I broke off our relationship last night. You were growing very attached. I wasn’t. I tried to make it about me, but I hurt you worse.
I am a flawed man, but not an evil one.
I’m sorry.
I am… A Victim of Abuse
You know how when you are on a road trip you pass signs saying what city is ahead? And in your mind you go, “Oh, I’m nearing Detroit or I’m in the Dallas area.” So somehow at some level you *know* where you are, but let’s face it, all freeways look pretty much the same. So you don’t really know what being in Detroit or Dallas or where ever means.
But if you need to stop – take a break from driving, fill up your tank – or the car’s – you pull off on an exit and you start to get a feel for where you really are. Maybe it’s the sports teams logos, or the architecture, or the people. But there’s something, and you suddenly get a flash of what it means to be in that city. Maybe you don’t fully internalize it, but there is a moment of insight, an “aha” of … “I’m really here now.”
So what does any of this have to do with abuse? Let me set some context.
I am white, male, well-educated, good job. Reasonable health, tall and relatively strong. People who know me might find me serious, but generally positive and up-beat. I have good friends and wonderful kids. From the outside, everything looks pretty good. But it’s what’s inside that matters.
I realized in the last year or so that I was being abused. Not physically, but emotionally. I knew it logically. I could finally see the road signs. And I acted. Maybe not fast enough, but I finally separated from my abuser about six months ago.
Since then, I’ve been adapting to a new life style. I’ve being taking control of my life and even gotten a promotion (of sorts) at work. Really thrown myself into the journey. The knowledge of what I had been through was still there, but it was just a fact.
Lately, however, my gas tank has been getting low. So I pulled off the road. I took Friday off work and ended up sleeping much of the day. Then I heard from my abuser again. And the pain came flooding back.
I was embarrassed. I should be stronger than that. Why was I letting her continue to hurt me? I vented to a trusted friend.
They made a very simple statement that shook me to my core: “You are an abuse victim.”
There it was. I am a victim of abuse. It’s going to take a long time to “get better”. And even when I’m passed the worst of it, I’m not going to be the same person I was before.
Those simple words brought me to tears. Tears of relief. It was okay that it still hurt. It was okay that I needed a break. I need to heal and maybe, just a little, in that moment, I was able to heal some more.
Authoring A Book
I have mentioned before on this blog that I’m a writer. Sure, an amateur certainly. I decided the other day that perhaps it would be useful to write a memoir of some kind, documenting the conditions of my childhood. In a way, I suppose I would like to see my own progression to this state on paper. If I ever complete it, I suppose it would help someone understand the nature of mental illness and how it can be one big event or many tiny ones that really trigger depression, anxiety, borderline personality, PTSD, etc.
The thing is that I’ve been remembering things that I hadn’t thought of in a long while. Like how much I loved the Dukes of Hazard when I was a kid. I would call my dad Boss Hog and make him buy a cigar to smoke. The thing is, I have always had this tendency to see the worst in everything. It’s not new, and it would be easy to place the blame on my ex wife.
Truth be told, I have always had this sense of not belonging. Whatever my condition is, I have always had it. To be sure, it hasn’t ever been so intense and difficult to deal with. But it’s been, to borrow a phrase, a death of a thousand cuts. Sure, there were some really bad incidents that went down. By and large though, I think it was isolation that really irritated this condition I bear.
Why are so many authors or artists also burdened with this malaise? Does the disease of the mind inspire the art, in an artist’s effort to express themselves, or are the traits of an artist a combination that is vulnerable to mental illness?
All I know is that for me, it seems to be a combination of these reasons. I suffer from insufferably high standards. This is why I am so pessimistic. Eastern thought cautions us against the formation of expectations, and boy do I ever have a knack for letting myself down. My standards are so high that I defeat myself. I realized this while I was playing fetch with my dog the other evening. I expect everything to be awesome and perfect the first time. Always have. And I am crushed by the letdown. Either because others didn’t perform to what I expected or because I failed in some way. Not that my dog wasn’t fetching, but only because my damn brain never stops thinking.
But both of these conditions arise from my expectations of perfection. It doesn’t really reflect on my capability nor that of those around me. Perfection is impossible. I cannot remember who the author was, but it was a book about recording music. He said that the pursuit of perfection is self-defeating, because the moment we get close to perfection, we realize how it could still be better. Perfection is an endless climb.
Idealism has been somewhat of a plague to me. For this reason, I have two books, several dozen short stories complete with another book in the works along side of a memoir. I know I will probably never submit them for editing with intent to publish because of my own expectations. They won’t ever meet my own standards, so why would I expect them to meet the standards of others? I need to kick that. I’m actually kind of a good writer and nothing ventured, nothing gained after all. Perhaps, if tamed, my sense of idealism can be an ally.
By-DigitalTreant
To The Bully Who Pretends To Be A Victim
Dear Jealous Person Who I Trusted To Be My Friend,
I have had to call in sick from work for the last two days because I have been feeling dizzy. My anxiety tricks my body like this, especially when I have been obsessing over how I have to defend myself to you. I realize I can’t, and am grateful that I did not let you get too close to my true friends, as I might have lost them as well. I am trying to see the positive, and I am grateful that spending more time at the gym means I have some new friends.
I used to feel guilty for falling for someone younger than me, but am grateful I asked him out. At least I could mend my broken heart. I have been out of your clutches for six months, and as I go over the friendship in my head, I realize the jealousy was there from Day 1.
I wonder what comments you made that triggered the end to my place in our group of friends. I now see how you manipulated people and put them down. I sometimes think I am crazy, but as I look back on the friendship we had, I hear the criticisms you made. I see how many times when I was happy you chose that moment to decide you wanted to go home, making me leave with you. I left at the same time as you because I was your friend, but now as I look back, I realize you couldn’t handle it when I was getting more attention than you were.
My headache is already disappearing and I feel like a weight has lifted off my shoulders as I write this.
Part of me wishes that our mutual friends believed me, but you have done your manipulating too well and have played the victim. I wish you well, but not at my expense. I am relieved to have escaped your clutches and can see my life is changing, and I am moving on. Part of me wishes you could see me now and how I have progressed, but that means I am still seeking your approval. I no longer need to do that. I am writing this, hopefully, as a final closure. Good luck in your future, and I hope the next pretty girl who crosses your path is treated more kindly than I was.
Your Former Friend
My Depression
I am unemployed. I have been unemployed since I was fired on February 10th. I worked at a pretty famous law firm, but it was in areas of law that I wasn’t familiar with. I also made dumb mistakes. Also, I felt that the other secretary (besides me) sabotaged my efforts to fit in at law firm. I was only hired in early November. I want to emphasize getting fired was my fault. I made too many mistakes; I’m not blaming anyone but myself.
I am taking being unemployed very hard. I feel like something has been ripped out of me. Part of my identity is my career, and it’s been taken from me, until I find a decent job. While I was growing up, my father owned a successful farm, and my siblings (I have six other siblings), parents, and whole family worked together on the farm. My parents farmed well and made a lot of money. They treated the farm like a 2nd religion. It was thought about, talked about, dealt with every single day! We had dairy cows and those dairy cows HAD TO BE milked every day (unless they were within a couple of months giving birth), twice a day. If they weren’t, they would suffer a disease called mastitis (which women can also suffer from). I didn’t like farming. I didn’t like working every single day from Sunday to Sunday. I hated getting up during the 5 o’clock hour, and still do to this day. I was the fourth son out of five, and the first son not to farm.
What I’m trying to say is that working has always been very, very important to me and growing up it was treated very, very seriously. So, when I see how my Dad and my siblings have flourished and I have been fired several times, it just hurts so bad. I’m just not as good as they are. I love working, and making money in my chosen legal profession means so much to me. Succeeding means a lot, possibly, too much.
The place I worked is somewhat famous. It was covered by major local newspapers, Crains, Reuters, and even once on Comedy Central this summer. I felt this was a golden opportunity. If I could succeed there, then it would be like a gold star on my resume. When I worked there, I had a sense of accomplishment. If I could even work there for a year or more, it would have helped immeasurably. But I didn’t. I came up short, my opportunity GONE.
My Mom, my brother, sister and I all have/had depression (Mom died). It’s part of my heredity, and mine has been made worse because I am now unemployed. I won’t commit suicide, because I owe it to my girlfriend and kids not to kill myself. I know how that would hurt them.
But, I wish I were dead. If if someone were to shoot me and kill me, and if I were allowed to speak just before I died, I would say, “Thank you!!” to my murderer. I wake up feeling bad. My depression is somewhat better because of my girlfriend. No one could ever ask for a better life partner. She’s so altruistic. I had a great mother, but even she was not as altruistic as my girlfriend.
I go to a psychiatrist. I take an anti-depressant. I have anxiety disorder and take medication for that as well. I go to a counselor. I go to Church every week, and that helps a lot. I know I should be happy that God loves me, Jesus died for my sins, and I am grateful for being saved, but I am suffering right here, right now.
I want/crave a legal job or something of comparable pay. I want it so bad. The very thing I want, is the very thing I’m being deprived of. It’s cut me down. I’m diminished as a result.