One black stain.

Five years. It is amazing how much and how little things have changed. How much I have changed. How I have moved on, and how I feel I have not. My world ended, yet began again. Five years ago, finding out that my ex-wife and best friend was having an affair with my former mentor and close friend, and that she wanted a divorce. Finding out that she was kicking me out of the house that I had just move back to after living out-of-state for the last five years. Finding out that she had been lying to me during therapy sessions, lying and hiding things when I would say, “I think cheating is the worst thing you can do to someone in a relationship.” Feelings and emotions change. Maturity? Society? Biology? Who even cares at this point...I moved from depressed and suicidal to almost downright apathetic. I went from fighting with everything I had in a vain effort to save the impossible and watching from the distance to not even caring. I thought I could not live one minute without her...and now, I couldn’t even give a shit either way. She has since gone on, rekindled that affair, and married that man. As a person, I wish them whatever their lives are meant to be...but whether any of our paths cross again is immaterial to me. Yet though my heart feels like it healed, there is but one mark that will not come off...one black stain that remains that continues to bother my mental state. As I look around and see literally anything owned from that time, even things of mine from long before the relationship first began, I am reminded--rather, bothered--by an email from when the proceedings first began. Her words, encouraging me to take whatever I wanted of the “things”--anything to make me “happy”...anything to keep her from facing legal ramifications of adultery. I am reminded of so many friends asking me about what happened, only hearing “her side”...and finding out that she just-so-happened to casually leave out the affair in telling the story of the downfall of what seemed to so many as the ideal relationship. I am reminded of how she and her family made (and, to this day, still make) a concerted effort to avoid me in public, to pretend that I, that everything that happened from our time together both good and bad, never existed. This black stain that still sits on my heart wants nothing more than for her to accept responsibility for what happened, to face the reality--maybe yet, the consequences--of her actions and decisions.

But the frustration, what bothers me most, is that at times it feels not of justice, but more of vengeance. This mark was borne of the pain caused by the hurtful selfishness of someone else...is asking them to accept the responsibility for their mistake, which brought damage to others, seeking peace, or retribution?

A No-win Situation...

I don't wish to be selfish. I don't want to be noticed. Self-sacrifice has always been my modus operandi...and I do it with the desire never to be noticed or acknowledged.

A life with minimal recognition, helping someone else, and remaining in the shadows is best for me.

Yet in so doing, I came to the realization that I have sabotaged myself. I have, whether consciously or unconsciously, limited my options in pursuit of a viable career. My applications, cover letters, CVs--all below my standards and abilities. Avoiding some positions because they were not as "desirable" or not "what I am looking for"...finding excuses simply to avoid the reality--

To this point, I have given up my life for others, and if I wish to have a career, I must be willing to make a choice...for me.

A mental and emotional breakdown ensued as I grappled with this. I said the words out loud...

"I want to put me first. I want to take care of myself."

And just vocalizing this made me literally vomit.

Tired...

I do and don't look forward to visiting my grandfather in continuous care nearly every day...

Fuckin’ up Friendship...

It scared the shit out of me. I don’t trust ANYONE...and yet, I felt I could trust this person I had not seen or talked to in 13 years. I found myself discussing EVERYTHING--my divorce, my past suicide attempts, my issues with employment and school, family issues. Even more troubling, I found myself turning to her as the first line of defense when in need of an ear or just a trusting confidante. I was able to come out to her as ace...and it was because of her I was able to discover I was ace. I do not, did not have something like this in my life...and that has/had to mean something was not right. My mind--and my Dark Voice--went into overdrive. I had to figure out why I trusted someone, why I could trust her. Moreover, my mind began to exasperate any thoughts of depression or anxiety she may have. Any thought that she could/would experience any semblance of the pain or frustration I felt worried the Hell out of me. If I could do ANYTHING to stop or help, I would do it. If I could say ANYTHING, I would say it.  But in so doing...I couldn’t stop myself from trying. Trying too hard. Asking if everything was okay. Trying to hang out. Trying to do spend time together. Getting cool things from my connections. Trying to do everything that we had talked about doing in that first meeting. Checking in to make sure everything was okay...and listening more to that Dark Voice that couldn’t trust her and just felt like something was wrong. I wanted to make her happy, I wanted to be a good friend... But I became a raving lunatic, a nuisance. At least I think I am. And I can’t stop trying, and I can’t stop apologizing. I want to stop. I want things to be okay...but I fear I have already lost a friend in one year. If not, I fear I am pushing or scaring her away, confusing the Hell out of her as well.  I want the voice to stop. I want her to be happy. I want to be a good friend... I want her to know I am sorry that I am me...

Looking at Death

It started in November with a missed doctor’s appointment. A simple drainage, as he liked to say. No big deal, just rescheduled it for a few weeks later. As those weeks ticked by, his stomach continued to grow...until it couldn’t take it anymore. It ruptured out of the front and burst a hernia as well, pouring fluid all over the kitchen floor. 18 lbs. of liquid lost from the human body in a matter of seconds. He was rushed to the hospital...and I was upstairs helpless and useless from an accidental dosage error in my medication. He remained there for 3 days before he was discharged...far too soon...by a close friend who let his heart override his training. He was okay, but he wasn’t. He tried to resume a normal life, and moved to quickly, standing up from his desk and passing out. I rushed to help him as he forced himself back to his feet, stabilizing himself on his chair and desk. I remained behind him and supported his back. His words slurred, his eyes fluttered before rolling back, the slurring turned into stammering as he became dead weight and I could only safely lower him towards the floor, ensuring he did not hit his head on the door frame. He was on the floor, seemingly dead for 45 seconds, before he came to. He didn’t know where he was, what had happened, and could only beg me not to call 911 as the ambulance was on its way. This was the last time my dad was home in 2017. He wasn’t home for Festivus, Christmas Eve, or Christmas. Holidays were spent in full gowns, gloves, and masks to protect from infections. Reports ranged from hopeful and optimistic to dreary and grim, and his body only seemed to grow weaker and shrivel. My family kept saying the same thing over and over again: just keep working on your dissertation, that’s all he wants right now for you and him. I did...and that’s when they told me that he was lying, that they were lying. There wasn’t hope. That he was dying. He was coming home...with hospice. All those visits were to make sure I got time, and so that he would have peace knowing I finished before he died. I watched as for two months his body continued to deteriorate. My father, my first role model, my first superhero, went from being invincible to mortal...and quickly. I watched as he became immobile to bed-ridden, as he could no longer eat, as I had to help feed and give him something to drink, give him medicine. Stories become quick sentences; sentences become words; words become mumbles. His mind--cognition, awareness--faded, and we didn’t know when “he” was with us. One of the last clear things he ever really said to me...was him begging me to kill him. My own father not just wanting to die, but him pleading with me to put him out of his misery. He wanted mercy. 12:48 PM, Thursday, March 15th--Moments before I had to begin my next assignment, I receive “the call.” They started the cocktail--it could be minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, but it was likely soon. I cancelled my appointments, called off work, and hurried home. In his delirium, he was fighting to escape his bed, so I spent the next hour holding him back, trying to keep him tucked in as he mumbled incoherently, swore vehemently at me, and ultimately lost consciousness with the next round. Nothing has left me: I can still hear the gurgling from his mouth and throat as the saliva clogged his airway. I can still smell his organs failing amidst his final defecation. 8:12 PM, Friday, March 16th--He was gone. The man who gave me life, who raised me, my DAD...was a cold, lifeless figure still upon a mattress. After months of preparing, nothing could truly ready me to see and experience seeing, touching, holding my lifeless father. Nor could anything prepare me for the sounds of a gurney with a body bag being wheeled through your house to take out a family member...one last time. And as these memories haunt me even still today, even though I am actually “okay” with my father’s passing, I deal with the imminent death of his parents. His father has moved into continuous care. He too begs to die, constantly speaks of his misery...longs to be with his son. The emotional tearing of wanting to help but knowing you can’t just continues to plague my mind and my heart. I want him to be happy...I want him to have peace, too. I want him and my dad to be together.

Pride...but not proud...

As Pride Month comes to its close, I face a sombering reality. I know I am not alone, and I know I am but one quiet voice echoing in the void around me, but it is one of the things that has kept me away for so long as I try to come to terms with my life, my reality as of now and try to move forward... I am Ace. I am very closeted...and I do not have pride. I don’t feel proud. I feel broken, wrong, unlovable. I discovered it 14 months ago, and the person who I came out to was/is the kindest, most supportive person I could have ever imagine. They have made this discovery survivable...and I feel like I owe them everything, owe even my life because I somehow avoided suicidal thoughts, yet I keep fucking up this friendship...but alas, another lament for another day. The damage had already been done before this discovery, though. A failed marriage with all of the cliched quotes and moments is more than enough to wreck the mind. Four years of thinking “you might be interested in it when you get married.” Three years of failed performances. Three years of never really being interested in being physical. Three years of being really uncomfortable, and three years of doing anything and everything to avoid all physical activity. What a shock it was when my ex-spouse began an affair. The words still ring fresh after so many years: “ I just want somebody who is normal.” “ Don’t you think something is obviously wrong with you if you don’t want sex?” “ You obviously don’t love me if you can’t show me.” “You’re clearly not worth waiting for...” I look around--during Pride Month, during daily life--at my friends, my colleagues, those I care for and admire, who can take a stand in the face of adversity, and I celebrate for them. I support them, and I will stand with them... But I am not proud. I do not like being Ace...in fact, I feel broken. I feel as though something is wrong with me. I can’t look in the mirror and be okay with what I see--someone who is cracked, damaged, incomplete, hollow, wrong.  I feel unloved and unlovable. I feel as though any relationship I try to have will forever be doomed by an inability to show my significant other what they truly mean to me in a physical way...and that no words will replace that. Not everyone is truly understanding or supportive. I find no comfort in support groups, message boards, or any of the like. The wonderful paradox of wanting to be alone...and not be alone. More than anything...I want to be okay with me, and I just am not. I want to be “normal”...or accepting of what my normal is.

A (not so) Triumphant Return...

So, yeah... This place had (has?) been a sanctuary, yet I let life intervene. I seek its comfort and solace. I will be coming back, sharing the thoughts that continue to run rampant in my chaotic mind to those that do not read--just the way I intended. I know not who, if anyone, sees or cares...a peace of mind to unleash the Demon that never escapes, but quiets from time to time. The next few entries will be musings that explore the events and thoughts that have kept me away, that plague me still. May be there will be answers--for me, for someone who stumbles across. It is not a pity party, it is not a call for help--I don’t want it, don’t need it, and don’t want anyone to come to my aid. Battles I have faced alone and continue to do so, and want to do so. More than anything, I want to give the Voice a new place to roam free, rather than inside the cranial cage where it has caused so much damage. So tread however you wish. Feel free to read or ignore. Think however you will; I seek not your support or pity. I just want to liberate my mind, my head, my heart from this mental miasma. 

So true, so true...

The Only Solution 💭

When you don't want to have depression or anxiety anymore and just want to be normal...

Gettin my boogie on like...

How it feels sometimes writing this PoS...

For no reason other than to have Cookie Monster...

Things are happening quickly. Things are changing, evolving quickly. It is what I need, what is needed... But it does not make any of it easier...