, someone I hadn’t seen in nearly ten years. Oddly enough, I was awakened from that dream to my phone ringing, and it was him. I feel that I have been dreaming of him for months now, the song he sang in my dreams, it was familiar. I ran the melody in my mind across some of Dennis’ recordings, and there has been nothing of the sorts that are familiar. It’s something that I wrote for my friend in my dreams. Freaky, huh? His phone call was simple: He wants to see me at the end of this month and the beginning of next, maybe over Christmas, like we did before. Before I could stop and think about it, I quickly replied, “That part’s over,” as I sat up in the bed. “What part?” he asked. “You know,” I replied. This wasn’t just a teenage fling that kept me busy when I was eighteen and nineteen years old. This was the man who introduced me to the world of heroine. This was the man who refused it himself, but had an endless supply for me. Me and the other woman.
The other woman was his other official girlfriend. We were both racing to get pregnant. Not me so much, since I knew I already was when I started fucking him, but I was more in it to fuck him every day, sometimes multiple times per day, just to keep him too exhausted to screw her when I left. He lived in the sam apartment building my mother and I lived in back in the Louisiana days, and I was still upset over losing Peter. Without a second thought, I started taking guitar lessons from him. His father had been famous in the 1970′s, and I was an eager student. I did what I could to tempt the lesson to be over so I could have that sweet poison and then sex. I wanted both endlessly, but had to stop at nine at night to scurry back to my apartment with my mother, before she got home from work. I never expected him to remember me, but he has. Ten years ago, we met up in his homeland, and yes, screwed again. I didn’t turn down the drugs or the sex, whenever he offers it, even though I know that I no longer need his “love” as a crutch. Needless to say that the other woman got pregnant. I was further along, and told him the baby was his, though I had slept with four other men before him, and knew I was pregnant before I met him.
Weeks went by, and my mother soon found out. I was shipped away to live with my father for the baby’s birth, and lost my friend in the shuffle of the bigger city life. My days were spent grabbing up college credits and fixing computers in a local high school where my father taught during the day, and I soon forgot my friend. When I threw out half of my life two years ago, I chucked the letters and photos I had that been sent from him. He believed the baby I had had was his. He had called me several times when I married Dennis six years ago, and I always was too busy to take the call. The Biz is really a small network, when you think about it, and subtract the fans. When your crack whore gets married to another crack whore, and has a couple of kids, while wanting just one more, word gets around. This man was no exception. He tried to get into our wedding, once with an invitation and once without, and he was refused at the door. Realising what a mistake I had made in inviting him and his wife, I put him on the banned list, that he shared only with Billy, and we had a smooth wedding, living happily ever after.
Only that’s not the way it’s been.
When he called me that sunny Sunday morning, it was to ask not only if I was coming to see him this year, but for his forgiveness. He said he knew what he was doing when he made me into an addict. He said he was lonesome and scared of dying alone, so he reeled in two women to live with him and compete for pregnancy. He asked how his “first born” was. I bluntly told him that she had died some three years ago of cancer, and she wasn’t his daughter. While he had Scandinavian good looks, she was more Greek-ish, with brown hair, brown eyes and olive skin. I often wonder if the wrong twin got me knocked up. Dennis and his brother were famous for that, switching women with each other. I often wonder if my boys will do the same thing when they start dating.
We chatted for some time, and he left me with that trail that I hate: “Sorry that I ruined your life and made you hate me.” The line was then dead. Um, fuck you? You didn’t ruin my life, I did. I knew what could happen when I took that first hit. I knew I was going to become a slave to the injections of the hot liquid (he had a glass syringe he melted everything in), to the feelings of being incredibly sexy and having a male not only go all the way with me, but want me more than once, and what I assumed was crave me. I didn’t mind the other woman, she was merely a competition. Someone I knew that I could beat because I had the upper hand before the game had already started. He told me that he had every intention of marrying me, but that I slipped away, and he had to marry her because she was pregnant with his child. My turn to snort. “You don’t have to marry someone because you knocked them up,” I replied, already perched at my perpetual place, googling as fast as my fingers could type and my computer process.
One of the plus points of having well-known friends is that there is almost always something about them on the web. Reading through his page, I read that he had several (aka: a dozen or so) kids with the other woman and she had left him. Hmm. Wonder why. When I questioned him about this, he said it was because he wanted to make up for that mistake he made years ago. “She wasn’t a mistake,” I replied. “Oh no, I meant losing you,” he quickly replied. I’m sure that was his original intention.
We talked for a few more minutes, and then Chloe came into the room asking if we could go outside, and I agreed. I told him that I was going to have to go for now, but that I would talk to him again. He mumbled his “you hate me” speech, and that irritated me. I’ve felt that I need to call him or otherwise get in touch with him, if nothing more than to drill it into his head that I am not a hating person. Doesn’t matter what mistakes people have made that have caused me severe life changing events, I can’t hate the person. I can hate the situation, that is fine. People weren’t meant to be hated.
For the past week I’ve wondered if he was suicidal. I made excuses for what went down years ago, and then I metaphorically kicked myself for thinking that way. I thought about bringing this up in group therapy, family therapy, or one-on-one, but I can’t do it. I just can’t vilify someone I once cared about.
Coming home from another Premiere with Dennis, I told him that I was happy that our life turned out the way it has. I don’t know where that came from, but I really meant it. At least we’re not my ex, calling a desperate fling in hopes that someone will still talk to them. Dennis has been severely depressed since before our anniversary. I think my getting upset caused some of that. I apologised for it almost immediately when I went back over my notes from therapy. I can’t vilify Dennis either. He has his moments, but it’s me that chooses to be hurt or to harp on things. Let them go. Just let them go. The words I whisper to myself several times during the day, as I’m scribbling in my notebooks, or when I am conversing with someone whom I have unresolved conflict with. I wonder if they remember the conflict they have with me? I know it’s not so easy to let things such as that go, but I can hope that no one hangs onto things as I do. Perhaps that is why my mind is never clear. I used to celebrate meaningless anniversaries when I was a child and a teenager all the time. They mean nothing to me now, but then they were my entire week.
Watching the celestial sky for the Leonids, I silently hoped that my ex was not suffering, physically or mentally, where ever he was. I hoped that Dennis could kick the depression that he was going through and that he did not dwell on the words that I spoke so carelessly just a month ago. I thought of the offer he had run past me, and I really wished I could go back and agree. I wanted to do this now. I wanted to go out there and face the shore wall, just one more time before it washed away the last places that I thought I’d always be able to see again. I wanted to do that so badly, but I had declined and now someone else has my place on the trip. Dennis is devastated that I am not going, as if those summers were just a waste of time to me then. They were not. They were not meaningless. I remember living out some of my happiest memories there.
When I spoke coming home, Dennis was reading a paper from Geoff. He barely looked at me when I spoke. I was driving. I said I wanted to make it up, and he replied that my place had already been taken. My first thought was to threaten to run off with my ex to some exotic place up north for the winter, but I realised how foolish that would be. Did I really want to be the mother who abandoned her children because their father was driving me up a wall? Did I really want to be the wife that turned her back on her husband and rushed back into the arms of an abusive ex, whose intentions may just to be to get me close and inject me with poison and lies once again? Since when do I run from my problems?
After the Premiere, Dennis said we had to take one of his friends home. I was glad for that, since most of his friends and I do not get along. He handed me a paper bag of my medicine that we had picked up from the pharmacy before the Premiere, and gave me a long, tight hug. It felt as though the hug was fueled by despair, sadness. I started to ask what that was for, when he pulled away and said, “Please don’t be fucked up on those pills when I get back. Please?” He wasn’t asking me. He wasn’t telling me. He was begging me. I gently pulled away and walked into the house. I’m sure he watched me go. Dumping the medicine bottles out on my desk, I saw what was in the mix. My old poisons. I put them on the shelf with my other medicines.
It was after nine at night before Dennis came home. I heard him walk down the hall and check the bedrooms, when I was sitting in the living room; he had walked right past me. Upon finding me, he just stared for a few seconds. “All the pills are in their bottles. I didn’t take any,” I said. He immediately smiled and once again, I got that long hug. This time, though, it seemed that the hug was fueled by something different. Relief, happiness. Love, perhaps.
I got an email from someone I put on the hosting server tonight. I accidentally set up their WordPress so that their author name on their blog linked back to the email address they picked out when they signed up for hosting. They threw a class ‘A’ fit, telling me that I suck as a host and as a software installer, all from the website we are hosting for them for free. After a few emails back and fourth, they said the reason they were mad was because now “everyone” was going to know that email address, including every SPAM bot in the world, and if I were a better host, I would have known that and not made it public. I directed them to their free stats we provide for them and showed them only two people had ever visited their domain in all its existence — me from my computer and from my phone to see if the mobile theme plugin worked, and them when they got the email that their site was set up. No one else had been to the site. I corrected the mistake, and there was no need to unlock the “unlimited email addresses” on their account. Yet. We normally do that after the person has been with us for six months. If they’re still a customer, or in this case a free user who has used their domain for three to six months and not abused the account(s), then we open the unlimited email addresses. Apparently that wasn’t good enough, and more drama went down, with the last contact from them stating that they were going to contact “my boss” and get my entire site shutdown for “invading their privacy.”
What the fuck…?
Why do all the crazies come to me? Especially late at night when I’ve been up all day and I’m tired and just want to go to sleep? At this point, I was main-lining RedBull and sleep was going to be my reward for a job well done.
Even though I was triple assured by Josh that there was nothing going to be done against me, I am still high strung and a little upset. I’m on edge from the three cans of RedBull I drank over the last two hours, and my brain closed up shop after the first can. I know I’m not thinking rationally, and dealing with another shit head on the web who wants to censor me because I made a simple mistake, is the last thing that I needed. To be fair, normal people usually want an email address displayed on their blog. They usually email me back and ask if I can edit the theme or widget to put up a “mailto” clickable link.
Just another night. It’s over now. I can go to sleep.
The colder weather has been bothering me somewhat. Today was the first day of the season that I was able to get out my wool pea coat and wear it somewhere other than tied around my waist to bring in the mail. I’m actually thin enough to button the damned thing now! Go me!
On second thought, maybe I should have picked to do paper work tonight. Let the guys deal with the customers and crazies.
I can only describe this past week with one word: Awesome. That’s something that I never thought that I would use to describe an entire week by.
A week ago, I was in observation at a psychiatric hospital. I was put on some new medications and I was allowed to walk to the car waiting for me outside the building. Unfortunately, Trevor has been here all week, and I don’t want to deal with him, so I have avoided him like the plague, and spent some time listening to Dennis’ songs so that I don’t have to think about Trevor.
I was let home on Monday. By Tuesday evening, I managed to walk to the dining room and eat supper with my family. On Wednesday afternoon, Billy and I had The Talk. We both knew it was coming for a long time now. We apologised to one another for the past eight years. I confessed that I still loved him, as a family member, and he was always welcome at our home. He confessed that he was fully conscious when he beat me up, and said he didn’t expect me to ever forgive that. I said I forgave him. The conversation ended with smiles, laughter and the classic “I forgive you” hug. I finally feel that I can talk to him again. That we’re back to where we were in 2001. Billy says he feels the same.
Thursday, I was able to drive around town, and saw where Dennis is having a home-grown show this coming Friday. He never said anything to me about this, but I bought a ticket anyway. It’s in a small club, so I know I can get a good seat. When I asked him, he denied having a show, and I checked; it’s not on his band’s website. I wonder why all the secrecy? Why lie to me? I’ve never understood why people feel the need to lie to me. I’m not the police. I’m not going to smear them in a national newspaper. Hell, I don’t even have access to a heavy traffic website that I can spread the news on. So why lie to me? When I find out that someone has lied to me, I drop them immediately. I walk away from them, cut all ties. I don’t care to have liars in my life, because if they will lie about one thing, they will or they are lying about another.
I have follow-up therapy on the 28th, and Harvest Moon is on the 30th. So it seems that I am going to have another awesome week next week as well. Or I hope that I am. We’ll see how it all goes. Still, I am excited to be getting out, getting well, and on that road to recovery.
I was hired full time at the University as the Forensics Professor in the spring, but my benefits kick in in October, so in mid-October, I will be able to get back on getting my teeth fixed, get some medical work done, and hopefully start to really recover.
Hope everyone has a good weekend! Smile! I insist!