It’s been a very long time since I’ve taken time to write here. It’s been even longer since I’ve written anything really worth something, something from the heart. I’ve decided now was a good time to continue my story. I don’t know why, unlike the last two (“1 year” and “No Longer Shamed but Forgiven“) this one isn’t going to end on such a positive note. But I know it’s time to share the last year and a half.
“1 year” ended with me celebrating 1 year of being abstinent–that was November 2013. I made it to October 2014, and I was content. My furbaby Fitzwilliam and I had a happy life. I fell off the wagon hard and wrecked that peace for a 24 year old bouncer in a bar with a fine pair of arms. 1 month shy of my 2 year anniversary. I continued to sleep with him for a few weeks. I at least try to feign a friendship with the men I sleep with, so when he came over one day, fucked me, then immediately left to go get high with his friends, that was it. Obviously I don’t have high standards, but I did have a little bit more dignity than that. The bouncer was gone, and I was back to Netflixing it with my furbaby.
Unfortunately, when the bouncer left, the contentment and peace didn’t return. Isolation became suffocating. That alone was not the extent of my emotional issues. In fact, that was not even the primary reason I had spent the last 2.5 years in therapy.
For 3 years I have been in love with one man (there are many posts about that saga as well). Last October he deployed to Afghanistan, and being just his friend became devastating to my own mental and emotional well being. So I spent a month writing him a very conscientious 5 page letter telling him how I felt, and explaining how I had absolutely no expectations in return. It took so much courage to write that letter, and I felt so good after I wrote it. Then I sent it, and it felt like all my courage left with that letter. The post office told me it could take 3 weeks for the letter to get to him. So I waited. And waited. After a month, I knew he had received my letter and his silence was my answer. Knowing him as well as I do, it was an answer I had anticipated, and I was ok with it. I accepted it. I accepted it my own way. I self destructed. I’m not entirely certain if they are 100% correlated, but they did happen at the same time. Either way, between the suffocating isolation and the silence, I completely self-destructed and I really really enjoyed it.
My first step on the road to self destruction was a 20 year old beautiful junior who worked in the Writing Center at the university I attend/work at. And boy was he a fun young puppy. Let’s not forget, puppy’s are fun to play with. I say I was self destructing, and in my way I was, but this young puppy pulled me out of a dark place where I was beginning to hurt myself. He made laugh when I had forgotten the sound of my own laughter, for that alone I am grateful. But nothing lasts. We had fun. But he was just a 20 year old puppy. And I’m a 32 year old woman who uses sex to fill a longing. I got a wee bit attached. He got a wee bit uncomfortable. And that’s about where the story ends.
As I read that, it doesn’t seem to convey any of the pain I went through. (Sorry readers this is going to be a long, slightly disjointed post). To convey that, I have to tell another part of my story. Before I moved to Louisiana, I was with a guy who really was just an alcoholic asshole. He was incapable of making plans with me and when he made plans, he refused to keep them telling me some bullshit that he wasn’t the planning type (remember this, it’s very important). It seemed to me that he couldn’t be with me without being drunk (though he would claim that wasn’t the case and I was the best sex he ever had). He would randomly stop talking to me for 6 months at a time, breaking my already wounded heart. When I moved to LA, we managed to maintained a friendship (maybe it was easier with 2000 miles between us). He would stay up chatting with me till 2am when I had to pull an all-nighter writing a paper. It was in LA that I suspected that this hard, difficult man loved me in his own twisted way. For some reason we stopped talking . . . again. About 8 months later, he contacted me via messenger. He needed to talk to me on the morrow. Don’t EVER tell me you need to talk to me and then tell me to wait. I told him if he needed to talk to me, do it now. He was drunk and needed to wait till he was sober. My awesome intuition kicked in and I asked, “So, are you married or getting married?” He replied that he was married. He continued to tell me that he loved me, made a mistake and married (for the fourth time) because he was so scared of loving me. But he needed to tell me all this when he was sober. I told him I would talk to him the next day, but only once because I was no man’s “other woman.” The next day he didn’t remember a single word of our conversation, he had been too drunk, and had to read through the messages to get the gist. I haven’t had any contact with him since. He shattered me that day. And I don’t tolerate actions or words that are done or said while drunk. So how does this whole long horrible saga relate to Pup? Plans! OMG. I just wanted Pup to make some simple plans with me, and when he wouldn’t, C came to mind. I don’t like feeling like second place or last place or squeezed in where you can fit me. It’s a pretty big deal to me. And as I get older and meet more men who treat me like this, it becomes an even bigger deal. I want a man to say “Crash My Party.” And the more I wanted plans, the more Pup got scared and ran away, and honestly I can’t blame him. I was a fling.
Unfortunately, Pup was just a small part of my slide into self destruction. Shortly after I got involved with Pup, Spring Break happened and I went on vacation. What happens on Spring Break stays on Spring Break? Not if I’m going to be honest with you all. All it took was for me to cross the state line to get a real date. This guy had a great job, a master’s degree, owned his own home. He took me out to a really nice dinner, we sat on the beach with a 6-pack watching the lights on the water, and it was wonderful. I hadn’t been treated so well, honestly I can’t even tell you how long. Then we went back to my room. We didn’t have sex, but that’s really a matter of semantics – we didn’t have intercourse. The next night I was headed home and decided to stop in Biloxi for a final dinner of Fried Green Tomatoes and a drink where I met two sailors. Let’s just say I didn’t leave Biloxi until the next morning, and that night I did have sex – an official one night stand with a 24 year old sailor – there’s a girl in every port, right? I came back and continued my fling with Pup, without telling him anything about Spring Break. When I self destruct, I do it with flares and fire works.
Shortly before the Spring semester was over, coincidently about the time all my sexual activities just happened to stop, I tested positive for HPV – the high risk for cervical cancer strain – an STD. A bouncer, a student, and a sailor, a perfect cocktail; I shouldn’t have been surprised, but I was, and I was devastated. I’m the good girl. I’m the responsible one. I don’t do drugs. I’m not an alcoholic. My social life never interferes with my work or school. I take care of my friends and family. I’m successfully working on my PhD. And I’m a Christian. How could I have an STD? I do. Luckily, I have the most generous and supportive parents in the entire world, who didn’t judge me in the least, even though I judged myself. But I do have to deal with the consequences, and that, right now, means tests and stress, and the shame of telling men I have an STD.
My self-destruction didn’t stop with learning I had HPV. I wasn’t having sex anymore, but I am very good at sexting. I began sexting two boys (24 year olds) in Utah. They were both very very interested in me. Ironically, I haven’t heard from either of them in over a month, and not since I’ve been in Utah for a visit. Huh?
My story is almost to its conclusion (for now). I accepted my airman’s silence. I still loved him though. One day I randomly decided to try to open communication with him again. The next morning I saw that he had unfriended me on Facebook. It’s rather amazing how quickly one’s love can turn to hate. I say that the man who taught me how to love is the same man who taught me how to hate. I could have loved his demons: his temper, his anger issues, his alcoholism, even his history of adultery, but I can’t love a coward. He didn’t consider me a worthy enough friend to say one word. And for that . . . . I want to ask him why, but I probably never will. It’s finally over. After 3 long years, it’s over.
My first night at church (Genesis Project) here in Utah, I was so afraid. I’m not sure what I was more afraid of, running into my airman or not (I haven’t seen him the whole trip – and it’s probably a really good thing). I did happen to meet someone else (I really need blinders against men), a handsome cop.
I don’t want to say too much here because I hope to get to know this cop more. This cop is on fire for God, and he is passionate about life, and his hope for the future is so inspiring. All that being said, this handsome cop has made me cry more in the last 10 days then I care to count. Remember what I said about plans? Yeah, he sucks at keeping plans, even for a girl he “really likes” who’s leaving in 4 days. And with my history of feeling like a second place consolation prize, I’ve been in a constant state of emotional upheaval (but hey, I’ve lost 6 pounds). I’m probably fooling myself, but maybe it’ll be easier to get to know him with 2000 miles between us (see: Fool).
This is the story of what I did. But it seems to lack feeling. It’s lacking the pain and the tears and heart wrenching screaming I went through. The waves of alcoholism, depression, and self harm I drowned in during this last year. It doesn’t give you any idea of the sleepless nights I’ve gone through and when I did sleep, the reality-like nightmares I suffered through. It doesn’t give you any idea the questions I’ve asked again and again and again while awake and in my sleep, through my tears and while I try to smile through the pain.
Why wasn’t I worth a single word from my airman? Not why wasn’t I worth loving, but why wasn’t I worth a simple word? He called me friend for 3 years, yet he couldn’t even give me a word, not one? I loved him with all my heart and would have given my everything for him. And he couldn’t give me one word, why? Why did C always run? Why couldn’t he find just a tiny bit of courage outside the bottle to tell me he loved me before he got married? Why wasn’t I worth just a little sobriety and a little courage? Why couldn’t my Pup just make one, just one, plan with me instead of squeezing me in between other plans with other friends? Why wasn’t I worth just a little set aside time? Why couldn’t my cop make or keep any plans with me? Why am I never worth someone’s time? If someone likes you, won’t they make the time to see you? How am I worth so little to so many? Why do so many just walk away without a word or explanation? Do they look at me and see someone easy and disposable? Does it only take a glance and they can sense “whore”? Someone too broken to even bother caring about but still good enough to fuck? I can’t judge. I can’t hate. I used many of them too. I let Pup pull me out a deep darkness and enjoyed his company. I use sex to fill a longing in me. I try to substitute sex for a love I’ve never known. Usually all of these questions are asked while screaming through a choking sob of tears (see: neurotic). And they’re usually asked with every waking breath.
Recently, both my doctor and my therapist have suspected that I may have hypo-mania (see: bio-polar). Insomnia, anxiety, migraines, and now bi-polar–neurotic sounds about right. My therapist thinks that my risky sexual behavior may be a symptom of this mania. Is this just an excuse? Shouldn’t I be held accountable for my actions? My therapist believes that if we can get my chemical imbalance corrected, then maybe I may be in better control of my actions. I hope it will help. I hope it’s not just an excuse.
Why have I shared all this with you? Why have I bared my soul to strangers (which may be much easier to cope with than the friends who may read this)? Why have I revealed my deepest darkest secrets to strangers, friends, colleagues, acquaintances, maybe a few enemies? Because it was time. It was destroying me keeping it all bottled up on the inside. Because I’m wrecked.
I feel wrecked and ruined. I feel hopeless. I’m feel like whether a functioning alcoholic meets me at a bar or a Christian meets me at a church service, I’m the girl that gives off the sexual vibe that says “she’ll fuck you tonight.” I have trust issues that run so deep that I can’t even begin to get to know a seemingly great guy I just met. I’m wrecked. There is no bruised or scarred or damaged or broken left, it is all buried beneath the wreckage of who I used to be: A girl who once believed in true love and happily ever after, a girl who had hope of finding a man who would love her. Nowadays my favorite movie is “He’s just not that into you” and the song I relate to most is “Because of you.” Now I’m just hoping the pieces of me that have been buried beneath the wreckage and turned to dust can at least be turned back into something resembling a heart, dreams, and trust.
About the time I self-destructed, I also stopped going to church and stopped praying. It’s not that I stopped believing in God. It’s not that I was angry at God. It was simply, how could I give God the middle finger, say “I don’t want to do it your way” and then continue chit chatting with him? I still don’t want to go to church in Louisiana–there’s no place that feels like home, plus it’s really bad to feel so completely alone in the midst of hundreds of people. I have started talking to God again. First just a couple thank yous. Coming home to Utah helped – GP is my home church and that anchored me some, and it helped me pray for myself. Music really touches my soul, and two songs this past Sunday really hit home: God is the great healer, he relentlessly pursues me, and despite my shame and past, he’s always going to love me. I don’t have a lot of hope right now. I’m to wrecked–any hope found in my last two testimony blog posts are buried beneath that wreckage, but I know a miracle is my only chance for survival and healing. And I pray that God, our great healer, has one more miracle left over for me because that’s the only way dust can be made into something whole again.
I share this for everyone who can’t share their story. For everyone who feels too broken, too scarred, too ashamed, you are not alone.