I've been reading blogs; sixtyfivewhatnow, non linear thinking, land of shimp. . . I've peeked into other people's lives in an intimate way. In a way I haven't peeked into some of my own friends lives. I've read stories that convince me that although each of our journeys is different we are all the same inside. What does that mean? Are we all normal, or are none of us normal - and more importantly, does it matter? Once upon a time it mattered, it mattered enough for me to want to cause my own end.
How do you sum up heartache, karma, your own self destruction? How do you tell a story in a few paragraphs that weaves throughout your entire life? How do you tame the big bad wolf enough to get him down on paper?
There was a pinnacle, a time when I felt at my physical peek and my mental low, it was the perfect storm. The perfect time for me to fall. I was working for a large firm in the financial industry, one particularly filled with people who embodied bravado and self-importance. I had a sense of pride working there, then that pride turned into conceit. I was a wall flower who had blossomed and then over-bloomed. I went from staying home and painting - never drinking, to attending company get-togethers and having drinks after work, and finally going out dancing and dating almost every night of the week. But I had this weight inside me, a voice, it kept telling me that no matter how much others thought of me, no matter what I did, no matter where I was, I would never be good enough. I would never be truly loved - the best I could hope for is that people might want me. I'd play this dialogue in my head day in and out, the soundtrack to my thoughts was "Jane Says" by Jane's Addiction. The movie of my life was "Eye of The Beholder". I had a whole world in my head of excruciating emotional pain. Pain I wanted to "share" - inflict on the source of my pain, men.
Sometimes this meant dating men for months and months and withholding sex, only to break up with them - they would never hear a peep from me again. Sometimes it meant creating a lie of love, where I would do all I knew would allow them to fall in love with me, but not me, really a character I created in my head. One who had all the qualities they wanted - and usually that character was nothing like the real me. She was someone I created through getting into the psyches of my victims and wearing their desires like a second skin. It didn't matter what they wanted, I would be that for them. And when I felt like they were engrossed with this false love, I would crush them like little bugs, and leave them. Some would get on their knees declaring their love for me, some stalked me, some cried. It's what I wanted. I wanted someone to cry as much as I cried, I wanted them to feel as worthless as I did. I wanted to devastate.
None of them ever really knew me. Most never even knew my true name, or where I lived - they never met my family. I was a piece of fiction, and although the men didn't care in the beginning, I tried to make sure that they did by the end - that was the only way I could get my satisfaction. It was an addiction. Crushing the souls of gorgeous successful men was delectable. It gave me temporary reprieve from my own pain.
One night I was with a man I had been dating for a few months. Sitting on his couch sipping wine and staring out of his window. He asked me what I was thinking, and I told him that I wasn't one of his patients - he was a published psychologist - oh, the irony! Then he told me how beautiful I was, how I had the shapeliest legs he had ever seen, how much he wanted me. It fed my ego and the wretchedness in me. It was what I lived for. He had a tendency to take it to the edge when we had sexual contact. We did out of the ordinary things - partially because I didn't want him penetrating me. He often got S&M-lite on me. That particular night my spidey senses were tingling. I felt strange, extra drunk, it just felt like something wasn't right. Then he kissed me, and began choking me. After a few minutes he stopped and I went to the restroom to compose myself. On my way, I saw handcuffs and a big sheet of plastic crumpled up in a corner. I felt queasy inside. I had been tied up before, but I had no idea what he planned to do with that plastic - it was creepy. That was enough for me. When I came out of the bathroom I excused myself, stumbled down the stairs and out into the street frantically trying to hail a cab. My mind was racing, I thought about all the times languishing in his bed at his home and beach house, listening to other women leave him messages about how much they wished he was there, and how I laughed at them. I thought about how superior I felt. Now I was in a cab fleeing from him. I knew I had to change.
I searched my contacts and actually gave some of the men I dated face-to-face apologies for breaking their hearts. I stopped dated for a year, and I did a lot of soul searching. When I decided to get back into the dating scene, I changed the type of person I dated. I focused on what was on the inside. That's when I met the man I thought I would marry. I liked his spirituality, his work ethic, and I loved the way he treated me. We created new experiences together that were joyous and wholesome. I was happy, for once in my life I was happy. I was normal. On one of our dates, I told him how happy I was. I told him I loved him, and he told me how beautiful I was. Uh-oh, I made a mistake. A few days later he called me and ended it.
I was devastated; I had literally dreamed of marrying this man. I loved him, I wanted him to love me. I fell into some vast gorge of hurt. I didn't want to live, I didn't deserve to live, and this was exactly what I deserved for what I had done all those years. For all of the hearts I crushed. For how cruel I was to so many. I grabbed every bottle I could find in my medicine cabinet and swallowed. Sleeping pills, cold medicine, anything and everything, and I laid down on my couch. It was midnight.
As I began drifting off, I heard the doorbell ring. I staggered to the door - it was my mother. How did she know? What was this? I let her in and I told her that I had broken up with my love. She made my some soup and watched me slowly eat without saying a word. I kept thinking, "I don't want my mother to wake up to a dead body". I was fighting to stay awake. I went to the bathroom and tried to throw up. Nothing came out. All I had was shear will power, I didn't want to tell her what I had done and be rushed to the hospital. That was one of the longest nights I’ve had, but here I am today - my mother saved my life.
Tomorrow, The Accident. . .
