The Berklee School of Music Singer/Songwriter, part 8

I usually take two tacks with relationships, lately - all, or nothing. With Jason, because breaking up with him wasn't working, back in February and March, I decided to ask him to marry me in May.

I know, that makes so much sense.

It doesn't, of course - I wasn't offered any tools or given any examples growing up to teach me to foster a healthy relationship with someone. But you know the saying, "Wherever I go, there I am"? If I don't work on myself, no relationship I have will ever be a success. Namely, if I don't work on myself when I'm with myself, I certainly won't be able to do it when I'm with someone else...and will therefore be quite capable of making two lives quite miserable.

The other day I became very angry with Jason for singing and playing music in his room when I was trying to write. I didn't let him know how I felt. Instead, I stomped outside to the backyard - and saw his bong next to the wicker bench. I wanted to go break it, but, because he went off his bipolar/OCD/anxiety/sleep meds and has decided instead to get a legal medical marijuana card, I decided not to break the bong, begrudgingly. But, since I can't handle being around a bong, I went back inside to the living room to write...where it was loud again. As the music was grating my nerves, I got an email from Ronnie, my ex-husband, telling me that I'm a disappointment to our son because I don't call Lyle every day at five like I'm supposed to, and Lyle is sad every day waiting for my call. Instead of admitting my mistake and telling Ronnie I'll make the commitment to call our son, I got even more angry, and when Jason came to ask me what's wrong very kindly and compassionately, I exploded. I got up, I threw my phone onto the floor, the contents breaking apart and scattering into the hallway, and I stormed out of the house without so much as a word, still wearing my pajamas, driving 30 miles back to my aunt's house a few towns away.

Um, yeah. Psycho...

I do the very best I can to justify my actions, to any one. Even to you, dear readers. In part 7, I justified my leaving Jason's house, and my plan to leave the relationship, without giving you all the deets.

The truth is, I'm a liar, and a rager. Growing up, my dad lied so often that it was a problem, and both of my parents' significant others flew off the handle in violent rages. I didn't learn the best communication skills, to say the least. I don't blame them, mind you. They were obviously fucked up by their parents, and them by theirs, and so on and so forth, back to the chicken or the egg or homo erectus or Adam and Eve or whatever you choose to believe. (Book nudge: The Four Agreements by don Miguel Ruiz includes some great stuff about how our parents and society fuck us up as individuals.)

But maybe I just don't know how fucked up I really am until I try to live with someone else. Say I'm dating you, and I fall in love with you because you're special, and you feel the same way about me. We've both dated quite a bit - one of us was even married before - and we can safely say that we've never felt this way about any one before. Then, we spend a large of time together. Finally, we start to argue, and we realize we're actually both pretty messed up. "You're crazy!" I'll scream at you, hypocritically. Or, "I can't be with you, because I'm just too crazy. It's over!" And I run like hell, without hardly giving you a chance to say anything in the matter.

So I'm flighty, to boot. I really need to re-read my own "7 Ways to Avoid Getting Into a Bad Relationship" that I wrote just yesterday. "Love"...I've written about it plenty, from various perspectives. Sometimes I really sound like I know what I'm talking about, and other times I really have no freaking clue. I hold no Ph.D. in the subject. Hell, I ain't got no GED in the subject, neither. I'm like, in pre-school. And like a child, I want, want, want. If I really could just follow my own advice and "master love" the way Miguel Ruiz prescribes in The Mastery of Love, I wouldn't even be writing right now. Maybe I should read that book again, too.

Anyway...I guess what I'm saying is, the chapter on Jason isn't actually closed after all. I've embarrassed myself plenty over the past month oscillating from this-guy-sucks to he-can-be-my-boy-toy to I've-never-loved-someone-so-much to yay-happy-day-I'm-engaged to get-me-the-hell-out-of-this-shit-NOW. I know...crazy.

If you were in my shoes, dear reader, what would you do? Keep in mind, that, most importantly, you have an almost five year-old son who needs your love more than anyone.

Well, what I did was, I apologized to Jason for my freak-out, told him everything that was bothering me about our relationship, and I told him that if we're going to continue to consider marriage, before we even set a date - we need to undergo pre-marital counseling. And include Lyle. I got therapy with my son Lyle last year when Ronnie went to jail and rehab from May to August. It worked well for us.

All I want, in the entire world, is to be a good mom. It's more important to me than a relationship with any guy, and Jason knows this. If he's willing to let me put Lyle first, no matter what, maybe there's a chance for us after all. But he's going to have to support me when I need space to work on myself and on my relationship with my son, and, again, undergo therapy too, both individually and combined (and then we can call Captain Planet). And I need to follow #7 in my list: taking special consideration when dealing with mental and emotional disorders. Shit, I need to follow all 7 on the list. That's why I wrote it; because those are things I need to remember.

My Memoir Outline:7-8

7

I work at Pizza Hut as assistant manager. It's 3:45 pm. I opened the store today and get off at 4. We need batteries for our scales. 

I walk around the corner and buy batteries at Radioshack. 

What are you doing later? the guy at Radioshack asks me. There’s a $300 karaoke contest at Acapulco restaurant in San Marcos and I’m thinking about going, I say. I’ll go with you, he says. He gives me his number. Okay, I’ll text you later, I say.

I get off work and get home and I change out of my work uniform. I put on the Batman tank top that I’ve had for years, and some jeans Ronnie got me at an online store in New York, years ago. I do my hair and make-up. I take off in my car for Acapulco.

I'm too early. The contest hasn’t started yet. I leave and go to the San Marcos Brewery across the parking lot for one of their Honey Ales.

I go back to Acapulco. The DJ is setting up. I sit at the bar and order a Margarita, double Patron Añejo. There’s a table of four Mexican guys behind me. One of them comes and sits next to me. He buys me another Margarita double. His name is Angel. I tell him about Ronnie and Lyle. He tells me about his ex and his kid. We show each other pictures of our kids on our phones. 

I sing Adele’s “Someone Like You”. My phone is dying. I tell Angel I gotta go out to my car to charge my phone. My plan is to leave. He follows me.

I plug my phone into the car charger and we go back into the restaurant. Angel buys me another drink. I drink it and say I have to go to the bathroom. I go to the bathroom and stay in there for a long time. I mess with my hair. I do more make-up. I go out and Angel’s still standing there waiting for me. 

Karaoke is over. The DJ is playing salsa music. Angel buys me another drink. I drink it. Let’s dance, he says. Okay, I say. We salsa for an hour until I can no longer stand.

I need to go charge my phone in my car now, he says. Come with me, he says. He pulls me by the hand and I go with him. 

We get in his car. He starts kissing me. I want to make love to you, he says.

We have sex. 

I tell him I have a boyfriend. He frowns and looks down. How can you have a boyfriend? he asks. Why didn’t you tell me that before? he asks. I don’t know, I say. It's not serious, I say. I told him I loved him and he didn't want me to use those words, I say. It really hurt, I say. You're gonna break up with him then right? Angel asks. Yeah, I say. Can I call you tomorrow? he asks. Sure, I say. I give him my number.

I’m drunk. I drive through In-n-Out Burger and get a #2 and eat it in the parking lot before the long drive on two freeways back home. I scream and cry and look at pictures of Lyle on my phone while I eat.

8

The next day, Angel calls and I don't answer. I text the saxophone player from SDSU who was in the jazz band with me three years ago in 2008. His name is Rico. He wanted me back then, but I was with Ronnie, and had been for seven years. Back then he kissed me after a jazz concert but I stopped him.

Hey, let's meet up tonight, he says. I can't wait, I say.

I don't work today. I go out and buy a little black dress and heels and new lingerie. I get home, shower, blow-dry my hair, and put make-up on. I put on the lingerie, the black dress and the heels, and I grab some jeans, Converse, and a button-up plaid shirt to change into for my ten-year high school reunion afterwards in Bonsall. It's tonight.

I get to Rico's parents' winery in Rancho Bernardo. I text him from the parking lot. He pulls up in his white BMW and rolls the window down and tells me to get in. I get in. He starts driving. 

I try to unbutton his pants. What the fuck are you doing? he asks. Did I say you could fucking touch me? he asks. I laugh and I stop.

He pulls over on a dimly-lit neighborhood street and pulls his pants down around his ankles. He shoves my head down onto him violently. Put your fist up my ass, he says, as he's pulling my head up and down by my hair. I can't breathe. I put my fingertips in first and he tells me to push them in harder. I throw up on him. Eat your vomit and keep eating my cock til I cum, bitch, he says. Put your fucking fist in my asshole, all the way, you cunt, he says. Oooh, yeah, fucking harder, he says. Now put your fucking fist up your ass, he says. I start with a couple fingers and he takes my hand and pushes it all the way in. He ejaculates into my throat and gag and I throw up again. He says, swallow all my fucking cum, bitch. Fucking swallow it, he says. Mmmm, you like that, huh, you like that you fucking cunt, he says. I gag a few times, then I throw up some more, then I swallow what's left.

He drives me back to my car. I get out. He drives away. I get into my car.

I clean myself up and I scream and cry. I take off my black dress and heels on the freeway as I drive and cry. I get into my plaid shirt and jeans and Converse shoes.

I park my car at the country club. Evan is calling. He doesn't know about Angel or Rico. I don't answer. I don't want to be with you any more, I text. Come on baby, don't end it so fast, he texts. Where are you? he texts. My ten-year high school reunion, I text. Let me come meet you, he texts. No, I text. I turn my phone off. I fix my make-up and hair. 

I go into the country club and sit down at the bar. I order a Jack Daniels Single Barrel and Coke, double.

I mingle with people I recognize. Jorge Montoya is talking to me, along with his friend Sakito Uchiyama. 

I drink two more Jack and Coke doubles while mingling. We all take some group photos.

Everybody is leaving the country club and going to a bar called Ringers a couple miles away. I go too. I'm drunk.

I sit at a raised, small table with Jorge and Sakito. They buy me a blue-ish green drink. I don't know what it is. I drink it.

There’s a band. Me and Lisa Lopez start dancing together up front.

I sit down at the table with Jorge and Sakito. They buy me another drink. Then I start dancing with Lisa again. The guitarist motions for me to get up on the stage. I get up on stage and the guitarist gives me his pick. I strum his guitar while he holds his guitar.

Jorge and Sakito buy me another drink. Sakito and I go outside to talk. It's cold. We put our arms around each other and we talk about our college majors, him math, me music. I hate how there's so little funding for music, I say. Music is math, I say. You could use music to teach math, I say. I work for the government, he says. I'll pay you $1500 to come up with a way to use music to teach math, he says. I have a software guy, he says. Cool, I say. We can have all kinds of exercises on it that use math and music together, I say. We’re going to Cambodia to an orphanage in a month, he says. We can implement the program and teach the kids how to build musical instruments using math, I say. Sakito says great, let's do it. Okay, use the $1500 to buy my ticket, I say. Sounds good, he says.

We go back inside. The band is done. They’re starting to leave. The guitarist puts his arms around me and walks me to their van with them and helps me inside. 

We smoke weed. 

The drummer in the front seat unzips his pants and the two guys in the back seat take my pants off. I go down on the drummer in the driver’s seat while the guitarist and someone I don’t recognize fingers me from the back seat. I make out with the singer in the passenger seat and then go down on the drummer some more. She gives really good head, you guys, he says. 

They let me out of the van and Jorge is waiting for me back at the entrance to the bar. He asks if he can follow me home. I say yes. 

Jorge follows me home and comes inside. We have sex in my bedroom in what used to be my grandma’s bed. Can I do you in the ass, he says. Sure, I say. He does. He goes home. I pass out.

7 Ways to Avoid Getting Into a Bad Relationship

1. Be honest.

Too often we find ourselves "acting" a certain way to attract a mate. We're nicer than we'd like to be. We tell little "white" lies about ourselves, or we hide things. We laugh when something isn't all that funny. We lie when something hurts our feelings, saying, "It's fine." We delude ourselves into thinking that "this" one could be the one, before we've done the research. Some of us are so desperate to get away from our lonely selves that we'll do anything to latch onto another person - any one - including not be ourselves. Then, there comes a point down the line when the facade is broken; we just can't bring ourselves to lie any more. By then, we're months deep into a relationship with a person who doesn't even know who we really are - and chances are, we have no idea who he or she is, either (because all we wanted was to be "loved"). Ultimately, we find ourselves crawling out of our skin. We hit our breaking point, and we explode suddenly, surprising the other with some act of defiance, because the whole time, he or she never knew what was truly going on in this head of ours. Sure, we got someone to "fall in love" with us, we're no longer "alone" - but at what cost? We're not really the person our significant other "got to know" in the first place, which not only makes for a very bad relationship, it means we have to hurt that person for us to be happy again.

Save yourself this trouble by being completely honest right up front. I know, it's hard to say certain things. Some of those things might be, "I'm separated from my wife, but we're not yet legally divorced." Or, "I have a child who needs much of my attention, so I won't be able to give as much attention to a significant other right now." Or instead of saying, "No, I hardly date at all" to try and make him feel special or think you're more "pure", tell the truth, and say, "Yes, I've dated quite a bit over the past few years, but nothing has worked out"; or if the opposite is true - if you're trying to make her think you're a stud, don't - just say, "No, I haven't dated much lately; as a matter of fact, this is only the second date I've been on in the last year."

The list can go on and on. "No, I'm not interested in being exclusive right away. I'm just looking for something casual, a good time once in awhile." "I'm a recovering alcoholic and I go to meetings every day; it's a huge part of my life." "I'm Catholic and I want to be with another Catholic." "I see a psychiatrist and take medication for schizophrenia; it's a very misunderstood disorder." "I'm looking for someone willing to be a stepfather to my kids." "I may be ready to settle down with someone in a few years, but for right now I'm too busy working on myself, and probably shouldn't even be dating."

The first step of course is to be honest with yourself. If you think you want one thing, look again. Play the tape forward. Before you even go on a first date - what exactly are you looking for? Where do you want to be in a year? Two years? Ten years? What are you willing to sacrifice? What are you not willing to sacrifice?

Whatever track you're on - once you figure it out - tell the person exactly what it is, and what your goals and intentions are. Yes, it may mean you don't get into a relationship with the person, or you don't get "laid". I know, you may not be able to see it now, exhilarated by the excitement of a new prospect - having someone interested in you can be very tantalizing - but being 100% honest is better than, again, letting someone fall in love a "you" that you aren't and can't be. You may not think you're even looking for love, but you have no control over the feelings of another person. So let the other person make an informed decision from the very beginning. It's the right thing to do, and you'll be doing both yourself, and him or her, a huge favor.

2. Love yourself first.

A good relationship develops naturally, over time. It isn't characterized by need or desperation. Do the things that you want to do. If you're a writer, write. If you're a photographer, go to the ends of the earth - or at least the county - for amazing photographs. If you are starting your own business, pour yourself into it and don't give up. Don't focus all of your energy on linking up with someone else, because guess what - it'll work, and you'll enormously regret wasting all of that energy you could have spent bettering your own life...and it won't be a good relationship! You'll end up resenting the other person, in the end, because you gave up so much to be with him or her. But if you remain true to yourself, do what makes you happy, and be honest with the other person, you may be surprised at what develops. On the other hand, if you jump into a whirlwind relationship and ignore yourself and your other desires and needs, it can burn out pretty quickly, and burn you out in the process. Keep this important tidbit in mind: If you don't have anything to give to yourself - if you can't make yourself happy - you have nothing to offer someone in a relationship.

If you love yourself first, however, you'll attract someone who also loves him or herself, and that's someone you'll want to be with - not a self-loather, a self-pitier. The latter is one who will be insecure, needy, clingy, someone who says bad things about other people because he or she doesn't like him or herself. That's the kind of person who will be afraid you're going to leave him or her for someone else any time you leave his or her house. If you don't like yourself, you'll attract this person, and you'll become each others' prisoners. Love yourself enough not to let this happen!

3. Be financially self-supporting.

Or at least, do your best to try to become self-supporting. People who don't support themselves financially are more likely to "need" someone else. And beware - "need" isn't love. I have two book recommendations for becoming financially stable: What Color is Your Parachute? by Richard Bolles and How to Get Out of Debt, Stay Out of Debt, and Live Prosperously by Jerrold Mundis. Take your time building yourself up so that no one can bring you down. In a sick relationship, if the other person is taking care of you, chances are he or she is rubbing it in and making you feel bad about it - but you need that person, so you can't do anything about it, right? Well, you know the saying, "If you love me, you'll let me go"? Apply it to your relationship. Start doing your own thing; make money for yourself doing something you love and are good at. See how your significant other reacts, and look for this warning sign: if he or she doesn't like you being happy "without" him or her - then it isn't love. You know the song, "Love hurts"? No, it doesn't. And that's another thing...

4. Don't take relationship advice from pop songs. 

They're riddled with messages of codependency. Read books instead (if you can afford them; if not, try to get the ones from #3 first, somehow). The Mastery of Love by don Miguel Ruiz and The Power of Now by Eckhart Tolle are probably the two best self-help books out there for people feeling empty, alone and in need of a "significant other" for fulfillment and happiness. Miguel Ruiz teaches you how to truly love yourself and others (I love this line: "If you have a cat and you want a dog, get a dog"). If you apply what he teaches, you will never again be in "need" of anyone's love, ever again. Eckhart Tolle teaches you how to let go of the past and the future so that you can be happy, right now. And, again, if you're happy and fulfilled, you'll find yourself attracting someone else who is happy and fulfilled (but of course, you may just become so happy and fulfilled on your own that you want to keep it that way!).

5. Stay at your own place.

When we get into a new relationship, it's easy to get swept off our feet and over the threshold. We just can't get enough of what the other person has to offer - it just feels so good, and it's so hard to say "No". But do your best to sleep in your own bed and have the other person do the same. Otherwise, lines will be blurred, and you'll find yourself living with someone else before you're actually ready, or you'll have someone else living with you before you're ready to make that very big step that should be discussed at length - with words - before it's taken.

It's important to hold onto your individuality as you get to know someone else, especially if you have a hard time being honest, loving yourself, and supporting yourself financially. It's very difficult to be honest with someone else if you don't have time and space to think on your own. It's hard to love yourself if you have someone else around all the time needing your love. And if you aren't fully self-supporting financially (or if he or she isn't - it works both ways), you're going to end up either relying on someone or taking care of someone before you really get to know him or her or let him or her get to know you. And then you're in for a difficult change when you realize that you aren't compatible after all, when you actually-truly-finally get to know each other's "real" self.

I say, if you haven't accomplished steps 1-3, don't even think about moving in with someone (and if they haven't accomplished #1-3, don't let him or her stay with you!). I'm sorry to say this, but, spending three to four nights a week with someone does pretty much constitute living there. Trust me, I know from my own experience how difficult it is to take it slow with a person you suddenly have very strong feelings for and who appears to be totally amazing (and you just want to be around that person all the time). I'm the type who often, very early on, wants to just skip the dating process, nail him down and say "I love you" and "I do". But that's never worked out for me, because, honestly - I'm still not honest enough, I don't love myself as much as I could, and I'm not as stable financially as I'd like to be. So I'm passing along my learning to you, dear reader, from my own vault of experiences; take it or leave it. If you leave it, then you'll learn from your own experiences, which will still be very valuable to you (and will confirm what I'm telling you here).

6. Set boundaries.

Being honest with someone includes stating when something makes you feel uncomfortable; setting boundaries means standing your ground and not engaging in said uncomfortable activity, or enabling behavior that makes you feel bad. It's not caving in; it's being true to yourself. You're allowed to put yourself first, and someone who is sane will respect you for it. Unless it's your child or someone you love who truly cannot take care of him or herself, putting someone else first is called "codependency" (something I mentioned in #4). It means you have to make someone else happy just so you feel okay (or, it means someone else has to be responsible for your happiness in order for him or her to feel okay). For more information about codependency, visit the Mental Health America website.

As I said before, it's difficult to say "No". But it can be the very thing that maintains your happiness. Even though it'll feel horrible to say at first, once you feel and appreciate your own love for yourself, you'll never again want to let anyone take that away from you. For further illustration, there's a very good article in the November 2013 issue of Psychology Today called The Power of No. Says author Judith Sills, Ph.D, "No is both the tool and the barrier by which we establish and maintain the distinct perimeter of the self." Perimeter = boundary. Self = you. Now that you know what love is, thanks to don Miguel Ruiz, love that self of yours. Protect it. It's all you've got, really.

7. Take special consideration when dealing with mental and emotional disorders.

Whether we admit it or not - and most of us won't - all human beings are "sick" in some way. But some are sicker than others. Yes, we ought to be kind, compassionate, and understanding with people diagnosed with grave mental and emotional disorders. And they, too, "deserve" happiness - but not at the expense of our own. Before you get involved with someone either diagnosed or perhaps not yet diagnosed with a mental or emotional disorder (sometimes you just can't help with whom you fall in love), you need to be willing to work extra hard to maintain your own sanity (which, believe me, will be tested).

First, if you are someone diagnosed with one or more mental and emotional disorders, I'm sorry for your lot, but do yourself and everyone around you a favor and please, keep seeing your psychiatrist. Or, if you don't like your current psychiatrist, find another one. But don't one day just decide to go off your meds because you don't like taking them any more, or stop seeing your psychiatrist because you don't like him or her, or maybe you can't afford the treatment any more (in which case, see #4). You are in control of your own self and make your own decisions, but, if want an intimate relationship with another human being to work, you need to be honest about your condition from the very beginning. Discuss not only what you do for maintenance but also any change in treatment you may be considering and what effect it may have. What you do will affect someone in a relationship with you (see #1). And, I'm sorry, but you'll need to accept it if your date or significant other doesn't feel able to deal with a different version of you than the one he or she has come to know under your current treatment.

On the other side of the table, if you choose to date someone with say, bipolar disorder, do the research on the disorder. Are you able to keep your calm and be kind and compassionate when your significant other experiences his or her manic highs or depressive lows? Being in a relationship with someone with a physical imbalance of the brain can be very difficult and taxing emotionally, but you'll have to accept certain things you cannot change. Perhaps it's anxiety, and your significant other can't join you in any social situations. Perhaps it's a sleep disorder, and the person can't help but stay awake until 3 am and only sleep until 7 am on certain days. Perhaps it's obsessive-compulsivity, and he or she has a really hard time when you move his or her stapler - I mean a really hard time. Whatever the disorder (or cocktail thereof), just be sure you're ready to handle it kindly, lovingly, and calmly, because you are going to have to be the "sane" one.



Thanks for reading my first advice post! I've decided to throw these in once in awhile in between posting about my memoir or my own relationship foibles. I'm hoping to have less of the latter, under my "new awareness". Here's hoping!

The Berklee School of Music Singer/Songwriter, part 7

*Breathe*

You know you aren't in a good relationship when, the second you get home and away from it, you do a little dance, make a little love to yourself, get down, jump up, heel click, sigh relieved and wax poetic to your room ("Oh, my sweet, sweet room"). Then, you pet your sweet little kitties and say, "I'm free you guys! Freeeee aaaat laaaast!" before singing a montage of Queen's I Want to Break Free, Tom Petty's Free Fallin' and George Michael's Freedom (the choruses, at least). Finally, you sit down at your beloved old desk in your favorite comfy chair with a cup of iced coffee that you thank God isn't expired (because you've been away so long that everthing else in your fridge is) and you do that thing that has never failed you: write.



Watching Californication, writing, watching Breaking Bad, and getting a bit of reinforcement from a couple of concerned third parties have all helped me with my latest monumental turnaround. After swearing off men and starting this blog last November to help me stay on track, I strayed - far - off course...and became engaged. And I completely believed, at the time, that I was doing myself a favor. Not that there's anything wrong with being engaged - if you're mentally/emotionally healthy and find a mentally/emotionally healthy mate, with whom patience, soundness of mind and mutual understanding/love grant you a relationship that enhances both of your individual, stable lives - by all means, unite! But, if you're a total sicko in need of a lot of help, and you latch onto another total sicko in need of even more help and who latches back onto you even harder resulting in the exponential waning of your individuality, self-respect, stability, and sanity, holy shit - peel off before you leeches reduce eachother to unrecognizable, unconscious fragments of your former selves, and get some fucking help, mutha fucka.

Check.

Now, back to the giving of "props":

"Californication" is the bizzomb. I simply can't stop raving about it, as you know. It shows, for me, an all-too-relatable character fucking up his life: Hank Moody (David Duchovny). Hank gets involved with every woman who'll have him instead of spending quality time with his dauther, Becca. But, he is an accomplished writer, making bank off these sexcapades (oh, I wish!). And yet, despite his sexual meanderings and over-indulgence with various mind-altering substances, I clearly see him as a better father than I mother, and, certainly, a better (or at least financially-compensated and well-read) writer. It's enough to bring tears to my eyes and make me question everything in my life (as I'm wont to do anyway, but I appreciate the extra nudge).

I don't know if God really exists - I choose affirmatively, but, I don't know who God really is. But, if "Writing" were God, somehow, I'd thank the hell out of It, because It just saved my little ass once again. Writing has helped me to see everything in black and white - literally (tom-tom high-hat). It's much more difficult to delude myself or play pretend when I can actually see the insanity on the page.

My former situation with my (very soon to be ex-) fiancé is in fact just as bad, if not worse, as anything I've gotten myself into since my (first) marriage. It's a downright dirty mess. I'm finally starting the "outline" for my memoir because I think there's at least one woman out there who's doing the same shit I have and needs to read my story as a reflection, and hopefully it'll give her the motivation to turn her life around (girl power!). But even more importantly, right now, I need it to help me, too; I need to rub my face right deep down into all of that nasty ass laundry of mine (literally, again - tom-tom high hat). I don't want to forget what it smells like, and at the same time, I want to stop living in it. So, memoir, come to my (and others') rescue! (It is exciting - I all ready have outlined up through chapter 9! And this is just the beginning...tee hee.)

Speaking of rescue...Californication isn't the only show that has given me a tinge of leave-his-ass inspiration. It's ironic - I stopped watching TV shows when I left my husband in 2011 except for any time I've had a boyfriend since (because whoever it is gets me to watch them, too...and one of said shows, in turn, inspires me to leave his ass). So far, Jason's had me watch the whole series of The Big Bang Theory, a few seasons of It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia and Californication, and we're all caught up on Hannibal. All enjoyable to me, I can't lie (The Big Bang Theory is what inspired me to propose and accept Jason for his Sheldon-like self, interestingly). But Jason had also been wanting me to see Breaking Bad for the longest time. Yesterday I used the excuse of being too busy to watch it, and I was - I was creating a photobook on Blurb.com for a photography client. But more accurately, the "punk" in me didn't want to see Breaking Bad, at all, because everyone in the whole damn world raves about it.

But I guess if "everybody" agrees on something, maybe that something kinda-sorta has a chance of being true. Jason put on the first episode of Breaking Bad on Netflix, just to spite me, and...shit, I couldn't look away for even a moment! Whatever I was doing completely ceased to exist. I then insisted we watch the next episode, and the next, and the next, until finally I had to ask him to turn it off so I could finish my project and get it to my client at 3 am, and he did. But I had to watch more today. And the first thing I'm going to do when I'm done posting here is, I'm gonna watch it some more. That's right, baby...2 am? Psh - I had iced coffee.

But, so how did Breaking Bad change my life, you might ask? Well, it prompted me to ask of myself, what would I do if I was told I only had a few months to live? Would I be living my life the way I am now? The answer to the first question is a hell of a lot more complicated than the answer to the second, which is an easy Hell No!!!

Watching Breaking Bad, and, reading real people's experiences with cancer, makes one, naturally, consider her own mortality. I also thought about death a lot when my friend Margo killed herself last year. And who do you think the first person who comes to my mind when I think of death is?

One of the last things my son said to me this past weekend was, "Mom, Daddy loves me more than you do, because he takes more responsibility for me." Yikes. I have to admit, I've been so caught up in my latest addictive relationship that I hardly noticed the impact it was having on my son as usual. It sucks - I was the one who had it all together when his dad and I were still together, but now, I'm the fuck-up. The truth hurts when it looks you in the eyes with tears in its and says you don't love it. You're too busy looking away.

Well, along with my son's truth, here's some more truth from which I couldn't look away:

And that's not even half of it. Not even a quarter. When I had said that Jason was "cleaning his room" obsessively, in one of my last posts, it's because he was throwing piles of crap onto his bed and floor, bringing crap in from outside of his room to add to the piles. His internal chaos was externalized. Ceasing to see his psychiatrist and going off his 8+ medications for his bipolar, OCD, anxiety, and sleep disorders and just smoking weed as a replacement made for a horrible thing to witness.

I knew from the beginning that he was "crazy". He told me so. But did I really believe him, or understand what he meant? Not really. I thought, "Well hey, I'm crazy - great, two peas in a pod." No - he's a different kind of crazy. Diagnosed. My therapist thought I might have a general anxiety disorder, but other than that, I (at the time, at least seemed to) have a pretty sane head on my shoulders. Jason, though...I saw many signs of instability - 25, living with his parents, everything in his room had to be in its own little place (and I mean everything - until the psychotic break), only part-time temp jobs, and a giant drawer full of prescription bottles, some that he no longer even needed but kept around "just in case". Then he decided, "You know what? My psychiatrist is expensive. I'm not going to see him any more. And I'm not gonna take my meds any more either. Yeah, I'm just gonna smoke weed. That makes me feel pretty good." But his version of feeling good included staying up for a week with only short naps; snapping at his parents, brother, sister, and me and saying such horrible things that made everyone either cry, scream or run out of the house; speaking so erratically and quickly that at times nobody could understand him; stretching for two days straight (that was weird); and prompting his mother and I to want to call 9-1-1 and be taken by ambulance to Aurora, a mental hospital where she put him a few years ago (but he appeared to stabilize the other day, so, we didn't have to...but I fled, and his mom is still on edge).

Despite knowing his history, I still decided to go into a relationship with him. And not just any relationship - 5 months in, I asked him to marry me. Why? I don't know. I guess, once again, I got caught up in my most averse addiction: Jason "loves" me.  "Love" = my Achilles' heel. At least, it was my Achilles' heel, until I cut my heel on the sharp razor blade of reality (yes, there were a couple razor blades in those piles...but no, I only stuck myself with a thumbtack...there were like 70 of those). Part of me still feels like I should stay with him, that I do love him. But, his insanity drove me insane, and I'm all ready insane enough as it is without him making it worse. And I've done the research on love (thank you don Miguel Ruiz), and I know what it's supposed to look and feel like. So I told him today before I left: "If you really do love me, you'll let me go." It sounds cliché on the radio, but I meant it. And...finally...he did.

Okay, I just gotta do this again:

*Breathe*

Ah, better. Never before this very moment have I so appreciated solitude. God, don't ever let me forget it this time.

This morning, again inspired by my favorite writing prof, I sketched a rough draft of my memoir cover. (And Rocco, don't worry, if they ever make my memoir into a movie starring Elisha Cuthbert, I won't let them put her on the cover, no matter how much they want to pay me...or wait...shit...let me sit on that.) Ugh, I'm a horrendous artist. But, I woke up with this morning with this image in my head, and I just had to get it on paper, however poorly rendered. In case you can't tell what it is, it's a bride falling away from her husband and child off a precipice into a throng of men (I only drew 16, but there should be 30):

I'll do much better on it next time, lol. And I don't know why all the guys are wearing Heisenberg hats. But that reminds me - time for more Breaking Bad.

The Memoir Outline: 4-6

(But first, a bit of rambling.)

I was just going back through all of my posts and "labeling" them. I have another blog, on Wordpress, with 271 followers. It's well-read, and that may be because I tag my posts on that blog. As a matter of fact, the tags are so effective that if you Google a certain word that I've tagged numerous times (I won't tell you which word), a bunch of my pictures show up in Google Images. That's pretty exciting. That, and, I think more people are interested in photography than about some chick losing her marbles and trying to gather them up again. I think actual marbles are probably more interesting than that. They are pretty cool-looking.

 

I had labeled my posts here on this blog in the past, but then I removed all the labels because I was only allowed 200 characters per "bunch of labels", and I had a hard time excluding certain ones. But, with my Google Images discovery, I decided to add labels back on to my posts here yesterday. 

In so doing, of course, I had to read through each post again to find keywords. And when I read them, I was more than a little embarrassed, and more than just a few times, I just wanted to skim over the incoherence and delete the post entirely in disgust. I dunno, maybe it's a good thing I only have one follower here. (But thank you so very much, you loyal follower, you.) 

I didn't really stick to my original plan for this blog, at all. I wanted to write about relationships I've had, from childhood through now. But there are many posts where I'm ruminating and trying to “make sense” of "everything" in a sort of "diary" or journal-istic kind of way. Begrudgingly, I've decided not to delete anything – who wouldn't want to keep a record of her own insanity? (That's only half sarcastic.) But now, I'm finally working on the real thing. The word is memoir (n.): account, biography, history, chronicle, record – those are some of its synonyms. I believe a memoir answers the question, “What happened?” Further details provide answers to who, when, where, and how, but as for the why – if I don’t have the answer to that myself, perhaps I oughtn’t tackle that question. At least, not yet. Or maybe I’ll leave that to the readers’ interpretations entirely.

I still appreciate my inventory - it was a good start. But, instead of picking men with whom I’ve been involved at random about whom to write (the word “random” here modifies the “picking”, although it could certainly modify the being “involved”, in plenty of cases), my goal now is to chronicle – chronologically – the who, what, when, where, and how, in a coherent fashion. I’m reducing each “chapter” to such minimal elements. I'm not interested in superfluous, mellifluous, figurative, and whatever-other-adjectives-make-for "intelligent"-sounding language. I’m interested in the clear facts, subject-verb style. I think of Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises, and maybe a bit of Stephen King (I always hated King’s style – such simple sentences got on my nerves). And of course Brad Land - I'm throwing quotations marks out the window for now, to save time (but I won't throw out periods or capitalization, most likely).

Ultimately, my hope is to get help with my writing at some point, and I think the best way is to start with nearly nothing, leaving room for plenty of notes. I prefer building slowly upon a foundation to repainting, remodeling, or downright unmerciful demolition.

I'll be adding much. I'll expand, expound, describe. I’ll have places in my outline where I’ll say, “Ooh, this will be a good place to go back to add a scene from my childhood.” That's what all the "good" memoirs seem to do.

But now that I've superfluously expounded upon writing, here's some more actual writing (again, bare bones, subject-verb style). Here's my memoir outline, 4-6, draft 4:

4

Evan and I have been having sex for two weeks, since the night I left Ronnie. I’ve been seeing Lyle back at the apartment every day and still working. I lie to Ronnie and say I’ve been going between my aunt Jessie’s and my friend Rochelle’s. I don’t tell Ronnie about Evan. I can’t live at Evan’s parents’, so I’ve decided to live with my aunt Jessie. I’ve been getting things from the apartment and out of storage and taking them to my aunt’s. Clothes, books. I used to live there in high school.

I’m in Evan’s car. We’re kissing. I love you, I say. Don’t use those words, he says. I’m sorry, I say. I guess I’m just so used to saying that, I say. Don’t worry about it, he says. We kiss some more.

Evan goes to work and I go back to the apartment to see Lyle and to get more things. I get in a fight with Ronnie. He takes the car keys away from me. I put a bunch of my CDs in a bag and sling it over my shoulder and I go out walking.

I go down Ammunition and turn left down Main St. I walk about a mile-and-a-half.

The Irish Pub. There’s a band playing. I go inside. It's The Clovers. I recognize the piano player. It’s Jennie. She and I were in the music program together at Mira Costa Community College, where I sang and she accompanied me. I drink a few bloody maries and listen to them play. I talk to some people I recognize from high school. Aaron Simpson wants my phone number but I don’t give it to him. I have a boyfriend, I say. I call Evan to come pick me up.

5

I go back to the apartment to get bill stubs for the dissolution paperwork and to spend time with Lyle. Ronnie lets me in, like he has for the past two months. Lyle and I watch Barney together while Ronnie asks me questions.

I get the bill stubs out of the closet and start putting them in a box. Ronnie comes in and starts taking them out of the box. You aren’t taking anything with my name on it, he says. I put them back in the box. Yes I am, I say. He grabs the box. I grab the box. He grabs my arms. Lyle comes in. I go to pick him up but Ronnie picks him up first. I punch Ronnie in the face. Lyle is crying. I grab the box and I leave.

6

I take Lyle out to the park on my days off. I go to pick him up.

Ronnie’s mom comes down the steps and I roll my window down. She hands me some papers, stapled, and walks away. I start reading. It’s a restraining order. I have to stay away from Lyle and Ronnie. I can’t contact Ronnie at all.

I scream and cry and beat my steering wheel and I plead with God. I turn the ignition, put the car in reverse, and then I drive to the courthouse, crying.

There isn’t anything I can do, they say. Just have to wait for the court date in three weeks, they say.

The Memoir Outline: 1-3

1

Family outing to the Oceanside pier. In preparation, Ronnie drinks.

Instead of going to the pier with us as planned, Ronnie has me drop him off at the Headhunter Saloon. I take Lyle down the pier for a milkshake and fries. Sunset, pelicans, surfers. We race and I pretend to lose. He wants to take off his shoes, but I daren’t let him. Too many fishermen. And splinters.

We go back to pick Ronnie up. He’s standing outside the saloon in a circle of people, smoking. He doesn’t want to come with me. I get money out of the ATM and give it to him and tell him to take a cab home.

I take Lyle to Chuck E. Cheese and wait for Ronnie’s call. They’re open late. I play games with Lyle. 20 minutes, Ronnie calls. They kicked me out of the bar, he says. I need you to come get me, they’re calling the cops, he says. I say too bad, and I hang up on him. Lyle and I play some more. He calls a few more times. I don’t answer. He calls again. I answer and I tell him we’re on our way.

I pick him up and take him to Weinerschnitzel to get some food in him. At the drive-through window he says, please don’t be mad, but I kissed two women at the bar.

2

Ronnie’s drunk. He’s banging against Lyle’s bedroom door. Lyle and I are inside. I’m holding Lyle close to me and reading him a book on the other side of the room. Ronnie kicks the door in and breaks the door frame. Get away from us, I scream. I’m calling 9-1-1, I say. He takes my phone. I pick up Lyle and get by Ronnie but he grabs my arm and pushes me and gets in front of us and blocks the front door. You’re not going anywhere, he says. He puts a hole in the wall with his fist. He walks towards us. I take Lyle into my and Ronnie’s bedroom. We’re both crying. Ronnie is banging on our bedroom door.

Ronnie stops banging and yelling. I sing and rock Lyle to sleep. Lyle falls asleep. I open the bedroom door and Ronnie is passed out on the floor in the hallway.

3

Ronnie and I are fighting. He’s drunk. We’re going to the courthouse tomorrow morning to get a divorce, he says.

I get my phone and my keys and my purse.

Fine, I say. Actually, fuck you, I’m leaving right now, I say. I fucking hate you and I hope I never see you again, I say. I go over to pick up Lyle out of his high chair. Lyle’s crying. Ronnie gets to him first and grabs Lyle and picks him up. I try to pry Ronnie’s arms loose. He won’t let go of Lyle. I stomp on Ronnie’s foot. He doesn’t let go. Lyle is crying. I’m crying. Ronnie is yelling. Thank you for the worst ten years of my life, Ronnie says. You’re not taking Lyle, he says. You’re insane, he says. If you’re leaving, then leave, he says.

I leave Ronnie and Lyle.

I go to my car. I’m crying in the drivers’ seat. I turn the ignition and put it in reverse and I start backing up, then I put it in drive and start driving down the apartments’ parking lot.

I pull out on Mission Rd. I don’t know where to go. I’ve been texting my co-worker Evan a lot lately, complaining about Ronnie. At work last week he said I should leave Ronnie.

I text Evan while crying and driving. I did it, I say. I left Ronnie, but I don’t know what to do, I say. Come over here, he says. I say, I can’t, that’s too scary. Then let’s get to the scary part, he says. I say okay.

I drive over to Evan's mom and stepdad’s house where Evan lives. He meets me on the steps in front of the house. It’s the first time I’ve seen him not in his uniform and cap. He’s wearing a button-up plaid, long-sleeved shirt and jeans, and his hair is flat against his forehead.

I park and walk up to him, slowly. He kisses me. He lifts me up. He carries me into his house as we kiss. He takes me to the living room and he starts taking off his clothes. I take off mine. We have sex on the recliner. Then the couch. Then the floor.

When we’re done, we get dressed and he cooks salmon, collard greens and mashed potatoes. He pours me a glass of wine, and him a glass. After I drink my glass, I try to put the cork back in the top of the bottle. I don't usually drink wine. Evan laughs. Usually when two people open a bottle of wine, he says, they drink the whole thing. I laugh and pour myself another glass. I don’t like to drink much, he says. It hurts my stomach, he says. I finish off the wine. We eat the food and talk.

We go upstairs to his bedroom and we have more sex.

The Berklee School of Music Singer/Songwriter, part 6

"Aspiring memoirist" doesn't do a damn bit of good without any actual effort on my part. And I don't have a job right now, so what the hell am I doing? I've been scattered. Trying to start a business doing way too many things. Performing, voice lessons, tutoring, photography, editing/proofreading, publicity...and not making a cent yet.

I was just laying here on my fiancé's bed in his bedroom at his parents' house while he plays Ben Folds on his keyboard, and tears came to my eyes. "This is what I've come to...I don't recognize my life any more."

The life I recognized was with my dysfunctional family growing up, and my fervent educational pursuits as my escape. Then I recognized being in love with an alcoholic, who made me laugh and kept me up all night long, telling me stories, but with whom I also fought belligerently. Then, I recognized being a mother. All that other crap that came before...blech. But that last thing...that was what life was worth living for.

I wasn't a bad one, either. I use to take my son out every day to mommy-and-me classes, the ones where you sit around a circle with a bunch of other mothers (and a few fathers) with their babies and toddlers to sing songs for half an hour until you took your kid(s) out to the playground for a couple more hours. Those were the days of glory, where in my memory the sun shines bright like the mythical gate of some holy place and bounces off the glittering sand that I would scoop into buckets for my little guy to pour out all over the toys in the sandbox. Real-life toddler heaven, it was. Of course, home was hell. But, as they say...better the Devil you know. (Not really...I'm not being sarcastic or cynical at all in this post.)

These days, my son is four - five in August - and I only see him on weekends, sometimes only every other weekend. Any time his dad asks if he can keep him again "this" weekend, I act like I'm hurt, or sad, or pissed, or I react in some way that hides the fact that deep down I'm relieved as hell to be left to my own selfish, albeit failing pursuits. When I do get my son - when I'm not offered an "out" - I try my best to act like a mother for a couple of days until I "get" to drop him back off with the guy I never thought would be a fitter parent than I. But so it is.

So, yeah. I don't recognize my life. Somehow I'm actually worse a mother than my own was. She didn't pay much attention to us, but she was there, physically. Behind a closed door most of the time, but she was just a knock away.

No, what I've become is my father. Like his, my dedication is to an other on whom I place monumental significance, an other who isn't the parent of my child but who satisfies my need for "love" in a way only a "significant other" can. And I don't have to do all that much to take care of him, except be with him...all the time.

I stood by him during his pyschotic break last week after he'd decided to stop taking all his bipolar/anxiety/OCD/sleep/etc. meds (that's what all the stretching was, a couple posts ago, a precursor to absolute unrecognizable madness that I can't even begin to describe at the moment). Sure, he "loves" me more than anyone has since my husband, #1, and #20 (the other two boyfriends who at least said they loved me). But, I remember when I left my husband, and, when it didn't work with #1, I "knew" that "love just doesn't conquer all" (and that's why I settled with #20 for awhile, because I didn't love him, at all - but my son did, and that's the only reason it lasted as long as it did, until I just couldn't do it any more).

I'm not sure why I've put myself in this position again. I put "loves" in quotations marks, knowing full well that the true word that belongs in its place is "needs". I'm with someone who would completely lose it if I left him. (Hey, that's a song..."As long as he needs me...I know where I must be...I'll hang on steadfastly...as long as he needs me." It's from the musical Oliver! and so says Wikipedia, "It is a love ballad expressing Nancy's love for her criminal boyfriend Bill Sikes, despite his mistreatment of her.")

As a matter of fact, Jason's mental breakdown came on the heels of me packing up because I wanted to go home, just for a night or two, to get away from his all-night manic cleaning episodes. There was shit all over his room, and he was up day and night bringing more shit into it from all over the house, obsessively. Yes, it was part of his disorder gone haywire, and somewhat beyond his control (although, did I mention he's decided to stop seeing his psychiatrist, and just smoke weed from now on?). A good fiancée would stand by her man in his time of need, I guess. But not I. I had tried to get away at least three other times over the course of the week, but he begged me to stay each time. So I did, reluctantly. And so here I still am...miserable.

I just want to get back to my life. I want to open my mail. I want to clean my own room. I want to take care of my cats, instead of just buying bags of catfood and dropping them off for my aunt, with whom I (used to) live. Not only that, I want to pet my cats. And I want to have space, alone time. I want to write my memoir. This blog is just a gathering of ideas. I want to write the real thing. This isn't it. This blog is like a little girl's diary, really. It's just...there's been so much wreckage in the present that it's been hard to just write about the wreckage of the past. It started with Margaret's suicide. Then I dated again - damnit - and that's the irony - this blog was supposed to prevent me from creating any more present wreckage. At least, that was the idea, if you go back and read my first post. I keep acting like getting engaged to be married is the ultimate redemption. I find Jesus, get baptized, start dating a guy in church, have a slip and kiss someone else, so ooh, I know, I'll ask the guy I'm dating to marry me, that'll fix everything - game, set, match!

It's all wrong. I feel like a prisoner. Getting engaged to someone just so he'll "know" you aren't going to leave him and he'll therefore hopefully "let" you leave his house, without freaking the fuck out, is clearly - how shall I put it? - fucking dumb.

I should have been writing throughout the course of our relationship so I could have gotten honest with myself. I was on a roll before this one. I over-analyzed the shit out of the last guy I dated (#29).

(And sorry, I just have to take a moment to laugh about Jesus being #28. A lot of good that did me, lol.)

(Oh! PS, #29 just got married, actually. I saw it on facebook. I wouldn't have been happy with that one, either, so I'm glad it was someone else and not me.)

"Love" - I've made such a joke of the word that I can't even take it seriously any more. And yet I say "I love you so much" every day to...what's the fake name I assigned #30? Oh, Jason, I think. But when I say "I love you" to him, what I mean is, "I don't want you to freak out if I don't say it back, so I'm going to say it back and act like I believe it, so that maybe you believe it, too."

But then...when I'm away from him - when I do GET to go home - first, I feel utter bliss. But then I feel so alone that I can hardly bear it. Even with my son with me at my house, I feel empty. Like something's missing.

I guess that's that "need" again. It's apropos to say that Jason and I "need" each other.

But my son needs me, too, and that one doesn't belong in quotation marks. I'm sorry, but I need to get my shit together. Watching Californication has changed my life. I just finished Season 3. Hank Moody is a better father than I am mother, a better writer than I, too, and, he fucks a shitload of women...which makes me not feel so bad. But it's not cool what he does, and he's has frequent downfalls. His daughter is currently pissed at him, in the episodes I'm watching, for sleeping with her 16 year-old almost-step-sister. But he didn't know she was 16, and he's got a good lawyer that he's fucking, so it'll probably all turn out fine (sarcasm).

Any way, Hank is a fictional construct. But...watching him fuck so many women and and still pick his daughter up from school and out for ice cream makes me feel like a total shitbag. I haven't even fucked that many guys - many of the guys on my list, atleast #20 and forward, are guys with whom I was legitimately trying to get into the relationship to end all relationships.

But it's still fucking lame, putting relationships with men above being a mother to my now four-and-a-half year old boy. This past weekend my son told Jason he hated him, and told me that Daddy loves him more than I do, because Daddy takes more responsibility for him. Those were pretty much his exact words. I hate to say that the kid is right. After four rehabs, his dad is finally doing really well. I'm the fuck-up now. I'm sober, sure, but that hardly means shit any more. I'm not going to go drink or use, because that would make this whole thing so much worse, and there's no need for that. But I wish I could. And why wouldn't he hate Jason? I give Jason way more attention than I give to my son. Goddamnit.

I'm still holding onto the hope that I can get my act together. I started the outline for my memoir. I still don't know if I should write it as a novel, or, "truly". I feel like I'd be completely damning myself in every circle of which I am a part if I write it as a true story. But maybe that's what I deserve.

But I'm not thinking of that yet. What I'm doing now is, I'm just writing facts. I'm writing a summary of things I've done and putting them into little chapters to be expanded upon later. Not how I felt, or what I thought. (For the record, I know that's a sentence fragment, I just don't care. And know that's a comma splice. Again, I don't care.)

In my outline, there are no motives. No self-justifications or rationalizations or painting pictures of people that make me look like the victim (because I'm pretty sure I've done a shitload of that). There's no answer to "why". What is, just is.

Jason was saying, as we were watching the show together, "Poor Hank. He just gets shit on, all the time."

"No. I don't agree with that," I said. "He does it to himself. He can't just fuck everything that has a vagina and a pulse and not expect his daughter and her mom to just be cool with it. It's not about him, in the end. It's about them."

"No, it is about him," Jason argued. Jason doesn't know how much I identify with Hank. I was crying today at Albertson's and Jason asked me what was wrong. "If I told you, it would probably end our relationship."

"I'll never stop loving you, sweetheart. Nothing's that bad," he said.

I still couldn't tell him. I couldn't say, "Do you know you're number 29 (not counting Jesus) in a long line of guys I've been with in some capacity since I left my husband? Do you know I don't even truly know if I love you or if I'm just with you to numb my pain? I don't even know if I'm capable of loving anything. I don't even love myself."

Cheating on him and breaking up with him in the beginning didn't work. So I'm not going there again. But I'm in fucking deep, here. We go to the same church; the pastor announced our engagement to the whole congregation a few weeks ago, at both the 9 am and 10:45 am services.

So now what?

"I believe in you, baby," he just said to me. He knows I'm writing, but he doesn't really know what about. I did tell him I'm writing my memoir. I told him earlier, at Albertson's, that he may not love me so much when I'm done.

The truth will set you free, they say. We'll see.