Facepoop

I have to write. I'm exploding.

My Facebook posts are becoming increasingly insane, I suppose. I even ranted to everyone about how they should just let people post whatever they want to, let's just love each other, kum bah yah, and all that crap. But...people are telling me to see a therapist and write in a journal instead.

Okay. I get it.

I've been posting about the death of my son's dad (my former husband) and how it makes me feel. I mean, how it really makes me feel, with no sugar-coating. It makes me feel like the worst fucking human being on the planet, which you only understand if you know how I treated him, or if you've ever been a colossal dick to someone and had the power to help that person but chose not to and he or she fucking died. My own son said to me,

"If my dad were dying of thirst in the desert and you had a cup of water in your hand that could save him, you wouldn't give it to him. If my dad were hanging off a cliff and about to fall and you had the rope, you wouldn't give it to him! It's your fault he's dead! And sorry doesn't do ANYTHING!!!"

Fuckin' A. Smart, right, poor little six year-old. Goddamnit.

I haven't blogged about it as much as I've posted on Facebook about it, which is a huge mistake. It's making people feel VERY uncomfortable. 

I forget sometimes that this is why I have a blog under a name that isn't even really mine in the first place. Yes, I could simply journal and save this shit for myself, or I could see a therapist and save this shit for one other person, but goddamnit, I'm lonely, and I must wanna fucking share my shit. So what if I want lots of people to know what I'm going through? Narcissistic? Maybe. But aren't we all a bit of that?

My son and his cousin are home from school, sick in their room. My sister is home from work, sick in her room. And I'm just sitting here by the woodstove waiting until 10 am when the people at the damn health clinic are done with their damn meeting and can make appointments again, damnit. And I'm obsessing over all this stupid Facebook crap. But yeah, there are other things I could and should be doing, I guess.

Anyway, maybe Facebook isn't the place to express grief. Maybe Facebook isn't the place to express anything, period. One of my family members said she doesn't care for anyone's posts on Facebook, because who gives a shit about a post that's going out to 200 friends? It doesn't make her feel special, she says.

Eh. 

Invidia et Mortem

Invidia et Mortem

I'm not as beautiful as you are.

I'm less intelligent than you are.

I don't work as hard as you do.

I don't have a place to live like you do.

I don't have as many kids as you do.

I'm not married like you are.

I don't have a job like you do.

I don't have as many friends as you do.

I don't go to places like you do.

I'm not as aware of current events as you are.

I don't eat the variety of foods that you eat.

I don't have the kind of sex that you have.

I don't have as much money as you do.

I'm not as talented as you are.

I don't take care of my parents like you do.

I didn't get a college degree like you did.

I didn't publish a book like you have.

I don't volunteer for charity like you do.

I don't go to church every Sunday like you do.

I don't sing in the choir like you do.

I don't come home to do chores like you do.

I don't take my kids to experience things like you do.

I don't have the savings that you have.

I'm in way more debt than you are.

I'm not loved by as many people as you are.

I don't pursue my passions like you do.

I don't see a dentist regularly like you do.

I don't have the zest for life that you do.

I don't plan for the future like you do.

I don't challenge myself like you do.

When I think of you, I'll never be good enough, and I feel I should simply give up.

Then I realize...

You are the illusion on the other side of envy.

And you're killing me.

Popcorn, Anyone?

I sometimes forget that, about a couple of years ago or so, I sent a link to my blog to all my female friends on Facebook and asked them to read it. I was so desperate to share my story, but then I was so immediately embarrassed when I did that I stopped posting for awhile, shut down my Facebook account, and made my blog private so no one could read it. Once I had bridged the gap between Adora Fallbrook and the real me, it was scary. People knew the truth. But then...is it the Truth?

I'm constantly trying to figure out how to tell my story. I've wanted to be a writer since I was five. I mean, I have been a writer since I was five. But I didn't begin to write about the morbidity of my own life until about age 9, when I was watching my mom get pummeled and bloodied by her dick psycho boyfriend (that's the official psychological diagnosis). He was pretty shitty to my brother and sister and me, too, and writing about it was my way of surviving it. But a lot of people don't want you to think about your shitty childhood. They think, "You're grown up now; it's time to move on. Think positive thoughts." Me - I think of all the women and children out there who are still getting beaten and who can relate to a story like mine.

Catharsis.

But even my sponsor in sobriety wants me to be careful when writing about my past. Our program involves taking an inventory of ourselves, and she told me to pretend like I'm in a grocery store throwing away moldy broccoli and putting new broccoli on display. Don't rub the moldy broccoli all over your face and smell it and throw up over and over, just notice it, toss it out, and replace it (and God is in charge of the new broccoli, by the way).

So, I get it. I'm shoving the moldy broccoli in your faces and not even showing you the beautiful, fresh, new broccoli that God has made out of me and continues to grow. Sure, I could tell my story in ways that would show you that I am a triumphant, intelligent, loving, strong woman overcoming all obstacles - but instead I tend to go with the victim-ish, woe-is-me, can't-do-anything-right, guess-I'll-go-eat-worms-in-a-cave-somewhere loathsome-human-being-type voice.

And so, with so many people expressing their concern over the years, I now realize, "Oh. I see. My character is completely one-dimensional."

Before I left my husband on October 10, 2011, I had sought the help of a therapist. I've seen a few more since, but I had hand-picked that first one very carefully about a month prior to that night. I googled "therapists near [zip-code] specializing in love addiction," and found Dr. Blaine Carman (http://blainecarman.com). I wanted to save my marriage even though I felt like I hated my husband and was obsessed with the delivery driver at the pizza restaurant where I was assistant manager. 

I only managed to see Dr. Carman twice before I gave up and left Ronnie. But he did give me some advice that I'll never forget (which means a lot; I have something called "dissociative amnesia" as a symptom of my borderline personality disorder). He told me that, in the beginning of a relationship, we tend to wear metaphorical rose-colored glasses that only pick up on the good things about the person with whom we're in love. Near the end of a relationship, it's the opposite; we have melancholy-blue-colored glasses (I made that color up; he didn't give those ones a color) that make us see only the bad things about the person. So, one of the keys to a successful relationship, all the way through, Blaine said, is for us to notice both the "good" and the "bad" in balance, not blinding ourselves to either one dimension.

On this blog, I certainly dramatize and stick to the blue dimension instead of giving you the full, 3D picture, when in real life, after four years of therapy and recovery, I'm much more balanced. 

At least, more than I used to be. But I tend to write when I'm feeling either extreme, especially the down-side. That's how I heal it. I always feel immense relief after I write that stuff, even if it's only true in my head for ten minutes.

But I don't know - maybe we should all wear the 3D glasses for awhile instead.

Angels and Demons

My sister Nagela (I actually meant to write "Angela," but the typo is strangely fitting) and her fiancé Chester today sat me down for a talking-to. They do this with the best of intentions, each of them with their third beer in hand with many more to follow. The line of questions and comments was as follows:

"So you've been supporting Bernard all this time?"

"And you're going to keep supporting him when he comes up here with no job?"

"So why is it that he has no job and no money?"

"So this is his second DUI?"

"Do you know what happens when he gets a third?"

"And you're okay with that?"

"You need to make better decisions for yourself and your son."

"You have an opportunity here with Lucas' dad's life insurance to really turn your life around and do something good for you and your son."

"How do you feel about Ron's death? You know your sister Angela is here to talk with you. I haven't seen you talk to her about how it makes you feel. How does it make you feel?"

"You should get a financial advisor."

"You should work hard and get a good job so you don't even have to touch that money."

"You could find a good man up here, who works hard, who would provide for you and Lucas, who doesn't get himself into this kind of trouble."

"A real man provides for his family."

"If Bernard works the way you say he does, you're hardly ever gonna see him anyway."

"What about your meetings and sponsors and stuff actually helps you?"

"Are you going to find a place by the time Bernard gets up here?"

"You've been with him what, five months? And you think that's love? Do you know how many times we've heard this before?"

"Do you see how fast it's moving?"

There was more, but my stomach hurts. I'm pretty sure I undercooked the chicken that I put into the enchiladas before I rushed off to the meeting to meet with my sponsor and this cool old timer named Rufus. Total book-thumper, guru-type. The first meeting I saw him at up here, he gave me my now-sponsor's number and made me text her and ask her to be my sponsor right in front of him. I'm glad I listened. I have hope this time around that I'll actually get through all 12 steps. I didn't before and didn't make it. Didn't stay sober. Smoked weed over my resentment against Bernard.

Now, I'm on the 4th step again, on day 13 sober. I've never gone through the steps so quickly. But I'm doing it with the desperation of a drowning woman grabbing onto a life-preserver.

As far as all this other stuff, I have faith that God will work it out as I draw close to Him and begin to perform His work. That's how it works.

The Answer to the Previous Post's Title Question: A Big, Fat, "NO"

It might have been a whole two weeks before I begged him to forgive me and come back.

I made the decision to forgive him for whatever he did or didn't do, and decided I wanted to just love him.

Meanwhile, I had relapsed with Bernard on weed in October.

There're a lot of meanwhiles....

1. My sponsor dropped me because she said I was fucking my life up, and my best friend decided to stop talking to me for the same reason.

2. Bernard quit at the restaurant because the restauranteur wasn't respecting him.

3. Bernard, my son, and I went to Northern California to my sister's for a vacation.

4. We decided to stay.

5. I quit the restaurant via text.

6. We realized we should at least go back to clear out the apartment.

7. I came back up to my sister's (what fake name did I give her? Until I go back and figure it out, we'll call her Angela) with my son Lucas (is that the fake name I gave him?) so he could start school when vacation was over.

8. Bernard stayed behind to finish packing up and selling the entire contents of my apartment for a total of $300.

9. Bernard went to court twice to try and transfer his DUI case to Nor-Cal but was unsuccessful.

10. I haven't seen Bernard in about a month; he's serving this weekend and next weekend in jail, and then he can come up, maybe.

11. Lucas' died dad a week ago today.

12. I don't have a job or a place of my own to live; I had gotten two jobs that turned out to be Craigslist scams, since apparently I didn't learn my lesson the first time I got screwed on Craigslist.

13. My sister and fiancé are annoyed with me because they think I'm fucking my life up.

14. I'm fucking my life up.

15. I'm now 13 days clean and sober again and have a new sponsor up here and have started over on the steps.

16. I'm applying to be a cook/dishwasher at an assisted living facility if I can get my depressed ass out of this trailer bed. 

Yeah. Here I go.