New Year
Goodbye 2019. I wish I could say it’s been fun, but you were a year of change, of catalysts, of pain and of balance stolen. We almost had it all.
The first half of the year feels like a terrible mix of effort and failure. The second half felt like a nightmare. Why can’t I wake up and find myself again? Why is the reflection in the mirror so unfamiliar?
I look at her, dark circles at the corners of her eyes, hair longer than I’ve seen in decades. A paleness that hadn’t been there before. More fine lines, signs of aging. She looks haunted, with a deep sadness in her eyes where light used to be. She looks tired.
Who is this? There’s no way that’s me. Me who began the year with so much hope, so much ambition. So much joy. The polycule had issues, but we were strong. So strong. Now broken, now empty and a shadow of what once was hovers over us all like a dark cloud. It never stops raining, the sun doesn’t shine on the corners of my heart any longer. I am tired.
And what of those who offered help? In whom I trusted to help bring justice? I’ve been ousted from the community I had so deeply been involved with and loved. I stepped back, and then realized I could not trust. I could not believe that abuse was met with silence. That what had been brought to the light faded without an ounce of recourse. I had promised to protect the community and I had done my part. And now I pay the price for coming forward, the price too often given those of us who try to challenge what shouldn’t be allowed.
To be treated as inconvenient until I give up or the issue fades into the background. How angry I have been all these weeks, these months. This year. My faith is the only thing to be challenged.
Were I less of a woman I would go on a mission to gain as much social currency as humanly possible, and then become a complete asshole. Who would stop me? Who would stand? Who would dare defy me despite my worst actions? No one.
But I am not that woman. I have and always will hold myself accountable, to a higher standard. I don’t need reminders to rise. To tap into my larger, forgiving self that wants to help.
So much anger and hurt.
And that is barely the frosting on this cake of pain.
How angry I have become that my husband and his girlfriend split ways. How he promised he had changed from who he was, developed and evolved and grown from the boy who was resistant to change. From the boy who had strung me along for six years from his fear of commitment and his “if it’s not broken, no need to fix it” mentality. How he had sworn if he was given half a chance he would travel back in time and rectify it.
But when faced again with this option, when given the chance with another woman, it was back to old ways. Old ruts. Old fears. She wanted to plan a future. A future he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, commit to. Her son called him “dad”, and he allowed it. He fostered the idea that there could be more, but when put to the test he faltered. He did not want the future everyone else did, and when asked to discuss it, he only stuck to his own vision. Was this the start of the worst of it then?
And before I could process this ending of the polycule and try to move on, he was with someone new. Someone with whom we had been friends, but I was not prepared to take on a metamour. How ironic. But I have always spoken of being able to after a period of mourning. Of moving on with hope where his was filled with doubt and stubborness to change.
And then, one cool evening in November, it all came to a head for me. I found myself sleeping in my car in a vacant mall parking lot, shivering and alone in the middle of the night. My world had come crashing down around me, and what had once brought me joy now cut so deeply that I could only bleed the grief of losing it all.
I admitted my defeat that night, and that my strength was gone. I had fought valiantly on the battlefield of 2019, and it had brought me to my knees. Then in the final act it raised the sword and sank it deep into my heart.
The next morning found me in the hospital, discussing plans for mental treatment. Work released me for at least two weeks and with the first burdens gone I could breathe a little. But already I dread the return.
How do I explain how consumed I am in my personal life? How my professional life sin’t my dream? How I have put my true dreams on hold and find now that I am stuck in and endless cycle of this rat race with no feelings of accomplishment? Only dread.
I don’t hate my job, but the absence of fulfillment is just one more area I struggle to get through. “It could be worse” I tell myself as I walk in every morning. But it could be better as well. I could feel like I matter and like I care. Like I’m doing what I was meant for and not just earning a check to be swallowed in the endless cycle of bills.
Long hours, abusive clients and painful bites are my new legacy. Gone is the time I had to spend on myself, on perusing the dreams I have. Of even trying to live the life I see for myself.
With the aggressive campaign to get my mind back came realizations. Painful ones about what I have allowed, and where I am flawed.
Dependent personality. Two words written on a paper of acronyms that stand out like a warning.
I didn’t want to believe it, and it took a while to sink in. It took sitting in a pub trying to have lunch with my husband to hear it. “You can’t even afford an apartment on your own. I could put the truck on your shoulders and if you fail, you fail. The truck is gone.”
“Everything you have, you have because of me” floated in the air between us unsaid but understood. He had pulled that trigger. And he wasn’t wrong. I am dependent upon him to live life as I have been. Now what? He had gone for blood, for my remaining esteem. The truck, the first sliver of independence I had was his target. He knew where to hit, and he did not pull the punch. He could not offer a utility, he could not offer a chance to learn. Only pass or fail. Only the exact fear I have had since I watched all of my belongings repossessed 17 years ago. 17 years ago when my first husband took all of my hard earned money and spent it on another woman until I was destitute and standing before a judge begging mercy for my debt. The judge granted me bankruptcy and I would never again allow myself to be so vulnerable.
Time passed and I had nothing in my name. Whatever my husband could not carry I did not have. A shared car in his name. Bills all in his name. Even the bank accounts. I wanted nothing in mine, nothing that could be taken forcibly as had been in 2003. Back on a cold winter day when I stood in snow as my truck, my car, my boat and my snowmobiles were loaded onto wreckers and taken away while I struggled to understand. All these things were shiny, well taken care of and loved. Things I had worked for, had earned for, had broken my back for. I had sat in pride in the offices of men who determined I was capable. And now, barely three years after these beautiful testiments to my hard work resulted in brand new recreations, they were taken. I was powerless.
8 months later I was standing in bread lines, and soon after my family and I were evicted from the farmhouse we had lived for almost 30 years. I was forced into rebirth. Into grief and then self closure. I remained haunted.
The fear overwhelmed me when the words left his mouth. He knew what that all meant to me. What it was to lose it. The shame and guilt, the absolute terror at the thought of loss on such a level again.
Years ago it had been the threat of eviction. When I told him to stop using that, to stop saying that when it was only his way of expressing his financial worries, he did listen. But that didn’t stop the lectures, and it clearly didn’t stop him seeking one of the most painful spots of my past.
That wasn’t even a week ago. And now my anger boils over. I struggle to find my voice, to put it all into words that so easily flow in letters on a keyboard but that flee when it comes to speaking.
Who am I? What am I without the man who has given me everything and that I now discover keeps a tally. Held it over my head? What now?
What now, 2020? How much further can I sink? What more can you take from me?
The first half of the year feels like a terrible mix of effort and failure. The second half felt like a nightmare. Why can’t I wake up and find myself again? Why is the reflection in the mirror so unfamiliar?
I look at her, dark circles at the corners of her eyes, hair longer than I’ve seen in decades. A paleness that hadn’t been there before. More fine lines, signs of aging. She looks haunted, with a deep sadness in her eyes where light used to be. She looks tired.
Who is this? There’s no way that’s me. Me who began the year with so much hope, so much ambition. So much joy. The polycule had issues, but we were strong. So strong. Now broken, now empty and a shadow of what once was hovers over us all like a dark cloud. It never stops raining, the sun doesn’t shine on the corners of my heart any longer. I am tired.
And what of those who offered help? In whom I trusted to help bring justice? I’ve been ousted from the community I had so deeply been involved with and loved. I stepped back, and then realized I could not trust. I could not believe that abuse was met with silence. That what had been brought to the light faded without an ounce of recourse. I had promised to protect the community and I had done my part. And now I pay the price for coming forward, the price too often given those of us who try to challenge what shouldn’t be allowed.
To be treated as inconvenient until I give up or the issue fades into the background. How angry I have been all these weeks, these months. This year. My faith is the only thing to be challenged.
Were I less of a woman I would go on a mission to gain as much social currency as humanly possible, and then become a complete asshole. Who would stop me? Who would stand? Who would dare defy me despite my worst actions? No one.
But I am not that woman. I have and always will hold myself accountable, to a higher standard. I don’t need reminders to rise. To tap into my larger, forgiving self that wants to help.
So much anger and hurt.
And that is barely the frosting on this cake of pain.
How angry I have become that my husband and his girlfriend split ways. How he promised he had changed from who he was, developed and evolved and grown from the boy who was resistant to change. From the boy who had strung me along for six years from his fear of commitment and his “if it’s not broken, no need to fix it” mentality. How he had sworn if he was given half a chance he would travel back in time and rectify it.
But when faced again with this option, when given the chance with another woman, it was back to old ways. Old ruts. Old fears. She wanted to plan a future. A future he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, commit to. Her son called him “dad”, and he allowed it. He fostered the idea that there could be more, but when put to the test he faltered. He did not want the future everyone else did, and when asked to discuss it, he only stuck to his own vision. Was this the start of the worst of it then?
And before I could process this ending of the polycule and try to move on, he was with someone new. Someone with whom we had been friends, but I was not prepared to take on a metamour. How ironic. But I have always spoken of being able to after a period of mourning. Of moving on with hope where his was filled with doubt and stubborness to change.
And then, one cool evening in November, it all came to a head for me. I found myself sleeping in my car in a vacant mall parking lot, shivering and alone in the middle of the night. My world had come crashing down around me, and what had once brought me joy now cut so deeply that I could only bleed the grief of losing it all.
I admitted my defeat that night, and that my strength was gone. I had fought valiantly on the battlefield of 2019, and it had brought me to my knees. Then in the final act it raised the sword and sank it deep into my heart.
The next morning found me in the hospital, discussing plans for mental treatment. Work released me for at least two weeks and with the first burdens gone I could breathe a little. But already I dread the return.
How do I explain how consumed I am in my personal life? How my professional life sin’t my dream? How I have put my true dreams on hold and find now that I am stuck in and endless cycle of this rat race with no feelings of accomplishment? Only dread.
I don’t hate my job, but the absence of fulfillment is just one more area I struggle to get through. “It could be worse” I tell myself as I walk in every morning. But it could be better as well. I could feel like I matter and like I care. Like I’m doing what I was meant for and not just earning a check to be swallowed in the endless cycle of bills.
Long hours, abusive clients and painful bites are my new legacy. Gone is the time I had to spend on myself, on perusing the dreams I have. Of even trying to live the life I see for myself.
With the aggressive campaign to get my mind back came realizations. Painful ones about what I have allowed, and where I am flawed.
Dependent personality. Two words written on a paper of acronyms that stand out like a warning.
I didn’t want to believe it, and it took a while to sink in. It took sitting in a pub trying to have lunch with my husband to hear it. “You can’t even afford an apartment on your own. I could put the truck on your shoulders and if you fail, you fail. The truck is gone.”
“Everything you have, you have because of me” floated in the air between us unsaid but understood. He had pulled that trigger. And he wasn’t wrong. I am dependent upon him to live life as I have been. Now what? He had gone for blood, for my remaining esteem. The truck, the first sliver of independence I had was his target. He knew where to hit, and he did not pull the punch. He could not offer a utility, he could not offer a chance to learn. Only pass or fail. Only the exact fear I have had since I watched all of my belongings repossessed 17 years ago. 17 years ago when my first husband took all of my hard earned money and spent it on another woman until I was destitute and standing before a judge begging mercy for my debt. The judge granted me bankruptcy and I would never again allow myself to be so vulnerable.
Time passed and I had nothing in my name. Whatever my husband could not carry I did not have. A shared car in his name. Bills all in his name. Even the bank accounts. I wanted nothing in mine, nothing that could be taken forcibly as had been in 2003. Back on a cold winter day when I stood in snow as my truck, my car, my boat and my snowmobiles were loaded onto wreckers and taken away while I struggled to understand. All these things were shiny, well taken care of and loved. Things I had worked for, had earned for, had broken my back for. I had sat in pride in the offices of men who determined I was capable. And now, barely three years after these beautiful testiments to my hard work resulted in brand new recreations, they were taken. I was powerless.
8 months later I was standing in bread lines, and soon after my family and I were evicted from the farmhouse we had lived for almost 30 years. I was forced into rebirth. Into grief and then self closure. I remained haunted.
The fear overwhelmed me when the words left his mouth. He knew what that all meant to me. What it was to lose it. The shame and guilt, the absolute terror at the thought of loss on such a level again.
Years ago it had been the threat of eviction. When I told him to stop using that, to stop saying that when it was only his way of expressing his financial worries, he did listen. But that didn’t stop the lectures, and it clearly didn’t stop him seeking one of the most painful spots of my past.
That wasn’t even a week ago. And now my anger boils over. I struggle to find my voice, to put it all into words that so easily flow in letters on a keyboard but that flee when it comes to speaking.
Who am I? What am I without the man who has given me everything and that I now discover keeps a tally. Held it over my head? What now?
What now, 2020? How much further can I sink? What more can you take from me?
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