Breaking Up is Good to Do.

A friend of mine recently had a breakup, and it got me thinking about my own splits. There were far too many of them. They all took longer than they should have due to my intense phobia of hurting other people, even when the other person was hurting me in every way possible. I wasted so much time trying to be the "good" person, all the while being hurt by the "bad" person I couldn't seem to leave. The pathetic thing is that I kept on dating "bad" people - I just didn't friggin' get it. It took a Large Concentrated Dose of therapy and trustworthy friends/family to get my head on straight, and now I'm married to the man who fills me with joy every day. Every DAY, people! That's a goddamn miracle in my life. It may not sound like much, being happy, but after twenty four years of suicidal thoughts /attempts, twenty years of eating disorders and more than twenty shrinks, being happy was as foreign to me as being healthy.

My man and I met in high school. He hung out with the guy every (other) girl wanted: tall, blonde, dimpled and gorgeous. I became friends with that guy for one reason: to get to my man. My incredibly hot Korean with a hobby cv that reads like an action flick. The one with the low-rider Volkswagen (it was as juxtaposed as you think, trust me). The one who never, ever let me down, except when he dumped me, but hell - we were teenagers. After a few years of whatever, we got back in touch and stayed good friends over the next decade plus through my divorces and rifts and his few relationships. I had a horrendously bad breakup a few years back and he was there for me, yet again. He'd listen to me talk about my life, my mistakes, my regrets, and encourage me. Hope for and, eventually, with me. There he was, after sixteen years, still with that smile that slays me. And here he is, still, working his hot ass off to put food on our table. Pushing himself harder after a sixteen hour day so that he can cook dinner for me since I can't walk presently. He does everything for us, and he loves me, and that is my joy.

I wish I hadn't been so fucking idiotic for so long, but you know what? I wouldn't be who I am if not for those years and years of Stoopid. They made me who I am, and I like me these days. I even like my body, which is close to another miracle, and that includes the pain and tears that it brings me. There are still days when I catch myself fantasizing about my old razors or pills, but I'm strong enough now to think of something else. Something worth living for. Someone worth living for - and that someone is me. Sure, it helps to have this miracle of a man in my life, but I learned before we became a couple to love myself. Not long before, but hot damn - what a revelation! I didn't have to hate myself, I didn't have to cut or take pills or exist on a spoon of rice per day. I didn't have to do anything that was bad for me and no one could make me.

"No one can make you feel inferior without your consent." Eleanor Roosevelt said that, and it's so true! I swear on my nose, it's the most true thing I've ever heard. I gave so many people silent permission to scare me and hurt me and break me, and when I stopped doing that, I lost a large chunk of people who I'd thought were my friends. Turns out they just liked the idea of a doll they could dress up and manipulate. Well, folks, I am no one's marionette anymore, and I'm relieved to be rid of those shitty people.

And again, I wouldn't be this strong person if I hadn't been weak for so long. So thank you, horribly cruel and sickeningly controlling people: you contributed in making this capable and enduring woman.

Babbling

I'd like to blog here more often, I really would. The reason I don't is that I don't have much to talk about. I could tell you about the episode of "The Golden Girls" that I watched the other night, or the knee pain that woke me up, or the latest chapter of the book I'm reading, but they are equally insipid. Not much happens around here. There is no commute for me, no coworkers to interact with, no random stranger's smiles while grabbing my lunch. In many ways, I miss having a job to go to each day. I felt somehow more...well, more. Not to say that I am less now that I can no longer work. I am more of an artist, thanks to the opportunity to hone my skills and discover new ones, which means thanks to my disabilities. Yeah, you read that - thanks to my disabilities.

My therapist always asks me what my pain is telling me. That it has a message, or else it wouldn't be so loud. I'll admit, I used to kind of brush the question off, telling myself that my pain has no message, it just screams unintelligibly on a constant basis (much like my ex husband was doing, the first time I saw him as a teen). Lately, I've been really trying to listen for something clear, some idea of what my pain wants of me. I've tried to meditate when the cacophony was at a lower level, I've had herbal teas to calm my spirit a wee bit, I've painted with my eyes closed, but clarity, I have none. All I know is that the levels of pain I've experienced in the past week are unprecedented.

Recently, I began going to water therapy; it involves getting into a 4 foot deep pool and walking around it, swinging my legs or arms, and other low-impact exercises. My rheumatologist suggested it and I was so excited! The opportunity to lose some weight, tone my body and strengthen my muscles? Awesome! The reality, however, is that something went wrong, and now there is a new and Very Loud Pain in my right knee. Have you ever experienced one baby crying, which triggers other babies to cry as well? That is what happened to my body. First the new knee pain, then the back pain, then the wrist pain (this has taken me several hours to type), and so on and so forth. Waking in the night from a strangled scream is not a fun way to pass the wee hours, and doesn't allow for the kind of restful, deep sleep my ol' bones so desperately need right now. The upside of this is that I've had plenty of time to snuggle with the cat, and, since I can't actually cook meals, my husband is learning how to be a vegan, gluten-free chef of sorts. His work schedule doesn't allow for a lot of time together, though, so for the most part I'm gimping solo here, but we make it work.

There was a point to this post, but damned if I remember what it was. What I do know is that, no matter how loud and cranky my pain gets, I still have my art, my heart, my husband and my hope.