Hypocrisy, Thy Name is Anonymous

Anyone who REALLY knows me is aware that I am always open to correction.  I may not like having my faults pointed out, but I usually have the humility to accept criticism where and when it is due.  A real friendship in my eyes, is one where you can lovingly approach another about a fault/character flaw/bad habit and in true justice and sincerity point out the error of one's ways.

It's like that crappy, whiny song The Fray did several years ago.  If you really care about someone who is doing things that are bad for them, you run the risk of losing that friendship.  But a deep, abiding friendship between two people can usually help each other walk on a better path of life.

 Oh, The Fray, how I hate your whiny Gray's Anatomy theme song.  My ears bleed.

I had a dear, long-time friend call me today and voice some concern about the hurt and anger that I still carry around from the loss of my almost marriage.  And I do admit it is a HUGE fault of mine that I should work on.  I can accept her just criticism of me because she has spoken these words to me out of love and concern for me.

What I CAN NOT STAND FOR THE LIFE OF ME are those who dare offer council to me when they have done absofuckinglutly nothing for my life.  These people are called trolls.

And I had a troll post a message to me on my previous post WHY.  I raged for a few minutes then realized the absurdity of it all.

So this is what I had to say.  After all, these writings are my own fucking diatribes.  I'm not forcing a gun to anyone's head to read my drivel.  I am not emailing it back to ANY of my exes.  And of the people who read this blog, many do not know my ex fiancee.  So I can only conclude that the person who sent me this note is someone who I haven't spoken to in 4 years, but makes it their disgusting duty to read up on my life and report back to my ex.

• Anonymous, all I have to say to you is that since you lack the courage to give me your name (though I have a feeling who this is) I do not owe you any explanation. In the past 4 years, that is one thousand four hundred sixty days, you have not called me, nor written, nor text, or even sent up smoke signals, save for this and two comments on a previous blog.
  
  Quiet simply, you are a coward and you like to stir the pot. Why do you feel it is your duty to read what I write and then report it back to my ex? If he has had an issue with me writing, than it is his duty to ask me to cease and desist. If I were asked by him to no longer talk about the demise of our relationship, then I would do so. So far, I haven't heard anything.
  
  Also, if you actually read my blog, there is no way that I have ever insinuated that my ex fiancee was the man who was responsible for raping me.
  
  Lastly, and I'll be done here, the words "COUPLES COUNSELING" were N....E....V....E....R brought up.
  
  Oh, and one more thing, since this is MY blog and the internet is a public forum, this conversation is now fodder for my next post. So in a way, thank you for giving me a reason to write tonight.
  
  And I was so afraid that I was going to have writers block. 

 And in case this wasn't already apparent, I'll make this clear:

• Yes, I still bear the hurt that comes with being left at the alter, four days prior to my wedding.
• Yes, I still bear the hurt that comes with losing about forty "friends" in one fell swoop.  It's sad that of all those who claimed to be my friend, only two people of that former pool of "friends" bothered to call me.  I wrote letters and made calls to all those friends within hours of the end of my engagement and NOT ONE SINGLE FUCKING PERSON had the decency to call or write back.
• Am I a lot farther on in my healing than I was four years ago?  Yes.  Of course I am.  It was four fucking years ago.  And when I occasionally mention what happened, it's typically in reference to me learning to over come my fears.  Things well up in my head, and like a tea pot, I have to let some steam out.  But once again, this is my own fucking blog.

So now that I have blown off my steam, lest my readers, friends, or trolls think that I am an unhappy person, here's an awesome, hysterical video.  This will help wipe away the blood dripping from your ears, if you happened to listen to the crappy Fray song. 

PS- Troll, fuck off.  I'm a writer.  I write. 

Right In The Feelers

Over the past 24 hours I have been bombarded with so many messages of love and support that I can't process everything.  I can't believe so many people have reached out to me with words of comfort.

A friend messaged me, cautioning that I might have some triggers or flashback pop up because of Lord Douche Bag's comment, which I initially brushed off.  But around lunch time I was getting upset because I realized the sheer enormity of awfulness of what he said.

I am so thankful to each and everyone of you who have offered to take care of LDB, however I won't take up your offers for vengeance.  The most fitting punishment is that he has to live with himself, a worm-eaten, rotten, hollow shell of his former self.

I can't write anything more, because I'll cry.  Mostly tears of gratitude.  So I'll leave you with this to laugh at.  I hope my little brother will forgive me for posting this.

You Can Go Home, But You'll Sometimes Find Assholes There

Went back to my Alma Mater for homecoming yesterday.  It's been 9 years since I graduated, leaving behind the tiny college I called home for four years. Four long years of debates in the class room, thousands of hours procrastinating writing papers, and scrubbing toilets to pay for my tuition.

Got all dolled up in my Red Dress of Courage.  It has been 8 years since I saw many of these people, almost 7 years since I gave birth to my son.  I needed something to make me feel wonderful, proud of myself, and all the achievements I have made in the last 9 years of my life.  

Was asked by a former classmate if I enjoyed being raped. 

Was too shocked to come up with a good reply, but wish I had retorted, "Of course, why do you think I'm dressed like this?"

I noticed many nasty glances and pointed fingers but didn't care.  Was ignored by people who were my friends when I was engaged but who didn't even bother to call when my fiancee left me at the alter.

I went for me.  I went to prove that I could go back there and not be ashamed of who I am, of the path my life has taken.  I'm not ashamed of my blue hair, of my views on the world, of the fact that I write openly about my rape, struggles with depression and anxiety, or the fears that run around my head.

I went because I am so my bigger than all the nonsense that use to keep me down.

And for all that I say with a smile on my face, I might not be the best Catholic out there, but at least I'm not a hypocrite.  And I can live and strive to do better than that.  

All in my head

I went to an apple orchard this week. The weather was beautiful, the fruit was delicious, and The Kiddo couldn't stop laughing. I couldn't ask for a more picturesque setting. Yet underneath my happy exterior I was fighting to keep the voices that whisper mean things to me at bay.

 "You're quite pitiful and pathetic. Look at you, acting like child. What sort of 31 year old woman runs around on a playground, climbs trees, and dives into a ball pit? Do you see the other adults acting like you? The answer is no, dumbass."

When I hear these things, I feel like a fraud, a failure around adults. I don't have a strict 9-5 job, so my paycheck shifts around. I don't have my own place, I don't eat vegetables at every meal, and I take The Kiddo into cemeteries looking for weather-worn headstones. My days aren't planned out and neither is my grocery list.

I know I don't follow the norm, and some days I am fine with that. Most days I secretly hope that The Kiddo's friends will think he has a neat, adventuresome, somewhat quirky mom.

 But those voices can be so mean. I just want to be happy and love being me.

Why

I stopped writing a while back and it's taken me a good long while to figure out just why.  It's not that I didn't have anything to talk about.  Plenty has happened since April when I dropped off the radar: friends got married, I got a job, moved four states away, my friend died, babies died.  A lot has gone on.

Yet I have not written, which is one thing my shrink said I must do if I want to keep working on the things that dwell in my head.

I finally know why I stopped writing.  It's because I got scared.  I let the ugly voices convince me that if I were to write about the things that run around inside my head that it would scare everyone off.  I have grown convinced that if I lay bare the sad, angry, happy, silly, mixed-upness that is me that I will never find anyone who wants to be close to me.

Not to long ago, a friend announced that she was getting a divorce and that really upset me.  She battles with mental health demons and I know that must have been a stress point in her marriage.  My bizarre little brain tells me that even though I'm not involved with anyone, if in the future I do have a counterpart, he'll probably realize I am a bag of crazy and not want to deal with me in the long run.  Basically I've spent months being upset about a scenario that doesn't exist in this dimension.  I've been paralyzed about a future that is not there.

I know it doesn't help that the baggage that I still haul around occasionally falls off the luggage carousel and I have to re-pack the contents before I close them again.  I hate being reminded that my son's father left me because he was too weak.  I hate that his family packed me up on an auto train and shipped me away.  I hate all things that were said to me, implying that I was not fit to be a mother.

I hate that when my fiancee dumped me at the alter, claiming that I was not trustworthy and would probably have an affair, still angers me.  He came from a broken family, which saddens my heart.  He had problems that he was unable to see, but I still loved that foolish boy.  I know that I would not make the same mistakes and get involved with someone so damaged, but I am still afraid of trusting someone again. 

Like a child that hides under the blankets to avoid the scary monsters in the closet, I am afraid that if I poke my head above the covers I will discover there is no one who wants to be near me.  That I'm the crazy monster in the closet.