guilt

Blogging makes my heart break

Blogging has been difficult for me this year. Within six months I’ve lost two close friends. Ulla (Blahpolar) died in September 2016, and Johnna (Painkills2 from All Things Chronic) earlier this year. Johnna played a significant part in supporting me through my grief over Ulla’s passing.

Johnna and Ulla were active and involved blogger.s Their avatars were everywhere. Their part in my life has made me a better person. And now they’re gone. And as life evolves and changes, it seems the ‘old crowd’ has scattered to the wind. I open up WordPress and feel the impact of those departed – the ones that faded quietly away never to return, the friends who kindly bid farewell as they moved on with life. And then the dead. Nothing is the same anymore and the bloggosphere feels so foreign and empty. I don’t adapt well to change. And I form attachments very quickly. While I have since made wonder new friends and know there are plenty of new friends to be made, loss is still so fresh that right now, I’m not sure what direction I will take with my blog.

Not to mention I can barely keep up with following everybody else. I feel so guilty. That I’m not present, reading and interacting like I used to. Life doesn’t leave me with too much spare time. There’s work, which is a mammoth undertaking, exhausting keeping up and avoiding mistakes because of my poor memory. Since my L5 lumbar spinal surgery, its difficult after a full day of sitting at work, to come home and sit and blog. I’m not a laptop-lying-down kinda person. And then there’s my bipolar personal management plan I try so hard to keep to – routine, vigilant for triggers and combating them, lots of sleep etc. Its hard work trying to be healthy.

Stay, go, limit interaction, change the purpose of my blog. I’m not sure. But when I figure things out, you’ll be the first ones to know. In the meantime, know my friends, I love you all and will do the best I can for now.

Unwanted reflections

Loving an active alcoholic involves, amongst other things, a lot of anxious anticipation.

The apprehension of waiting for the impending unravelling. The fear of the dreaded PHONE CALL – that they’ve been arrested, been killed/injured in a car accident or *deep breath* have killed someone else on the road. The waiting for the inevitable ‘other shoe to drop’. The ever-present foreboding of their unpredictable behaviour and abuse.

The prospect of hope based on their declarations that ‘this time is different’. But having to live in constant caution against hoping too much, because lies and disappointment always overshadow their promises and declarations.

believe - themetapicture-com

Source – themetapicture.com

 

Lover the Loser hated to see or hear me crying. Just as with my Alcoholic Ex. Tears incited anger. I wonder if my tears were a mirror of their failure. If my tears were tangible evidence of the consequences of their behaviour. And I have to wonder if that is why neither one of them has ever tried to contact me after parting ways. I can only assume they are immensely relieved that the mirror has gone. No longer are they faced daily with a reflection of their shame, their guilt, their inability to live an undiluted life.

Perhaps it’s not that I’m unwanted. Perhaps it’s merely a case of not wanting to face themselves each day reflected in the mirror of my tears.

broken-mirror

It’s not personal

Nobody knows for sure, but I’ve been told they think he left on the bus to Cape Town at 10am today. I should be relieved. I should be happy he’s gone and will soon be someone else’s problem. But I can’t break through these feelings of guilt and being abandoned, left behind, deserted. Unwanted. It’s a choking, physical pain.

__broken___by_emerald_eden

love fuckin’ hurts. i want to wash away the memories (pic)

I’m trying to tell myself its not personal. He’s just a thief and a liar, a sick drunk, who hasn’t left me because he didn’t love me, but actually never loved me to begin with. I’m trying to tell myself that he hasn’t left me, but has instead run away. He’s a coward and has run away from his accountability. I’m trying to tell myself that he burned his bridges here in Durban and had nowhere left to run. So he’s run back to Cape Town….. from where he orginially ran one year ago.

I’m trying to tell myself these things. Repeating them over and over in my head. But today it’s not working. For today, I am just unwanted and heart.broken.

But not tomorrow. Tomorrow will try to be different, because he’s taken enough from me already. Throughout this experience, I have come to recognise that this grief and abandonment is far older than my encounter with Lover. It’s been buried and breeding in the wet basement of my soul for a lifetime, and Lover’s actions merely brought it to light.

So it’s not personal. It’s not about him anymore. It’s about me.

your mind already knows

I wish I were a saviour

Save his life? Save my life? Saving one life condemns the other life? The moral conflict is killing me. I can’t eat, can’t sleep, the guilt chokes me. When my mother was at the height of her mental illness, she asked for help and I refused her. She committed suicide 3 weeks later. Granted, she wanted me to help her die….. but if I had helped, she would not have suffered as she did. I didn’t help her and she died a terrible death.

His behaviour has become worse, a dark, rapidly downward spiral. And it is my fault. His blood will be on my hands. Expelling him from the home has added new impetus to his implosion. How do I turn my back to his silent screams?

drowning__by_magggggg-d2xzbuu.jpg - source deviantart

Is he drowning, or am I?

Every minute of every hour of the day and night I’m compelled to phone him and say – come home, I’m sorry, just come home….

But with great force of will, I have to remind myself – this ‘self‘ that is now filled with disgust and shame and loathing at the callous act I forced upon another sick human being; this ‘self‘ that wants nothing more than to reach out in compassion for her fellow sufferer and lift him from harms way. This self knows the simple fact. I can’t fix him, cure him, help him, change him, make him want to change. It’s completely out of my hands. I have no control.

her_hands_are_bound_by_jadelouisewinter-d53pry7.jpg - source deviantart

My hands are tied, I feel bound by helpless

My torment lies in how do I stand idly by watching his demise from my sheltered distance? As a human being, how do I do this? My conscience bears me no peace. I wake frequently in the night wanting to phone to check that he’s safe, still employed or on the streets? Is he still alive?

Alive, yes, for me, it is this precarious.

And then I weep endlessly in sorrow and in helplessness. In fear and in regret. I weep for him, so lost. I weep for me, so guilty. And then always, always when I weep, I weep for my mother. Another lost soul I didn’t help.