Knight with Dented Armor

I once laid next to him, dreamy, absentmindedly.
                     My knight with dented armor.
Our heads swam in thoughts, basked in afterglow.

I  pondered his flesh; his scarred dented armor.
He wore it proudly upon his chest; like medals of war.

Subconsciously I ran my fingers through his chest hair.
Natural, as if his hair were wiry extensions
of my own electrical pulse.
  I always found peace, serenity, … I found home.

My index finger finds the one scar and gravitates towards.
Soft raised patch of skin just above the heart.
Smooth and inviting, juxtaposed against his hair.
My finger gently rubbed circles, repeatedly. 

Clockwise, counterclockwise;
                      patterns equate safety in my mind.

I teased him once, 
cupid’s arrow must have struck him there,
                    (in my head i was sure cupid lead him to me)
We laughed, kissed, slept. 

         I found shelter,  security, … I found home.

Only to awaken to my empty reality; hollow shell.
Alone in my own castle;
guarded by broken mortar, 
jagged, crumbling edges.
     Demons that swam hungrily within my mote.

Now I wonder,
if the scars were battles wounds,
etched permanently,
                 where my demons pierced his soul.

I once had found refuge, quietude, …
                            I once had found home.

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Emotionally immature.

I am broken. I have written about the depths of my depression before. I am not as mature emotionally as someone who has had a healthier life. I don’t know how to love fully, without question, expectations, or conditions. This is what I was raised with. This is my core being. I am an emotionally stunted 38yr old woman.

He broke up with me last night. What started as a couple days of him pulling away turned into a big snowball of emotions, discussion and eventual demise. It spiraled for numerous reason, struggles we’ve been having. I am too emotionally immature and stunted for him. He’s not getting his needs met emotionally.

Just as I had predicted it would. I am completely incapable of love. I am incapable of accepting love. I just don’t know how to be a human. 

He said he needs someone who can “connect” with him on a deeper emotional level. Those are his needs. He told me everything is very “Regancentric”. That it’s been about my needs and emotional state. This was our discussion last night. . 

A month ago, in the middle of my darkest depression, he said to me, “I can be your rock. I can do this for you. Because I can see your core, who you really are in there. When I finally feel secure and open up, he pulls back. He can’t handle it. When I finally feel like I’m in a safe place to process through the pain, hurt and Demons in my head, he says I’m not able to meet him on a deeper, emotional level. That’s what he needs. 

He says that I can’t fulfill my life with him. The worst thing about this is that the abuser was right. No one will be able to love and want me. I’m an emotional wreck. I’m a passenger train of personalities that’s crashed and derailed. Blood, guts and gore all meshing together without any resemblance of the actual person. He was right. I’m too fucked up to love.

He wrote this morning, “Last night wasn’t the culmination of some master plan… I was trying to express myself, my fears and my concerns, and it just snowballed into… disaster. My love for you hasn’t changed. I know you won’t believe that and I’ve no way to express it in a way you can understand.”

He has said today, “..this is unhealthy. We can’t do this anymore.”

This is just a catalyst me for. I have spent last 4 months with someone who told me that I was safe and secure. He promised to show me how to love unconditionally. As soon as I start opening up and really working through what is going on inside me, he pulls back and says that he can handle it said he needs someone more emotionally secure.

He had me believe and trust again. He had me believing in faith again. He had me feeling secure and all of that has been taken from me and I just don’t know if I can trust people again.

Joey put me through a lot. More than I can ever describe in word. The wounds are deep.

My core is still there. I am still a good woman. I am still a good person. I just do not know how to love the “right” way. I don’t know how to be the other half of someone. I don’t know how to act and react. I’m guarded. I’m too surrounded by walls and safety nets. He can’t get past my black and white thinking. He can’t work through my processing of order, labels, neatly tied little boxes that make me feel safe and secure. I sabotaged us, just as I knew I would. Just as I always do.

He has told me over and over again, “It’s a choice. You choose to hold onto your struggles and baggage. You choose to continue to be in a negative mind frame. You make these choices to be unhappy.”

Maybe it is a choice. Maybe this is all a choice. And I’m so used to making the wrong ones. I’m just too broken to love wholly.

Defined.

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 This is a post in regards to the shitty, judgmental, interview I had earlier this week. I wanted to post a big long rant about the whole process, but frankly, I lost steam. It’s not worth it. It’s not worth trying to convince anyone with a negative view about anything otherwise. I lost steam. Sad, isn’t it? To lose steam over something that directly effects me in interviews, walking the street, eating or being out with my boyfriend. I’m judged. I’m fat. Society attempts define my character by my waist size and body mass.  I say smeg off. Simple as that.

SMEG OFF.

I wanted to write a letter. I wanted to defend my right to work, live, breathe … exist on this planet. I wanted to sell myself like a sales person, defining why I would be an ideal candidate for this position. But, do I really want to work for a company that pushes a falsified image, or a “socially acceptable” image over work ethics, experiences, and/or skills? I am a morbidly obese woman, nearing 40, who knows the job. I’ve been working in medical since I was 15 yrs old. I started as a laundry aide, to dietary aide, to RNA , to CNA and finally graduating as an M.A.

I. KNOW. MY. SHIT.

My work ethics, abilities, skills and ability to understand and do the job IS NOT DEFINED BY THE NUMBERS ON MY SCALE. 

 

Evidence of Depression.

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Click the picture to read the article. Or it can be found here:
Evidence Depression isn’t “In Your Head”

I need friends, and those I care about, to read this. This is pivotal. This is so very important when you read a friend’s message, hear a voice mail, anything that indicates they are depressed, not to respond with:

A. But what happened…..?
B. Everything seemed alright yesterday…..?
C. Can’t you just do something to make yourself feel better….?

A. Nothing “happened”. Chemistry and body mechanics happened.
B. Sure, I “seemed” okay yesterday, but my dark episode(s) have been brewing under the surface for days.
C. Sure, I’d love to jump up and do something to make anything feel better than this. But part of the struggle is that depression completely cripples a person.

Suffocating isolation.

This life, it hurts. It hurts on a memory level, to a cellular level, to a joint and body level. This life given to me, hurts every single day I get up. I ache all the time. My body aches, literally. My joints feel like they are rubbing one another raw. My stomach is constantly in a panic, painful mode. My intestinal tract is reactive and angry. . . every other day. I have heartburn from morning until night. But that’s just the physical side.

I have headaches. I have bad dreams, when I sleep. For the most part I don’t sleep. I can’t fall asleep and when I do I wake up an hour later. I blame the dogs, “They had to go pee.” But in reality, it’s me. . . all me. I’m flinchy, jumpy and sad all the time. I cry for no reason, at everything. But mainly, I cry over what my demons tell me over and over again. Believe it or not, the mental side of it is just as painful as a physical side. The exhaustion from fighting alone is worse than the ruins of an exhausted war torn town.

The pain is often called depression. Doctors, family, friends and specialists all have labeled as clinical depression, depression, and in my case “situational depression”.  Catch phrases are tossed around like popcorn seeds in a air popper; “PTSD”, “Hyper-vigilance”, “Fight or Flight”. 

But for me, it’s pain. I hate this life. I hate what’s been “gifted” to me. If this is truly a gift, it’s the worst gag gift given. I get so caught up on the injustices from my youth, teen and early adult years that I have conditioned myself in remaining there. I don’t know how to be fully present with the me today.  At this point.. I don’t even know if I can or want to be ‘fully present’. Why? It’s so foreign, and I’m too old, to try to relearn life.

I try, I really do. I flood my facebook page with thoughts, quotes, and pictures of inspirational quotes and memes. I read articles, daily, from places like Om Times and Tiny Buddha. I try to take it in, process it and figure out how to manifest the “good” in me. My significant other says he can see it in me, he can see my “core” and he knows “the real me” is in there. I’m afraid she’s a serious lost cause, this “me” inside of me. I’ve lived the life of severe, dark depression for so long, that even if she is in there, she’s being totally and completely suffocated out. 

I have hope (maybe it’s stupidity, but I’d like to consider it hope) that she really is in there. I can’t keep destroying his life because of my mental illness. I can’ t keep allowing my breakdowns to govern his emotions too. It’s unfair. He truly deserves a woman who is more present, calm, happy and there for him when he needs it.  I’m a stupid naive woman if I thought I was even remotely ready to be in a relationship.

I’m far too broken. At 38yrs old, my broken edges have rubbed down to a poetic smoothness that can no longer be reunited with one another. My broken edges no longer fit like a puzzle piece, sharp corners meeting sharper corners. Maybe if someone stepped in when I was a teenager, or preteen, things would have been different. But this, this is who I am. 

My world is very black and white. There are no shades of gray. This is comfort to me now. This is where I reside. I don’t know how to stop fighting it, break free from it and get healthy. I just don’t know anymore. 

Accept Love.

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Three very important things, somewhat cathartic incidents happened tomorrow. (I originally meant to write, “Two very important, somewhat cathartic, incidents happened yesterday.” But accidentally typed tomorrow. As if it was some kind of prophetic psychic slip. Ironically, three important things did happen “tomorrow” which was yesterday. So, I left it as I typed it.)

Three things summed up:
Accept Love.
Illusions.
The Dash.

I haven’t talked to my mother in years. I cut her out of my life, due to her negativity, two years ago. We have taken steps to reconnect again. This reacquainting comes with a lot of fear, worry and panic. We have done this dance before. We have worked through this very thing. We have discussed and forgiven. But the anger always comes up again. Always. I’m trying to work through the fear of unknown. The fear of anticipation that this is going to happen again. We talked about relationships, domestic violence, and love. After the end of our conversations, the phone had been disconnected, I was sitting on the porch processing actually holding a conversation with my mother. A text came through breaking my thoughts.
Accept Love.

Two words. Two powerful, impacting words. From my mother. The very one who fought the love process her whole life. The very one who set me up for failure in accepting love openly, unconditionally… accepting. To be honest, I’m still trying to process through this. I have no clue how to openly and earnestly accept love. If those two words did anything, they educated me on my inadequacies in this regard.

Illusions. The new love in my life has been reading a book to me whenever we have down time, prior to bed, etc. “Illusions” by Richard Bach. There were two quotes that kicked me in the stomach. I’m going to share in this moment is,
“If you argue for your limitations they are yours.”

My inability to put down my torch of anger, fear, panic, and worry… my “limitations” keep them leashed to me. I argue in defense, their defense, my defense. I argue. I defend their right to be apart of me. I was an abused child, unwanted and unloved. I grew into a lonely, depressed woman who has a hard time accepting love, internalizing it and allowing it to flow freely.

“There is no such thing as a problem without a gift for you in its hands. You seek problems because you need their gifts.”
This one, I’m still conflicted over. This one I’m still processing. But it has hit me, really hard.

Finally, “The Dash.” I watched a movie with my guy and his family. It’s called, “The Angriest Man in Brooklyn.” It was Robin Williams’ last movie. An angry man, embittered towards life. He finds out he has a very short time to live due to a brain aneurysm and proceeds to head out to correct his relationships. Quotes… that struck me

“Anger is the only thing they left me. Anger is my refuge, it’s my shield. Anger is my birthright!”

“It’s not the dates that matter, it’s the dash between them” In discussing dates on his tombstone, he says this.”

All of this compiled together, I am not the healthiest person mentally. I don’t know if I am too far gone to rectify and live the life “The Dash” implies. Happy. Unafraid. Genuine. Sincere. Happy. 

I’m afraid I’ll forever live a life where I’m sabotaging myself and my happiness. I am tired. This war with myself is exhausting. From my cellular level to my surface, I’m exhausted. I just don’t know how to put those torches down. I don’t know how to let go. Everyone says, “Let Go.” But no one, ever, tells me how to. 

How does this all play into my new relationship? I am not equipt with the ability to be present, fully for him in his time of needs. If he comes to me with a concern, a problem, something that has triggered him emotionally… I can’t let go of my pain to be fully present for him. This was brought to my attention last night. 

This will be our demise, I’m sure of it. My inability to love unconditionally, love fully, and accept love unconditionally. I’m a hostage to my problems. I am being held hostage by my perceived limitations, my inadequacies. I’m afraid I will never be the woman he needs, in his time of needs, because of my baggage and shit.

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My troop of weird.