divorce

A broken gate brings closure

I’ve had a broken driveway gate for 5 months. I wrestle with this gate day and night and recently broke a good pair of shoes during the tussle. And that is when the gate broke me, and my landlord became the recipient of my bipolar rage. He was right next door and I railed against him and the injustice of my gate, shouting and cursing at the negligence of his responsibilities as a landlord.

It was in this irrational state that I decided this was all my ex-husband’s fault. Say wha’? My applied logic at the time was – I gave him a choice. Stop drinking or I leave the marriage. At the time he just laughed at me and poured another drink. He chose alcohol, not me, so I left. And I was the one that had to leave my home because his parents lived on the property too and it was all just a complicated mess. A choice he made. And a choice that has led me to my current living arrangement – a flat with a broken gate. A gate that made my mind snap. So you see, it was all his fault.

I flew in to work, still raging, dialling his number before even putting my stuff down. I was gonna rant and rave and accuse and blame until….. until….. Until I got some kind of reaction out of him, damnit! He didn’t choose me! He let me go like an unwanted employee. Four years of pent-up anger and rejection was headed his way.

Then the strangest thing happened. We haven’t spoken for almost 2 years, and on hearing his voice my burning fuse…. difused. We talked. I didn’t mention the gate. It was never about the gate, really. I got to ask my question – why did you choose alcohol over me? And for the first time, I got a response

I honestly don’t know why I did. I guess I didn’t realise you were so serious about it…..

And then, he apologised. He said “I’m really sorry”. And it was sincere. As the world melted into the background, I said thank you and cried, and he mumbled and cleared his throat a lot. I’m not religious, but the only way I can describe how I felt is to say, I felt baptised. Years of grimey anger and regret, sadness, guilt washed away. Fear, disappointment, doubt, stripped like a second skin, away in that one moment.

Give up your heart left broken
And let that mistake pass on
‘Cause the love that you lost
Wasn’t worth what it cost
And in time you’ll be glad it’s gone

-Linkin Park – Roads Untravelled

I’ve been given a gift. Ironically a broken gate has brought me closure and with that a great sense of peace and freedom. And hope? My beloved, lifesaving Hope has returned. AND the gate has even been fixed.

yesterday i cried

yesterday I cried. I cried for all the loss, the loneliness, confusion, betrayal and fear. I mourned my pets, both living and dead, that I will never hold again. I wept at the cruelty of my husband. Choosing alcohol, not me, never looking back. My mother choosing death over me. My father never choosing me. I cried for the times I tried to please but brought only disappointment. For my endless failures. Wrong choices, missteps, bad decisions. My body aches with unbeaten sorrow. An unbearable misery that makes me want to claw my skin off my bones. I cry until my beath is short and my vision blurred.

The Cry By. Stèphane Berla on 500px.com

The Cry By. Stèphane Berla on 500px.com

 

Bipolar, I fucking hate you, I silently screamed. I hate that you make everything hurt so much, amplify every emotion to the point of physical pain. You give no answers. All the while feeding me with confusion, betrayal, self-doubt, isolation, anger. You’ve taken so much, how much more do you want from me? Except, maybe for me to give in? Sometimes I wonder why I try so hard. So much time, money, effort, to achieve, what exactly? Because no matter how much medication, therapy, support, its always there, tucked just below the surface, laughing at me, waiting to draw back the curtain of sanity and show the world just how crazy and different and scary I am. It revels in the judgments and the obvious whispers of you don’t belong here and you never will.

But today is yesterday’s tomorrow. It may hold hope. So I put my mask on, try to look my best and carry on with the mundane, like a programmed robot (fixed smile, robot voice “hello, I am fine. Hello, I am fine”)

ANNOUNCEMENT: This episode was brought to you courtesy of the trigger gastroenteritis. Bipolar exploits any weakness.

Mr Ex, the post office and tennis shoe resolutions

. paid a small fortune for my vehicle license today. It’s six months late. I say better late than never (shrugs). Also started the drawnout process of cancelling my landline back at the house I no longer own. Was supposed to meet Mr Ex, hmmm about 2 years ago, to just change the telephone account into his name (yawn). He never pitched. That’s an untrustworthy alcoholic for you – some say ‘if you can’t beat ’em join ’em’. I’d prefer to just beat him….

..queuing in the post office for over an hour in the unrelenting heat, I noticed a company mail box to my left. The long wait was well worth it as I read the company name “PANCHA ASS”. To be honest, there were so many ring tones, alert buzzes and message sonar pings going on all around me, I was getting to the hot and slightly insane point of PANCHA SOMEONE’S ASS…..

SONS boots

.. I caught up on the final episodes of Sons. Keep your panties on, no spoilers. You may not recall my compulsive frustration with Jax’s pristine white tennis shoes. Come what may – shoot-outs, bomb blasts, beatings, his white tennis shoes were always, always clean. Never a blood stain in sight. But I get it now Kurt Sutter. My mind has been put at ease by metaphors of idealism and a gritty reality. Uh well, totally just presuming, or delusional. Pick one, but Kurt Sutter, you are one clever Son of a gun…..

Fathers, ex’s and a very merry christmas

For me, the 25th December 2014 is more about payday than it is about christmas. The office has shut down for the holidays and I have 2 weeks of leave. Ordinary folk would be excited. But as a bipolar stripped of my normal routine, I’m anxious and dread the next 2 weeks.

This will be my 4th christmas alone since leaving my ex-husband. The previous three years I had no problem. I like my own company. But this one is turning out to be difficult. Perhaps because it’s the first christmas we’re officially divorced? Perhaps I’m experiencing the finality of loosing that part of my family, my life?

Honestly, I hated christmas time when I was married to him. Christmas eve, christmas day, the ex’s birthday then new years eve all in one week? Nightmare. All the best excuses for an alcoholic to get ape-shit drunk packed neatly into one week. And I bore the brunt of it. Paid the price for it.

So why so miserable this christmas? Could it be the stand-off with my father? We haven’t spoken since October. He’s sent me prickly text messages. I haven’t responded. I won’t engage. As I stated back then, if I want to draw the line with him, I have to face the consequences. I guess the consequences with both him and my ex are just a little harder to bare over this ‘merry’ season.

Oh well, a therapist would probably say “…..you’ve been discarded/abandoned by the two most significant male figures in your life. Now Merry fucking christmas and settle your account before the new year”.

best friend

PS. All is not lost, woe is not me…. my best friend doesn’t allow me to indulge in self-pity and I’ve an open invitation to her place. Even if I just go there to read and sleep the day away. At least I won’t be alone. And I’ll patch together a new routine… (????) WhateeeVa

Babe is workin’ her issues

My intention with this post was to prove how unsuccessful I would be to date again, considering all my issues. It was to illustrate how inadequate and undesirable I am. An epic failure. The imaginary dialogue took me to a different ending. To a strange place of victory and the birth of a new self-image, possibly? And this is how the story went……

I’ve been on a dating site a couple of times. I’ve noticed a particular curiosity. The majority of men specify they want a woman with “no issues”.

These are grown men who have previous experience with women. Some already divorced from an unhappy marriage or separated from a tumultuous long term relationship. Many remain bachelors and dabble in some pretty serious serial dating. One would think they would have realised a long, long time ago that mostly, women (and men) do have “issues”. There is just no escaping it. It’s what makes us human.

A first date with one of these fella’s plays out in my head:

Hello, nice to meet you, I’m Pieces”

Hey sweetie. Right, let’s get down to business

Oh, well okay, you see I’m not all that bad really….once you get to know me”

I’ve heard that one before. Now get to it. I have another date lined up

Oh, okay. My issues. You insist on full disclosure. Well, I have bipolar”

WHAT?!! Are you one of those ‘schitzo’ types. Are you like, crazy? Unstable?

No, no (lies, lies) I’m not like that at all (more lies)”

Well, you better not be ‘cos I dated a psycho chick once before. She was nuts, a real bitch, threw all my shit out her place one night. Wouldn’t let me drive her car to work anymore (incredulous). Had to take the bus. What a wack-job she turned out to be

Um, okay, well, where was I? Issues, right there’s the bipolar and then I have IBS”

What’s that?

Um its a bit embarassing. I have tummy trouble. I’m sometimes in a lot of pain and there are lots of foods I can’t eat”

Oh shit (get it). So you’re one of those fussy types!

No, not fussy. I have a food allergy. I’m gluten intolerant”

Gluten? WTF? Isn’t is a muscle?”

No. Can I finish talking?”

You mean you have more issues?

Yes, I also have anorexia which I tried to fix, but just because I’ve put on weight doesn’t mean I’m recovered. I’m actually just a fat chick with anorexia. Its left me with severe body image issues”

So–

Sssshhhhhhh (finger to his lips). I was also married to an alcoholic for 15 years. I’ve been abused. My divorce was a mind fuck and has left me scarred. Years ago I was raped. I’ve dealt with an awful lot of trauma which has moulded me into the courageous, colourful, spirited person I am today”

Whoa, okay babe-”

My name is not ‘babe’. I’m not a pig. My name is Pieces”

stares at me with big googly eyes

Now run along to your next date. I’m too good for you”

Now that didn’t go at all as I’d planned! When it first played out in my head I was all – like me, like me, phleeeease like me. I think this may be what’s referred to in professional circles as a breakthrough. I guess I’ve been doing a lot more work on my ‘issues’ than I realised.

I’m dreaming of …. an alcoholic

Today is a public holiday. All I’ve done is sleep. And dream. I can’t keep my eyes open.

I dreamt I was travelling with my husband and all our cats and dogs. We were staying in a B&B up in the mountains. We were injecting drugs. I don’t know what type, he introduced me to it. He was astounded when he asked me how I felt and I shrugged and said “it’s okay I guess”. It was supposed to be euphoric, the best feeling in the world. And I told him probably if I had 2 injections I might feel like that. Both our eyelids were drooping. We were watching TV, sitting separately from each other, but at least there was harmony. Then there was a tsunami that hit the coast. We were making contingency plans on how to get back home once the water subsided. Next thing I was being woken by the B&B owner. My husband had left without me. Taken all the animals and just left me and my stuff. Everything I loved was gone and I had no way to get home. Then I woke up, disorientated and sweating.

As for the meaning? Probably escapism, addiction, feeling overwhelmed and my sub-conscience working through abandonment issues. I have a lot of dreams involving my old marriage and his alcoholism.

I’ve just woken again from another bad dream about a fat, drunk man, a dead puppy and a philharmonic orchestra with a conductor that had a long finger nail on his middle finger that he used to direct the musicians. He winked at me.

I gasped myself awake and decided I needed chocolate. Stat! So I dragged on yesterday’s clothes and headed for the shops. The residue of the dream clung to me while Michael Buble woefully serenaded a sad love song via the store speakers. I felt lost and wanted to cry. Then I got to the check-out. The guy ahead of me reeked of alcohol; I watched 4 youngsters barrel out of a car – they looked worse for wear; even the cashier smelled drunk! WTF! Is today national alcohol day? Or am I still dreaming?

Sigh. Oh joy. But I suppose at least now I only dream about him and the marriage. It’s all behind me now. I’ve left, I’ve done the hard work. I’ll take an upsetting dream over an upsetting reality any day. But, if I’m honest, I still miss him, there is still a hole in my heart. I don’t know why, because he was heartless. Does it ever heal? Or do you just develop a hardened protective layer over the open wound? I dunno.

‘Aint life just fucking grand, hey…..  Sure I’ll feel better tomorrow.

Bottoms up

all that you have consumed has turned to vapours
and as you sleep, the steam of yeast and inhibition
blows through the pores of your skin like a slow puncture
and a liquor mist clouds the ceiling and enslaves me
it scratches my throat and chokes me with your neglect
every night the same ritual to varying degrees of abuse
until it is your maiden and I am forsaken for it’s sake
so take your bottle and drown in its nectar again and again
as I close the door behind me and walk away walk away

Motivation, manscaping and other mysteries

I have no motivation. Perhaps I’ve forgotten where I put it.

…. I’m watching Sons of Anarchy. I’m a fan. There’s only one thing that bothers me though. Jax’s white tennis shoes. How the hell does he keep them so clean? Let’s face it, pristine white. Come on, the guy rides a motorbike, drives along dusty dirt roads and if he’s not involved in some shoot-out or bomb blast, he’s killing someone at close range. But his shoes? Never a speck of dirt or blood. Drives me insane. Wish I could keep my shoes that clean. And I’m just an office worker who’s never kill anyone. And I drive a car…….

…. lately I’ve been getting a sense of finally settling into my new life of singledom/aloneness. I can’t say I have any complaints. I get to eat what I want, sleep in ’til when I want, not shave my legs and everything’s always exactly where I left it……….

…..pretty selfish I know. And they say “it’s a man’s world”? ……..

…. Men. Hmmm. To be honest, I have thought about dating again. It would be nice to have some human interaction. But then I think to myself – ughhhh, if I get a boyfriend I’ll have to wax my whooo-haaaa because according to a documentary I watched today, 80% of males prefer ‘no hair down there’…….

… oh well, here’s my contribution to the statistics – the only percentage-of-men I prefer, are those who have a propensity for piercings and manscaping……….

.. come now motherfucker’s. No pain no gain. It is, afterall, a man’s world…..!

… gosh. I sound a bit man-angry. Maybe I shouldn’t date just yet…………………………………………..

Goodbye sweet suffering

you fathered a daughter later in life
tried for some time with your unhappy wife
she was born to the world amidst some strife
but once she arrived everything was alright

but alas expectations did far exceed
anything that this child could achieve
try as she might with effort to please
nothing she did was well received

from a child to an adult she soon became
morphing to fit someone else’s name
unaware she’d entered the same old game
to please and submit would all be in vain

she lost herself, her mind her soul
the merger it did not go well
for years she tried to fit the role
but never did she feel quite whole

alone she chose to abdicate
surrendering herself to fate
trade what she loved for her escape
the chance to start with a clean new slate

both men did not her sadness see
blind to her loss of family
wrapped up with their own vanity
neglect was such great agony

abandoned and left out to dry
to help your child you did not try
she had no choice and said goodbye
the sad thing is, you don’t know why

Cry me a nosebleed

We’re divorced, the settlement’s been paid, the house transferred. It should all be over, right? Wrong. With my MrX, the alcoholic, there are always loose ends that need tying up. So I had to pick up the phone and sort some financial details out.

Of course it led to a heated argument. You wanted to leave, is his reality. I left because he’s an alcoholic in denial and refuses to get treatment or stop drinking and I lived within an environment of abuse.

You didn’t want me, is my reality. His response is, I may have come home late every night and not been home over the weekends, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t love you. Oh? He loved me? Strange. We were separated for 3 fucking years and not once, NOT ONCE, did he ever pick up the phone to contact me. Forgive me and fuck you, but I certainly don’t call that love.

And to add hurt to misery, he flippantly threw into the conversation “Oh by the way, I had to put Max down”. Max (aka Bonbon), was our oldest, most gentle kittycat. Throught our entire 14 year marriage, my husband never once shared a bed with me because he was comatose, pass-out drunk in the living room. E.V.E.R.Y. N.I.G.H.T. Bonbon slept on the bed with me. That was his spot. And if it was very cold, he’d sneak under the covers to warm up. I know its inevitable. But its never easy. He’s gone and I’m heartbroken, flooded with memories of him, and my other babies I had to leave behind.

I’ve cried so hard I’ve given myself a nosebleed. I know it sounds dramatic and theatrical, but fuck it. I’m bipolar. My feelings ARE dramatic. Deal with it.