I have had enough.

I have been spreading my wings.

No, actually, I have been staking my claim.  On my life.

I have spent an incredible amount of time in my life not rocking the boat.  Keeping my opinions to myself, agreeing to keep the peace, and going along with the status quo even when it really just rocked my core.

Know how well that worked for me?  It landed me in the hospital.

It was that fateful day in the hospital a friendship was born.  Via Facebook and text messages, I reconnected with a friend from high school.  He threatened to kick my ass, because I was being stupid.  I told him to get fucked.  It was destined to be love.

The conversations continued outside the hospital, and progressed from text message to phone calls.  Long phone calls.  Three hour phone calls.  We felt something.  We made plans for me to come see him.

It was as good in person as it was over the phone.  We laughed, we talked till all hours of the night.  it was fun, and easy and perfect.

And then life interfered.  He got busy with family, I started therapy, he got a job, I juggled the girls schedules.  The phone calls stopped, the text messages dwindled.  I tried to keep it going, but it was clear his life was too busy, too crowded for me.

I sent him a text “I’m tired of fighting to be a part of your life.”

He responded with “What’s your problem?”

I sent another text, “You have a life there that I can’t be a part of.  I can’t come see you there, you won’t come here.  You’re busy with family friends and your job.  There’s just no room for me.”

That? Took a lot of courage, on my part.  But what I wonder now is this:  Was any of it real or were the feelings I felt at the beginning due to the mania?  Did I imagine it, exaggerate it because I was manic.  And now that I’m getting my head straightened out, and I’m not as manic or crazy, it’s not as appealing.  I’m seeing it for what it was.

He phoned and called me Babe.  That? Is a gold-plated Get-Out-Of-Jail-Free card.  I’m a sucker for a guy who calls me Babe. And yet?  This time I couldn’t.  This time I knew it was just him trying to reel me back in, but nothing would change.  It’s not like his family would magically disappear, or his job would instantly get less demanding.  I would still be an afterthought, something to squeeze in when he thought about it.

I deserve better than that.

Therapy taught me I have worth.  Even with my disease, I have worth.  That anyone worthy of me will love ME, want ME, and my illness won’t be an issue.

Rigteously Indignant, yup, that's me.

It's the only picture I could find besides a book I didn't want to promote.

Wikipedia defines Righteous Indignation as follows: Righteous indignation is typically a reactive emotion of anger over perceived mistreatment, insult, or malice.

Last night, I swear Rod Serling was writing the screenplay of my life.  I mean, let’s be honest here.  My life has had more than it’s fair share of the bizzaro. (please hover over that link so you can see what I’m talking about if you’re not going to click it and go read it.)

People, some of my best writing is in the notes when you hover over a link.  Please, to get the maximum enjoyment from my blog, hover over the links. (and if it doesn’t work.. let me know. I’ll cut a bitch.)

So, last night.

I was supposed to go to The Lake after dropping the girls off with their dad for the week.  Ok, I *did* go to The Lake after dropping the girls off for the week.

And when I got there, I stepped out of my car and smack dab in the middle of Bizzaro World.

I’m not going to throw anyone under the bus here.  There is a whole lot of stuff going on that I don’t even know. (Like basically everything).  In a sentence, due to everything going on, I was told I had to leave.  Whether it was or was not my fault hasn’t been determined to my satisfaction.  Ok. It’s not my FAULT, but the drama centered around me, and I don’t know why or how, or what started it, or what the hell is going on.  I just know, that everything I thought I knew going into the weekend came into question last night.

Ok.

This morning, I get up (after driving home at midnight last night) and I’m pissed.  Not at anyone specifically, just at the situation in general.  And at not having any clear cut answers.  Which is the very definition of irony coming from me.  So, I send a few text messages, trying to figure out what is going on, where things stand, blah blah blah.

And basically getting my panties in a wad.

Righteously indignant.

I set about writing a blog post screaming at the top of my lungs (ok, posting in a very loud voice) how effing fabulous I am, and how I am awesome with eleventy billion sides of awesome sauce (inflated ego much?  I know, I can barely walk into my own house.) I was all like, Look dude, I got plans, I got dreams, I got a life I want to live, and I ain’t got time to wait around for you to get your shit together and notice how fucking fabulous I am.  (ok, maybe it was a smidge nicer than that, but clearly not much.  Once I get all wadded panties and shit, I go way over the top.  Yes, really.  Have you met me?)

And just as I’m about to hit publish, and just after I sent him a text that said “Your reservation in my life expires at midnight, either confirm it or lose me forever.”

He texts.

And I feel like a total asshat.

 

Best. Picture. Ever.

So, I saved the blog post to my drafts folder.  I scrambled like eggs to look like less of an ass via text message.  In other words, his simple text took me down a few necessary notches.

Sure I’m fucking Fabulous, and all kinds of awesome, but you know what?  I’m not the end all be all of someone else’s life.  Everyone else is busy living their life, dealing with their drama, their issues, their problems.  It’s not all about me.  While I’m on my soapbox preaching “I’ve got dreams! I’ve got plans!  I’ve got a life and I don’t have time for you to figure out if you want to be in it!” he’s living his life, dealing with his drama, navigating the potholes in the road of his own damn fucking journey.

I had to sit down and think about that long and hard… not all about me.  Since fucking when?

I took a step back and looked at this whole thing and thought “Who the fuck do I think I am?” and if I had gotten that text message from him? I’d have said  ci vediamo più tardi  (Italian for see ya later)  or even baciare il mio culo (kiss my ass).

 

Let’s be honest, I suck at relationships.  I’m the perfect girlfriend… on paper.  It’s that real life face to face shit that gets me all jacked up.  On paper, behind a computer screen, I’m awesome.  I can also hide the crazy.  In real life?  not so much.

I have no real ending for this blog post.  Yes, I know, I suck at endings anyway.  Basically there is no ending because there are no answers yet.  It’s just “it’s up to you.  You know what’s going on there, I don’t.  I’ll wait to hear from you.” kind of thing.

 

This is where I draw the line.

It’s been 10 days since I saw Brian and his entire family for who they really are and walked away.   Yes, I know,  I can see the eye rolls out there, the “here we go again” deep sighs, the “When will she ever learn?” questioning looks.

This time?  I walked away.  This time it was my choice.  This time I get it.  I saw what I had been ignoring for years.  I saw him, them, for who they really are and I can’t accept that.  No, that’s not true.  I can accept they are who/what they are.  I can’t accept that into my life.    And so this time, I shut the door.  This time I walked away.  This time I said “I’m done.  I want no part of this any more.”

And that?  Makes all the difference, apparently.

Because there is no nagging doubt, no lingering hope, no strings  left dangling hoping to tie me to him yet again.  This time, it was a clean and final break. Cutting all ties.  Walking away, saying good bye.  Knowing, *knowing* really knowing this time, I’m done.

I am letting go of the past.  I no longer think about ‘what’s he doing today?’  I no longer worry about if he’s at work, or off, of what is happening in his life.  In fact,  have had zero contact with him.

And that, my friends, is peace.

There have been no tears.  None.  He is no longer worth them.  He is not worthy of me.  I am so much better than him, better without him.

Now, that something better.   Right now I believe that something better is just the peace of mind knowing this time, I’m finally done, and this time it’s over, forever, and this is really the best thing I could do.  The letting go, the saying good-bye, the lifted weight,  the freedom to be me without worry.

I live my life now for me.  Without having to answer to anyone but me.

So much so, that last Friday, when I picked up the girls, I drove an extra half hour to have a birthday dinner with one of my girlfriends because she asked, and I had nobody I had to get home to.  Then?  I drove another hour to The Lake, to see a friend I hadn’t seen in years, because I could.

And I had a blast.  I laughed, I relaxed, I played, I enjoyed… all because I could. Because I didn’t have to answer to him, or anyone.  Because I was on my time schedule, not someone else.

It was heaven.

And for a while, all those years ago,  I thought that Brian was The One.  And maybe he was.  Maybe he was The One to teach me Here is the line in the sand.  He is where you stand, this is what you believe, and this, *this* is not negotiable.

That is important stuff to know.

Like the feeling of being wanted, the feeling of being important to someone, the feeling of being special.  And just maybe that friend you haven’t seen in years will be just the person to remind you of that.

My full-on bipolar weekend

I had a bipolar weekend. It was horrible, terrible, angry, sad, mad, awesome, fantastic, party all night, laugh till it hurts, cry till there are no more tears, scream until I have no voice, and everything in between kind of weekend. Actually, it was exactly that weekend.

I ran the full gamut of emotions this weekend. I have been so frustrated for so long about so many things by so many people. And putting voice to those frustrations was getting me nowhere. Nobody was listening or paying attention. I had asked of them, over and over, and still… crickets.

I reached my breaking point. My boiling point. My I-don’t-give-a-fuck-about-the-consequences-I-just-want-to-be-heard point. And so I spewed forth all the frustration and anger and exasperation I have been feeling for weeks now.

And once you let that genie out of the bottle? That bitch don’t know when to quit and get back in the damn bottle.

I was so tired, and frustrated and angry, and feeling unheard, and unimportant, and overwhelmed, and stress, and… and…. Yeah.

Then, after spending an entire day blowing up time after time, I dressed up and went to a party. I got the hell out of dodge, out of my house, away from the anger, the frustration, the fear, the stress, the edge, and I partied. (Thank you company I work for but will not name here, because I do have some small degree of a life that is not spewed all over the internet. But if you live in/around/close to/have driven though St. Louis it’s a name you’d recognize).

I laughed, and ate, and drank, and laughed, and danced, and drank, and laughed, and partied.

All. Night.

And it was fun. I had a blast. And it felt good.

To blow off steam. To leave all the ugly at home, far behind me, for a night, and just hang out with friends. All the ugly would be there when I got home, I could pick it up and carry the stress and the weight and the drama around later. For one night, I was going to let loose, and have fun.

And I did.

The next morning. When I woke up? The drama of the day before was there but the anger wasn’t. The I’m sorry was.

I just needed to blow out the pipes. I needed to left off some steam.  I needed to at least put a voice to all that I had been feeling and all that I was sure was going unheard. The yelling, crying, talking, begging, screaming, stomping day, followed by the drinking, dancing, laughing, partying, having a great time night was just like resetting my emotions, so that I could start over from a fresh place.