FUCK YOU: A Letter

I am having a bad day. Repeating emotions coming through to show me something that I hadn’t been able to see yet. Self-blame patterns, shame, guilt, and buried hurts.

 
I googled “why victims protect their abusers” I’ve already read about trauma bonding. I am just trying, desperately, to understand my own patterns so I don’t do this shot to myself again. 
She sent me a message once saying that it hurt that we couldn’t talk. 
You know what else hurts? Realizing that I gave eight years of my life to a relationship that was built entirely on lies and satisfying the needs and wants of one person whose behavior continually proves that they are self-seeking and that it will never change. 

It hurts to hate myself for having a kind heart.

 It hurts to have to remind myself over and over and over again that loving someone who mistreats me does not make me a flawed human, or weak, or bad.

It hurts to come to terms with and accept that no matter what I did or could have done what I truly needed didn’t exist in that space and any time I thought I had it was an illusion, a metaphorical band-aid plastered over my wound to just get me to shut up.

It hurts to realize that the only time my partner really ever gave me affection was around their friends to build some illusion of a loving relationship and that it made me uncomfortable and I didn’t know why.

 It hurts to realize that every time the person I chose to be my partner had an opportunity to actually be a partner they chose to walk away, and abandon me emotionally, but play the victim when I scraped up what was left of my dignity and strength to walk away and try and find clarity. 

It hurts that when I did find clarity, my clarity was undermined and replaced with another lie intended only for that person to numb out their own shame. 

It hurts to have spent so much time questioning my own worth and sanity only to finally realize that there had never been anything wrong with me except my core belief that I didn’t deserve better, and that I could help her. 

It hurts to realize that my idea of love was toxic, and that receiving love is just as important, and that the lack of love I received wasn’t because I was blocked from accepting it, but that my partner was blocked from giving it in a way that I needed. 

It hurts that she admitted that she knew what I needed, but she withheld it to “see what I would do.” 

Shut down, assfuck. That’s what I would do. Find a way to protect my vulnerability from being manipulated against me. 

It hurts to know that the person I chose would have done anything they could to not choose me. 

It hurts to come to terms with the fact that the person I chose to love really only ever wanted me to hate them, and made choices to make that happen, and admitted to it-more than once. 

 And that I blamed myself for it. 

I guess it’s true. The truth hurts. It’s all I ever really wanted. It’s also true that the truth will set you free. That’s what I wanted most. 

I don’t expect her to care. She clearly never really has. I don’t expect that to change now. I just know better than to expect that of her. Not of other people though. Because it isn’t “expecting too much” to expect the people who say “I love you” to actually LOVE YOU. and expectations aren’t wrong, or setting oneself up for failure and disappointment. As long as they’re realistic. 

She expected me to be perfect, self-sufficient and subservient to her every demand. 

I just expected her to actually care about me. And she couldn’t. Because she lacks that capability. That’s sad. 

I feel bad for her. But I don’t feel bad I left. I feel bad I stayed for so long

 
And underneath all that hurt is the truth that I can be happy. Truly happy. And I do deserve love. Real love. Not whatever she fucking had to offer me.

 
I’m praying for her new girlfriend. That she wises up on a timeline more congruent with the last girlfriend than with mine. What I mean is, that she can see through your bullshit quickly.  And not just ask you for another heaping pile of it to pick through, and keep herself occupied for a few months at a time. 

Because she has kids to take care of, and we both already know that you’re just like the asshole that abused me when I was a kid. That you never really thought his behavior was wrong. And you are the asshole that abused me as an adult. And I’m the asshole who thought that was fucking normal. It wasn’t. 
You told me that you learned there were two kinds of people in the world. People like your mom and people like your dad. 

You became him. Abusive and predatory. Self seeking and narcissistic. And I thought if I could get someone like you to love me then I would be worthy of love. 

I handed my power over to you daily. And I didn’t get it. You were right. I was weak. Or, I let you have the power. 

I let you beat me down for years, and play the victim whenever I could finally stand up for myself. 
I still pray for you to get the help you need. Although I’m sure it’s a waste of my time. I still pray for myself. That at some point this will stop hurting. That the memory of you won’t sting so bad. That the eight years I spent with you were actually worth the wisdom I gained. To love myself first. Which is why I won’t grant you any more access into my life. At least I’ve got that down. But it still fucking hurts. 

Untitled

She put the house up
For sale

I saw my past life
Flashing before my eyes

The kitchen
Where I made dinner
And that day I made more naan
Than we could eat, but I did it
Without my shirt on

The kitchen
Where she left me notes by the coffee pot
The coffee pot that kept me going on the hardest days

The kitchen
Where I hung that ee cummings poem somewhere I have never travelled gladly beyond

But she replaced it

Twice

The kitchen
Where she screamed at me
That time I had an accident
And melted

The kitchen
where I finally yelled
“I deserve to be with someone who wants to support me emotionally”

The living room
Where she threw that candle at me
And broke my foot

The living room
Where the television
Still holds my face print from when we hung it, and I almost dropped it

The living room
Where I spent days painting
But on the last day made her help
And I didn’t wear any pants

The living room
Where the couch we bought is 
falling apart from the time she fucked that other girl there and the lotion
The lotion ate away the faux leather

The dining room
With the chairs I hand sanded and painted
It took me a week
And cost me a pair of shoes

The dining room
Where I painted the built in cabinets with the wrong color because she didn’t help me that time

The dining room
Where we hardly ever ate

The spare bedroom
She told her parents was my room

And when I made it my office
She complained at the mess I work through

The spare bedroom
Where I painted alone
Again because she refused to help

The spare bedroom

The spare bedroom

And her bedroom
She painted again
The second time I left

She painted again on the day she demanded I come get my stuff

And her bedroom
Where she called the other side of the bed the pssenger side

And her bedroom
That she shared with me
And her and her and her and her

And her bedroom
Where she choked me in the closet

And her bedroom

And the front porch
Where I watched the rain
And read my books

The front porch
Smoking cigarettes

The back yard
Where I read books to her

The back yard
That she refused to fence in

The back yard

That caved in

The back yard
And the driveway
We resealed together
Pulling weeds and filling cracks

She put the house up
For sale
I walked through it one more time

And cried

And closed the door

Without slamming it

Without leaving a key
this time

I guess it’s haunted

I guess it’s time

A Manifesto

I am me.
My authenticity is raw intensity. 
I am magic. Powerful. 

A force to be reckoned with. 

I am love and light. 

I run with wolves and dance with the moon. 

I chase butterflies and open my heart to change. 
I am wildly loyal
and love with my raven heart.
I am opening
to the universal order and trusting my self. 
I am a writer.
My witch and my craft are not mutually exclusive. The pen is my wand. My words will heal. Alchemy is real. 

The map of my hand fills my life line with poetry. My heart line is no longer beating itself up-my fists have come unclenched from the things that are no longer meant for me.  

I am work and working
Process and progress. 

I am learning. 
Not all things require my energy. 

Not all people think the way I do, and this is a blessing. 

No is a complete sentence.
I am learning
To be gentle with my confusion. 
My feelings guide me, but do not rule me.
Asking for help does not make me weak. 

My shadow does not scare me. 

I feel fear, but I am not afraid. 

I feel angry and hurt. 

I am allowed. 

I am joy and pleasure. 
I am unlearning and
I am healing. 
          I dream

                      And

                             believe

In magic and music and the power of tiny puppies. 

I am yoga. 
Strong and bendy.
Slow and balanced. 

I am embodied. 
I am on purpose. 

Lost and Found

The pit catches
Your heart when it falls
To your stomach
Despair

Desperation
I can feel her
Looking at me
Discomfort

I look back
What else am I supposed to do?

I wish I could write about anything else
I wish the hook would come loose
I wish I could see the perfect life we live

When she tried to catch me
She only saw half of who I am. 

The scales of my lower half
Only for refracting light
Holding in my shiny. 

I glide through the water
Not swimming, rather
Being In between
here and there
Then and now
Her and I

Stopped

Azure. 

I wonder sometimes if it was her fault 

I know how much she hated children
I wish I could have known how

It would all work out
I don’t know 

Why we had to go
There just wasn’t enough space
In her house
Or heart for you
Or my love

Azure. 
Eyes telling stories 
Of time before we knew it

Notes from September 7, 2015

I met with a psychic. She asked me if I was there to discuss a relationship. 

“No. Not really. My relationship is good. But I suppose relationship advice can’t ever hurt.”

She told me that I cannot fix her.

“This is chemical.” She emphasized over and over again. “Have her get her hormones checked.” 

“These are the going off the wagon cards.”

“There will be a betrayal. It will not be you. It will definitely be her. It will cause you a lot of pain and emotional turmoil, but you will let go.”

“There is a chance that if she gets the help she needs the sun can really shine with her again. And you two could live a pretty happy life together.”

 Still, she said I’m here to heal people, to show them my light. She warned me not to allow the shadows of others inhibit my glow. 

“But you. Oh you. You’re a healer.”

“No. You can’t heal her. This is chemical.”

She said we’d been lovers in many past lives and that it was no good. 

She reminded me that I always choose the emotionally unavailable. 

“You’re an empath.”

And that I am a temple. lol 

“You have made a habit of lettting the wing ones in. Protect your body. This is important.”

She told me I had the goddess number. 33

She counted two blockages in my third eye. 

She said my 33rd year would be my best. For my career. 

“The texts need you. You’re the interpreter.”

She said, of course I would get my PhD-that was never the real question. 

I guess she’s probably right. 

Feb 20, 2016

You would think that. That you love me and you hate me. And when you tell me you want me to hate you-I won’t. I gave enough energy over the last seven years trying to love you and get you to love me I don’t have any energy left with which to hate you. I’m looking for that space where I can tuck you into my heart. I’m using the memory of you and us to fill that crack, and I’m cementing with my own power to rise from the ashes that persist from the final last time I tried to enter the fire you fucking set. Don’t be confused. It was not a heat of passion, but a conflagration of selfish conquest. A consecration of all things unholy. It wasn’t beautiful. It was a fucked up pattern of hurt and unavailability. 
 I’m not a prize to be won. I’m not a challenge to have conquered. I am the power you sought, but could not gain. I even tried to hand it over to you. I tried to teach you. I tried to show you how to melt. But the only rocks that ever melted are the ones that went the deepest into the core of their own earth. 

Andrea Gibson wrote, “love. It isn’t always magic. Sometimes it’s melting where it’s black and black blue. Where it hurts the most.” But there was no melting. Just stone throwing. I’m just black and blue. I don’t love you. I don’t hate you. I’m just healing.