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lasagna love: a letter to your ex

I’ve waited a long time to do this. I think about you a lot. I want to know what you think, what you felt, what you experienced. He told me on his birthday that you both made fun of me for missing key points of persona in a blog but when I went back to read the blog, I only mentioned your big brown eyes and southern charm. I’m sure this could be true, my ENFJ. I used to be you. I watch you cook wonderful meals remembering when, I, too gave a shit about the chemistry of baking. Cinnamon rolls at high altitude were a thing I just never mastered. But, I bet you would.

Why did you leave? Are my hunches right? More importantly, why did you stay? I’ve never encountered a more controlling person although I have a tendency to pick those who will create the pain I sometimes can’t muster in my thoughts. I talk to vets, PTSD sufferers…we all say the same thing. We crave the pain. We crave the fast heartbeat, the impending doom of death, a hand in ice water turning red, so red like blood that comes from my knees when I fall uphill. I know you can climb uphill, I know you climbed a mountain everyday waking up with such a volatile person.

Am I obsessed with you? Depends on how you look at it. I want validation so bad because I’ve been going crazy the past year trying to understand what the eff is wrong with me that I can’t seem to hang on. I’m told that I’m more passionate, my kisses tell him I’m into the whole thing. But, I’m forever compared to you in day to day activities. I can’t pack his shit or know what he needs for a bike ride. Your diet chart still hangs in the kitchen with a Venn diagram comparing the regiments I’m sure you supplied through constant complicated cooking and domestic endeavors. Did you get him addicted to salads? Cuz I got over that kick in my own diet adventures but slowly want to come back realizing the value of compost. If I don’t eat these greens, the worms will.

Did worms take the hard clay of your heart and make it soft? How did you soften toward him after he threatened to beat the shit out of your new boyfriend? Why do you taunt him with constant phone calls, home ownership, talk of “healthy” relationships? I don’t think that’s ever happened for either of you. That’s not a judgement but a wish that I, too, could just put up with the idiosyncrasies. The statements that make no sense at all. Whatever partnership you cultivated after marrying only 4 months into dating confounds me. What I know of healthy doesn’t fit in between the layers of the story. Did you just put straw on the top of the garden of your heart to keep warm?

It feels like triangulation and “y’all” continue to talk and talk of your new lovers, I’m sure dissecting our faults like you had to have ignored in your marriage. He talks of a friend who says you were perfect for each other and I listen suspiciously as this friends cultivates dislike for others around him and speaks of his last failed relationship in terms of nostalgia. I want to know the tiny moments that were strung together to create peace. Because, with him, my peace comes second. I hide myself from him just as I hide from you. He texts me your number and I know I will never press that 505 area code into the buttons of my too-often-checked phone. I don’t know what to say–but here at a safe distance I offer up my heart.

If I can’t leave either of you be, I’m sure you can’t leave each other be. I often wonder if marriages are feigned to avoid the ever exhausting task of keeping others interested. Well, if this friendship doesn’t work out I have something to come home to. But, why did you allow his put downs? He speaks of you as an idol and as garbage. He says he spent a year crying over the whole thing but claims he planted the seed talking of divorce. How do you keep quiet? What am I missing? I know the way I am won’t work with the way he is but can we really be that different? Are you like me and recognize your own power in the whole thing and tease him as he teases you? I’ve ended unhealthy friendships to move forward. When will you get off the sinking ship, clinging like barnacles on a boat?

I wanted to major in chemistry just like you and so I know you are intelligent. As and ENFJ I know you feel the world deeply and want to help. I wish you could have helped me by setting boundaries that let him let go of control of you. It would have been transferred to me but at least the supply would dwindle. He could just bring his Texas/Utah Instagram mirage here to get back at you but you wouldn’t keep that unhealthy tether going. Cut it off. Cut him out. Let him have his tattooed girls with words that sound pretty but a reality that would drive him crazy. You and her must like to please people a lot more than me because I think I may be despised. And, I’ll take it.

What do I really want to say? I admire your courage for staying so long. I admire you for keeping quiet about your innermost thoughts. And you both can say I’ve gotten it all wrong but I will never know. So, I make guesses. I create characters. I string together meaning through what little I know of what happened. I see that you both have stopped cycling like you used to. I have some running partners, too, and I know the connection. There’s very few who can go the brink of physical exertion and not fall off. But, that’s the thing. You fell off. Stay off. Give yourselves a fighting chance at peace and compassion so that others can fit into the layers, too.

“You can love someone so much…But you can never love people as much as you can miss them.”
― John Green

 

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the other way around

I walked away from her because she was too busy finding faults in me while I was too busy overlooking hers.  Constant negativity, blogging, arguing.  I remember the day I met her in South Fork.  I was running late, I’m on my own time really, like snow I come and go.  I picked up a hitchhiker because I’ve got the view that my heart is as big as a man-made reservoir in the desert, over-fished and filled with swimming teenagers.  I remember when I was a gangly teenager busy worshipping and preaching on the pulpit singing the promises of eternal life.  I still feel those steel beams that framed out my tall body and supported how I would treat women for years to come.

She got out of the car right away and didn’t make eye contact but started to pet the hitchhikers dog right away.  Dogs seemed to like her but I can’t help but want to pour out the words “dogs are ignorant, that’s how you fool them”  and now I know she fooled me.  I had read part of her blog and she had mentioned she has a past with addictions.  I was fascinated having just ended my 10 plus year relationship with a nice southern girl who sometimes drank too much, embarrassed me at parties “I’m just being myself” she would say but I was very focused on her behaviors that affected my image.  That self she created started to unravel as we saw other people and I made my theories of polyamory.  We reserved the right to love many people at once, to have so many princes and princesses to give all the love we had.

That love unraveling, this new girl finally looked up at me with big soft brown eyes but they just reminded me of my southern girl.  They both had the same personality type but I seemed to like this INFJ better than my ENFJ.  She was rare.  A new addition to my life of collected people, collected ideas, pieces of a puzzle of understanding put together in a way only I can see.  She stepped over to her trunk and grabbed some beers.  I felt a little shiver of surprise as I unpack my own thoughts on addiction.  Why can’t you just stop? Why can’t you just work harder?  I’ve always known myself to get what I want, to quit what I can.  A tinge of frustration crosses my furrowed brow when I think about the addiction of my ex-wife.  Cut off like flask of brown cheap whiskey from the hands of an old, trembling cowboy.  I still needed her to steady myself.

And here was this woman–she talked so fast and quiet I felt myself nodding and smiling half the time to carry on the conversation.  She had so much to say.  We drove up to a campsite and the hosts bumbled up on a golf cart and I kicked in the charm and grabbed on to the sweater string of my southern accent, unraveling a story about not knowing there was a fee in this area, and then asking questions about the weather, whatever cordial human conventions I have learned and studied over the years.  And she hopped right in, grabbing the threads of manipulation right along with me turning the thin cords into reigns of a chariot of lies with horses I would hear clomping into my life so many more times.  I was glad to have someone to hike with, glad for the distraction, I had no real intentions of real or genuine love.  I was already courting another woman in Texas.  I was carrying on with polyamory.  She fascinated me initially–a bit negative a bit intense but those wild, wild, horses didn’t scare me.  I would tame her.

She always harped on me for calling her a bitch.  I am soft-spoken, gentle, supportive.  I love the language of feelings and I openly share my insecurities, my fears, my emotional injuries.  My words are sprinkled with my thoughts of developing closeness, working out our issues and facing up to hard things about myself.  But, I don’t need therapy.  I’m not weak like that.  I don’t want to pay money–I’ve learned a lot in my life and I’m certain I know more than any shrink.  I feel like she made it her business to hurt my feelings constantly like a summer hail storm that just won’t stop, tearing the flaps of the tent of my heart beating down on the poles of my existence.  She was forever saying unfair and insensitive remarks.  Like how I stayed in my marriage because of Christianity or that my friends were ski-bums.  I love my friends and I love my ex wife.  They do what I need them to do.  She, she treated me with profound cruelty blaming me as if I was some kind of abuser.  You just can’t control me–that’s the thing.

She sometimes gave sincere apologies and would accept responsibility for being anxious.  Mentally ill.  Negative.  Explosive.  Always yelling.   I’ve learned her language though, that pop-psychology and I knew what she needed to let go.  Why can women call us assholes but I can’t call her a retarded bitch?  She really was, sometimes.  Seemed to lose her mind when I was just trying to help her understand.  I would tell her how the world works as she cooked, as she showered.  I just know about the world a little more.  I’ve gone through so much, I’ve achieved so many goals.  I grew her burden of guilt because so many things really were her fault.  She picked me apart showing me my rough edges that I kept rough on purpose.  I can threaten and intimidate to save my view of the world.  There are facts, there is science and I will not exist in the grey thunderstorm of her theories.  I found the trailhead of her self-destruction and went up, up not looking down at the swatch of destruction I left behind or her wounded at the bottom of the hill.

I’m against the macho men, so I couldn’t be abusive.  As long as I use a lot of psychobabble, no one is going to believe that I am mistreating her.  As long as I post memes about my innocence and find other mentally ill women to mentally and sexually validate me–I’m not in the wrong.  She said its not a good idea to dismantle the defense mechanisms of a client if they are working.  Well, hers weren’t working, nothing about her really worked.  I pointed that out.  I can control her by analyzing how her mind and emotions work, and what her issues are from childhood.  I don’t know much about her dad but I imagine her dead daddy issues kept her leaving with her push-pull like a carnival ride blasting classic rock and smelling of corn dogs and smokes.  I can get inside her head whether she wants me there or not.  Its important to be inside her head to dissect her irrational thoughts.  I am a critical thinker.  She just believes in horoscopes and energy. Nothing in the world is more important than my feelings.  She should be grateful to me for not being like those other men.

I am not like those other men.  I’ve done so many amazing things.  How can you limit it to one: Climbing the active Arenal volcano in La Fortuna Costa Rica. Snorkeling the blue hole in Belize on a multi day dive boat trip. Mountain biking the Leadville Mountain Biking Marathon in 10 hours and 13 minutes. Skiing 65mph and hucking big fast jumps at Wolf Creek Ski Area on my first season learning. Inflatable kayaking the exploratory run of the Weminuche Creek with less than 5 days on a ducky ever. Rowing a 14′ Custom Cataraft down the Class IV Piedra river, upper and lower box, with less than 5 days of rowing experience.  Don’t you see how special I am?  I’m an outdoor geek. I love boating, biking, camping, traveling, and techy stuff. I like tweaking stuff to be better than intended.   Just like I tried to tweak her.  I was just trying to make her better–she was not yet my equal.  When store-bought stuff often doesn’t fit me or my needs I love the challenge and reward of tackling and overcoming these issues by building my own custom solutions. I love pushing my equipment and my body toward their limits and analyzing the results later, usually over a beer and a bowl.

She wouldn’t let me push her to be a better version of herself.  I’m self-taught.  I can see through her six years of college.  I know more than her with just my associates in Welding/Fabrication at community college.  I don’t need professors or boards to tell me how very brilliant I really am.  I can see through her counseling license.  I’m just smarter.  Just better.  Her soft voice–just manipulation.  And so as she penned another letter to me about how much I had changed her life–I scoffed.  Words mean nothing and actions are everything and watching her shaking and wide eyed just made me laugh.  Negative bitch.  Creating her own drama exploding everywhere like a bloated bird eating any morsel of rice that validated her crazy behaviors.  I knocked on her door for twenty minutes because I am a caring man.  I went to her job to get her fired because I really care about the kids of Pagosa.  She should have apologized to all my friends for pointing out alcoholism, dangerous behaviors, mental illness, domestic violence charges, child developmental delays.   She needs to look at herself.  I never was, and I never will be, the problem.

 

“Immodest creature, you do not want a woman who will accept your faults, you want the one who pretends you are faultless – one who will caress the hand that strikes her and kiss the lips that lie to her.”

― George Sand, The Intimate Journal

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dark intellect

I have always trusted my brain.  It’s the one thing I can always count on.  I know I’m smart.  My parents thought I was smart and sent a weird red-bearded man to test my IQ in fourth grade.  I would become agitated that I was pulled out of class to be with a man who generally gave me the creeps.  He was a specialist I think, not a familiar figure in school and any interruption to my routine would distress my system but I always did what I was told.  That’s how God wanted it to be.  He asked questions about how I knew water was boiling.  Well because it bubbles, bro.  At the end of the cryptic visits I was pulled into the principal’s office.  “Jennifer, would you like to skip to 7th grade?” I was in fourth grade, about 5’9″ inches, fluffy black hair, big hips, and gigantic purple glasses.  God, no.  I’m a social pariah as is–I know that.  Please, no.

I stayed in the same grade and some of teachers didn’t feel I was living up to my potential.  My first “B” came in work ethic. Straight A’s in every other subject but more was expected of me.  I still don’t know my IQ to this day but clearly I wasn’t meeting the expectations of whatever that number proposed.  One day, the white bearded librarian came to our classroom to play a rousing game of chess against me while the entire class watched.  I wasn’t worried–Dad had taught me well and my patience and strategy didn’t quite get me to victory that day but a stale-mate that must of somehow reflected my place in the world–I was moving around my chess pieces in simultaneous offense and defense.  Smart enough to win, smart enough to not care.

Being intellectual is a gift.  I can think my way out of so many problems.  I can create a safe world in my mind and write stories of how my mind works.  I can mimic trauma in non-fiction.  I can metaphorically write about the details of my life connecting them to the bigger picture.  I see the nuances and also the bird’ eye view of life and philosophy.  I can contemplate God.  Somehow, I thought my intellect was a much stronger defense than it panned out to be.  I still have a hard time understanding some of the events that have happened in my life.   My brain was wired well enough to forget most of the bullshit.  This year my mind has turned against me and memories have come back.  Painful.  I thought I was smarter than that.

I walked into work one day and asked my co-worker who was a boxer about what happens when you get hit. I hadn’t been able to hear out of my right ear for four days.  During sex, my boyfriend had punched me so hard in the face I stopped being able to hear.  “It’s called boxers ear, Jen.  You should be fine.” This boyfriend and I were into some obscure shit.  We liked to listen to heavy metal and muse in our anti-social tendencies.  One time I lit a marijuana pipe red hot and pressed it into my thigh.  I asked him to choke me until I would almost pass out.  In the world of sex–these were not off the beaten path.  Folks have kinky sex way more often than we want to admit.  This was, for the most part, normal sexual behavior.  But, I didn’t ask him to punch me.  I didn’t know he would punch me.  He hurt me on his terms.  Weeks or months later, who knows, I ran sprinting back to my house after he had dumped me on the side of the road.  I ran and ran to get back to safety and the door came swinging open.  He would always find me.

My Dad died in 2008 and it fucked me up really bad.  I choose the words I am saying and fucked up isn’t strong enough.  My world imploded.  My true north ceased to exist.  I shacked up with a guy who’s name I can’t even remember.  I didn’t even remember he existed until this year.  Back in the college days of drinking and debauchery bars would often make special glasses for mixed shots–i.e. like a Jager bomb.  Plastic shot contained within a glass where Jager would go and then surrounded by Red Bull.  I don’t know how it all went down but I remember my nose and mouth being covered by the giant hand of some strong iron-worker from Arkansas as he watched my eyes turn red.  Before I passed out I smashed the pink plastic cup into the side of his head and felt the small plastic bits crumble in my hand.  Goddamnit, I was going to survive. I fell asleep next to him on an air mattress that night waiting for my inevitable arrest because he had choked me out again while I was driving a few days before.  Third DUI, second violent relationship.  Where the fuck was my brain.  How could someone so smart be so stupid.

This summer I met a very nice guy with whom I felt very connected.  He was long and lean and didn’t mind my quirks and didn’t seem to want to humiliate me during sex or choke me for no reason.  I am so desperate for love that I crave any attention with someone who sees my brain.  He saw and appreciated my intelligence and I felt we could play chess and talk of our family dynamics forever.  I attach to folks so strongly, without a daddy.  Without any role-models of healthy relationships.  He became my world as I had moved from my home in Wyoming where folks didn’t care I was burned, kicked, punched, choked probably because I had forgotten any of it had happened.  I was called Crazy Jen for so long I figured that’s what bitches like me deserve.  Shit talking.  Dirty looks.  Sometimes, the crazy went in my favor and back in the day I would get free drugs as long as I did them intravenously in front of the dealer.  See me fucked up.  See me with no brain.

All these memories came back in a hotel room in Canon City, Colorado.  “You are so fucking damaged, Jen.  I feel sorry for you.”  Ahh shit.  He was right.  I was damaged.  I didn’t remember those events that had happened.  But I deserved them, right?  I lashed out in anger when I was attacked.  When I was told that I wasn’t going to be in someone’s life because they didn’t want to have a “crazy girlfriend” I knew they were right.  I made someone burn me.  Punch me.  Choke me.  My crazy brought about violence in others.  I was playing this game of chess to the best of my ability and I was letting folks down. That fourth grade class of blank eyes stared at me and watched me falter with every move.   My work ethic was a “C” at best.  I wasn’t trying hard enough.  I was being lazy and smart and should be in the 9039320th grade of relationships, not the second grade running away every time I was called a stupid bitch.

This is what is so hard.  I’m smart.  I’m kind.  I’m a counselor.  I was a victim’s advocate for years.  But, these things still happened.  I still let into my life 3 very violent men who intimidated me.  Who physically abused me.  Who emotionally degraded me.  Yet I still see this as my fault.  I know I’m mean and cruel but I know what has happened to me.  I didn’t make it up but that’s also shady to me as well.  How could someone forget being punched, burned, kicked, and choked?  How could someone with so much sense end up in hotel room after hotel room being told what a horrible piece of shit I am?  How could someone who had been to the emergency room several times with sexually assaulted women end up in the snow one snowy night in February 2017 shaky and scared calling the police to please, please don’t come out because in Colorado in domestic violence calls, an arrest is mandatory?

I am doing the very best I can.  I just submitted a $960 bill for therapy starting in January before that cold February night when I remembered some childhood beatings that I still doubt. Because I trust my brain.  This brain has gotten me scholarships, offers to skip grade levels, exemplary marks on standardized tests, its reasoned its ways out of these places.  I still don’t know if I believe any of this was abuse.  I’m just a strong-headed, weird, negative, and perhaps hard-to-love person.  If I was sweet and kind in spirit as I feel in my mind then I would stop this cycle.  The only thing I want today is to call any one of these men to come over and embrace me and then tell me what a fuck up I am.  Yes, yes, second in words what I feel in thought.  I am fucking retarded, I am too much to handle, I am not worthy of a faithful man or of someone to sleep next to at night.  My brain has been hard-wired for torture.  Whether it be self-torture of this entire blog or of the words of any man who I’ve held dear telling me of my inherent worthlessness.  I think, I feel, my brain can no longer be trusted.  That knot in my stomach was right.  My sweaty palms, my hunched back.  My body knew what was about to happen.  But how could I leave the very thing that helped me to survive?  I can leave these men but how can I leave my mind?

I played chess the other day and struggled hard to explain how it’s played.  It’s through tact.  Foresight.  Observation.  Strategy.  Patience.  Willingness.  I think I can say I have been a victim of abuse.  But I won’t leave that statement at just that.  I have been a victim of my own mind thinking I was exempt from shitty relationships.  I am a strong woman with strong trauma and these two do not want to tango.  I received minimal support in this last abusive relationship and am pretty sure I was seen as the problem.  I get nasty in intimacy because intimacy means I will get fucked up.  So I give myself some grace.  But I have very little grace for how I acted in defense of my well-being.  I am still trying to live down some ruined relationships as I existed in months being told how I was the cause of any problem that happened in my life or in his life. So, I write this shit down to let it go.

I think I can trust my brain again.  Its thinking in terms of case conceptualization and in clinical terms to help my clients.  If I look to my own case I see many trauma responses.  I see a childhood of dysregulated emotions and an adolescence of numbing and substance abuse that stunted my emotional growth.  I see a 7th grader who really should be in 4th grade and is doing her best to fake it until she makes it.  Those things did happen.  And this time I will not let my mind forget.  I will nurture my mind to connect to my body and feel the violence before it happens.  I might not ever say out loud I was abused.  But I will write it down and think on what could be different.  Who I can choose next.  And eventually I will find the peace I need to once again feel proud of my brain.  The body part that just might save me, the organ that fires even when I’m asleep.  I am smart.  I am alive.  I have survived.

“Has he ever trapped you in a room and not let you out?
Has he ever raised a fist as if he were going to hit you?
Has he ever thrown an object that hit you or nearly did?
Has he ever held you down or grabbed you to restrain you?
Has he ever shoved, poked, or grabbed you?
Has he ever threatened to hurt you?
If the answer to any of these questions is yes, then we can stop wondering whether he’ll ever be violent; he already has been.”

― Lundy Bancroft, Why Does He Do That?: Inside the Minds of Angry and Controlling Men