At the Edge of the World

I have come home in anxious pursuit of unlocking my mailbox to find that letter – that letter from the Los Angeles County Courthouse confirming my freedom, proof that my divorce is final. I have done this every single day for the past two and a half years. I have yet to receive that letter but I know that day will come. I know the day will come that I am no longer addressed as Mrs. (insert married last name), and my past mistakes can truly become just that – a part of my past.

Everyone jokes that a celebration is in order once I do obtain that piece of paper but I don’t find it a joking matter at all – I most definitely intend on celebrating in a very grand way. Ever heard of a divorce party? Well, it’s a thing and it will be a thing in my life – hopefully very soon.

I mull over the last two and a half years since deciding to end my marriage and that repetitive saying that, “life is crazy” doesn’t even begin to describe the roller coaster ride I have been subjected to. Life is downright insane! Life is a bitch as my mother liked to say. I’m a fucking survivor and I have to hold on to the hope and the belief that there will come a day where the fight, the struggle, the need to survive isn’t so necessary anymore. In the meantime, I’ll hang on to enjoyable memories that make my heart go pitter-pat and meaningful distractions that remind me of life’s greater pleasures.

I have been forever young, basking in the wondrous delight of indestructible spirits and I have inhaled the recycled air of last breaths, sharing space and time with destructive disease. I have spent lingering nights tasting the cool, crisp earth of immortal youth and reveling in its naïve sheen and I’ve laid next to death’s inevitable, unbiased truth, shivering in its finality. I have danced in the dim candlelight, made time stand still for an entire song and I have shed endless tears to a single repetitive chorus, red, swollen eyes shielded by a culmination of metal and plastic. I have soundly slept on winter’s sand at the edge of the world without the anticipation of another sunrise and I have wished to peacefully fall into a permanent sleep, one where my mortality calmly meets with a world I am unsure even exists.


The Guarded Heart

Two years can instill a lot of change and respectively alter one’s perspective though I still believe in love.

A Righteous Revival

A guarded heart is a difficult edifice to abolish but desperately hanging on white-knuckled to the reigns results in remaining in a perpetual state of unfortunate unknowing. The walls we build are constructed out of painful, past memories, repetitive heartbreaks and catastrophically emotional blows. We dwell and we dwell until a solid foundation is securely laid and these walls have something to rely on, exceptional means to justify their prime real estate location.

A guarded heart is an invisible barricade, a false sense of security that manifests itself tangible through the susceptible decisions we make and the life-changing opportunities we allow to silently pass us or in which we purposely self-sabotage. I’m the first to remind myself, “What’s for you will not pass you,” repeating it like a self-guided mantra down a dimly lit hallway of identical, multiple closed doors. It’s in the deliberation, however, where the guarded…

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Undelivered Letters

The saying that the pain is temporary feels like the opposite ever since all the tragedy.  For me, it feels more like happiness is temporary. Honest to God.”

The above were words I recently came across that I had written down about three and a half years ago. Unable to sleep, I was alone waiting for my then husband to come home like almost every other night he worked. He frequently did not come home rather staying out all night and getting drunk with his coworkers.

As I read on, it became apparent that the words I was writing were a sort of letter to David, however, he never read it unless he happened to snoop as I came to find out he had done in the past. When confronted regarding this issue shortly after my mother’s death, he claimed that he was doing so out of the familiar fear that I may be suicidal and wanted to stay one step ahead – a preventative measure if you will.

At the time, I accepted his defense despite feeling utterly violated and disrespected. And I accepted his defense because there was a part of me – that part that didn’t wish to exist in a world where happiness seemed a temporary state. His justification created an intense and provisional sense that he deeply cared for me – just not enough to forego staying out until four ‘o’ clock in the morning with twenty-something service industry personnel, becoming collectively inebriated beyond recollection.

I’ve also been dwelling on the details of my mother’s death.  On one hand, this is good for my writing but the problem is I’m not writing it down.  I’m just reliving the experience in my head.”

I went on to therapeutically write words to David with little intention of delivering them. To this day, I attempt to search blindly for compassion for a boy who couldn’t possibly have grasped the sheer anguish or recognize the incessant darkness that enveloped my soul and violently clawed at what was left of my wounded heart. To this day, I am unable to really grasp any compassion, unable to see through the warranted anger of a woman deliberately left alone, to walk through that dark all by herself day in and day out – no hand to hold, no ounce of respite.

Do I believe that David wanted to be a better man? A better boyfriend? A better husband? Yes. Do I believe that he tried unequivocally hard to do so? Absolutely not.

I often feel desperate and expectant.” I continued. Never in my life have I ever felt more desperate than the three years I spent with David. Coupling that with expectancies was a recipe for complete disaster and often leaves me pondering how different my life would be today had I made subtle but timely, opposite decisions. For example, what if the night of our first major fight I had ended things and moved back to Los Angeles? Or, not so subtle, what if I had never married him? I know that these types of thoughts are unproductive but it doesn’t hurt anyone, I cannot help myself and it makes for interesting writing.

I went on to type, “Sometimes, I’m able to think rationally and logically and most of the time, it just pushes me deeper into a dark place.” Today, I recognize that my “rational” and “logical” thinking had nothing to do with my feelings, my emotions – the inner turmoil taking place within the outer turmoil that I was subjecting myself to. Rational and logical thinking does nothing for matters of the heart.

I concluded this undelivered letter with, “I am hoping that this gets better once we move and once I find the strength to remain motivated, consistently.” I was clearly hopefully anticipating our move to Los Angeles from New York. “This” got better once I removed the toxicity from my life and “this” is continually in improvement mode. Los Angeles is thankfully just the setting for this righteous revival.

Unconscious Choices and Lessons in Loss

I found it deftly appropriate that I re-blog this post from March of 2015 following last week’s re-blog from March of 2014 as they are so closely intertwined.

A Righteous Revival

His rigid, expression stared down at the paper in front of him as his signature fluidly made its way into each blank space where it was needed. The unfamiliar scent of his heavy cologne wafted into my nostrils as niceties were traded and small talk was thankfully avoided. Any amount of pleasantries probably would have triggered my inevitable anger. David and I hadn’t seen each other in almost a year and I’m pretty certain I can speak for both of us when I state that this wasn’t exactly a meet up either of us were looking forward to.

The fifteen-minute exchange was all business this past Saturday morning at a valley Coffee Bean as I informed David on the status of our divorce while obtaining his signature in all of the necessary places. Eye contact was easily kept to the bare minimum what with the numerous pages of legal paperwork…

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Begin Rant

There are very few people that I don’t believe are full of shit. Because of my astute self-awareness, I’m beginning to recognize ulterior motives left and right. In other words, there are manipulative assholes every direction I turn. Now, I understand how absolutely cynical this has initially sounded but in a world such as the one we live in, how is it possible to not be cynical every once in awhile? If you’re not cynical every once in awhile then you’re one of those people I’m speaking of above – full of shit. Oh, what’s that you say? You’re inexperienced? Lucky you.

There are days when I feel like I’m the last real person on this Earth. Everyone is so goddamned disconnected, he or she doesn’t even realize when he or she is that pot calling the kettle black! I’m all about taking responsibility for one’s actions and I’ll be the first to admit I have become disconnected at times – many of those times out of pure will.

This week alone, I can’t count how many times I’ve wanted to wring someone’s neck and shout, “Are you fucking serious?!” It is weeks such as this that render the prospect of becoming a hermit enticingly appealing.

Don’t get me wrong I don’t enjoy feeling this way or sharing this type of shit. It’s negative. And it sucks. But it’s real life. Every goddamned day I am subject to sexism, racism, injustices and the list goes on. When I was five years old, swinging carefree on the playground swing set wishing I was one of the “big girls,” I wish someone would have said something a little more profound than, “Oh, there will come a day when you’re wishing to be young again.” I wish someone would have said, “Enjoy small tits and a curve-less body while you can because one day, those assets are going to be subject to unwelcome scrutiny” or “Oh, you think growing up is cool? It won’t be cool when payday isn’t a direct reflection of how hard you work.” Ya know? I’d call this, “Keepin’ it real with the kids.” I guess it’s a good thing I’m not having children of my own, huh?

And End Rant.