When night falls on me, I’ll not close my eyes (car accident PTSD-PSA)

August 27, 2005

I can sum it up in one sentence — my life changed forever.  It was one day, one decision, one mistake.  I got in that car.  By rights, I should never have done it.  I had my own car, but why waste the gas when I could catch a ride with my mother?  She’d drive me back later.  Except I never went back later.  I ended my evening with a trip to Hartford Hospital on LifeStar.  The hours, minutes, seconds of that evening are a blur.  There are moments, lost in time, that I’ll never get back.  Most of them are moments I never want to have back.

To nearly die is such a surreal thing.  At the time, in my head, there was never any question that I was going to live.  There was never even a second where I was lying there and thought “I might not live through this.”  It took me half an hour just to wrap my brain around what had happened to me.   The first time I remember realizing what had happened to me — “I was just in a really bad car accident” — was when I was being carried off the helicopter and into the emergency room.  Before that, I mostly felt heavy.  Tired.  Searing pain on the right side of my body.  I didn’t even realize until a few days later that my face was messed-up.  I didn’t even notice the pain in my cheekbone, near my right eye.  My biggest terror, the only one I voiced, was when they were prying the door from out of my side, and I thought that I was paralyzed because I couldn’t move.  As soon as I knew I wasn’t, I calmed down a bit.  I didn’t realize how bad the accident was until my aunt, coming to visit me in the hospital after taking my mom to sign over her totaled car, said to me “I think you’re lucky to be alive.”  Or, until months later, when I saw the photos of the car itself.  What was left of it.

A lot of people thought that the worst part was the injuries, the hospital visit, the rehabilitation, the physical therapy.  And I’m not going to lie and say those things didn’t suck.  They did.  A lot.  I would never, ever want to go back and revisit those moments of my life.  But the hardest part came after I got better.  When I was home again, in my apartment, and everything was the same, except for in my head.

Me – Autumn 2005, two months after the accident.  If you look carefully, you can see a little bit of “road burn” from the crash in my right cheek, hidden by my hair.

Car accidents aren’t usually the first thing that someone thinks of when they hear the words “post-traumatic stress disorder”.  Most of the time, we think of veterans hitting the deck, or rape victims, or those who were horribly abused in childhood.  But 10% of motor vehicle accident survivors will be diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder after the fact — and that is only the number of people who seek a diagnosis.  Motor vehicle-related PTSD may effect anywhere from 3.5 to 7 million people in the United States.  It is more prevalent in our country than we may be aware.

I can speak only for myself.  I spent three years in hell.  From 2005 to 2008, my life went off the rails.  I couldn’t sleep.  I couldn’t eat.  I had days where I would walk to my door, to try and leave my apartment, and I would go into a panic attack just reaching for the doorknob.  I stayed up too late.  I drank more than I should have.  I tried to pretend that it didn’t bother me.  I refused to seek counseling.  I refused to get medicated.  I insisted I could handle everything — a full time job and graduate school.  I got fired from one job and laid off from another.  My GPA tanked.  Worst of all — I lost who I was.  I couldn’t shake the feeling that the person I had been, before August 27, 2005, died in that car.  The EMTs pulled out an entirely different person, and I didn’t know how to find myself again.

Over the last five years, I’ve clawed my way out.  It was not easy.  I am not proud of the person that I had become.  It was an uphill climb, with several steps back before I could step forward.  I had to drop out of school.  I had to go through four different brands of pills before I hit on the one that was right for me.  I had to concede and commit to counseling.  More than anything, I had to really self-reflect, to look at the person I had become since the car accident, and say that yes, it was different; no, it couldn’t be the same.  But it could be better.  I could be better.  I just had to accept that I maybe couldn’t do it on my own.

I don’t view it as a personal victory.  It wasn’t about winning or losing; it was about salvation.  I couldn’t go on the way I lived from 2005-2008.  I was losing every piece of myself, everything that made me a likeable person, a good friend, a loving daughter, a caring sister.  There was only one way my life was going if I continued on that path.  It took me three years to figure out that this wasn’t the way I wanted to be.  I had to take back my life.

Now, eight years later, I can look back and say that I am certainly not perfect.  I am probably not where I would have been, if I had decided not to get in that car that Saturday evening.  But I can look in the mirror and say, I’ve got this.  I’ve been through it, and I handled it, and now I’m doing okay.  I wish that I could have become somebody that I liked, without those three years of disorder and chaos, but…that’s not how the world works sometimes.

If there was anything that I could say that is good from all of this, it’s…yes.  It sucks.  It hurts.  But you can get through it.  You can pick up the pieces and be who you were again.  Get help.  Put your pride in your pocket if need be.  Your health is more important.  Your life is more important.  Your relationships with your family and friends are more important.  It’s going to be tough, and yes, sometimes, it is going to hurt.  But God, once you get over the hump, once you get to the top of the mountain and you can look down and see how far you’ve climbed…the view is truly spectacular.  

And it’s all worth it.  Every second.

Me today – Summer 2013. First day of my last year of grad school.

 

The following link is a great resource for people who suffer from post-traumatic stress disorder of any kind:  Helpguide.org.

 

 

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Little Victories, Week 27

For 2013, I’m going to have a Friday post every single week MOST weeks (let’s not even kid ourselves anymore), for positive victories in my life.  They may not be big things, but they will be things that I am proud of, things I did in the past seven days.  I’m hoping this will keep me focused on the positive, all the good things that are going on in my life.

– Finished and sent off the final draft of my thesis prospectus.  I haven’t heard anything from Dr. LW, so I’m assuming that no news is good news and that my paper is on it’s way to (or on the desk of) the Dean of Graduate Studies, and I’m waiting for her response.  Approval or disapproval?  I’m trying not to assume the worst.  It’s definitely a bad habit of mine.

– Rearranged my room in my apartment.  Looks better.

– Attempted Week Five, Day 3 of C25K.  It didn’t go as well as I had hoped, but it went better than expected, if that makes sense.  The regimen is: walk 5 minutes, run 20 minutes, walk 5 minutes.  I managed 12 minutes of running.  Not even close, BUT.  Considering that my last ‘record’ of how many minutes I could run at a stretch was 8?  I’m counting it as a victory.  And I’m going to keep redoing Week 5, Day 3 until I get it right.  I will do this.  It’s not easy, it’s definitely not easy at all, but I’m determined to work up to a 5K.  This will happen, no matter how long it takes.

Edit: FINISHED Week Five, Day Three of C25K!  It was awful but I did it and I am exhausted but so happy!

– Haven’t had a breakdown yet.  Fingers crossed.  The court date is on Monday, three days away.  I still haven’t completely wrapped my brain around it.  But I consider keeping my anxiety at bay, to the point where I can get through the day and function, a major victory, not a minor one.  A few years ago pressure of this magnitude would have sent me absolutely spiraling downward.  Not this time.  Not happening, no way, no how.

This weekend, I don’t have much on the ballot.  Going out for a friend’s birthday on Saturday night, and seeing David briefly on Sunday to go over some stuff before the divorce on Monday.  My main focus this weekend is going to be on breathing, and taking care of myself.  I don’t think I can remember dreading something this much in my life.  At least on Monday it will be done.

Also, next week, there is so much good coming up after Monday.  Going to NYC with my friend Nicki on Tuesday evening, seeing Marcy on either Wednesday or Thursday, and then taking the weekend off to go see friends in Massachusetts Friday – Sunday!

There’s not much going through my head right now…except to please, please, please let me hold myself together.  Please don’t fall apart.  Please don’t spiral downward into a ball of cringing anxiety.

Please have class and dignity and be a person you can be proud of for the rest of your life.

Breathe in, breathe out.

Fall to pieces

I reread some of my old blog today.  Posts from last summer, from our first “separation” that lasted all of five days.  We moved back in together, not because we realized that we were making a mistake, but because he got caught doing something he shouldn’t, and he wanted me to forget about it…and because I had a complete nervous breakdown and couldn’t handle it.  Or didn’t want to.  Whichever.

Rereading those entries really drove two points home to me.  The first being that we’re making the right decision, because being put through the wringer like that by someone you love is unacceptable, and should never be acceptable.  And the second being that I am afraid — really afraid — of falling to pieces again like that.

Of course, the chances that this will happen are slim, and I have to keep reminding myself of that.

1. The “divorce” has already happened.
Nothing is going to change except that, by law, David and I won’t be husband and wife anymore.  This has already happened.  We live in separate apartments.  Our finances are separated.  We have no bills together — except our cell phone bill, which we retain until January so we don’t have to pay an astronomical fee for breaking our contract.  The only time we encounter each other, really, is in our social strata. 

2. I’ve been mentally preparing myself for this for months.
Separaion #1, in July of 2012, was something that occurred after three months of talking about separating.  I hadn’t prepared myself for it at all.  In this case, I first brought up “I want a divorce” in September of 2012.  It has been nine months since then.  Everyone knows about it, nobody is going to be shocked (I think — although I did just run into someone from church who hadn’t known), and I’ve had time to think about it and wrap my brain around it for quite some time.

3. Nothing is going to change.
Except my name.  I won’t be “Megan B.” anymore.  I’ll be “Megan F.” again.  That’s…it.  Everything else that is going to change, already has.

I’m not going to fall to pieces.  I’m not going to let myself fall to pieces.

I’m in a sort of depressive funk right now, but it won’t last forever.  And I’m wondering if that’s more because of this horrible dreading of anticipation.  That we’re only a week and a half away.

I just can’t wait for this all to go away.  And then I’ll be okay again.

Strength

We are coming up on the end of this journey.  Within the month, D will be my ex-husband.  Except…only on paper, because he’s been my ex-husband since November 18th, 2012, when I moved out.  I keep reminding myself that we’ve been divorced, physically, mentally, and emotionally, for seven months now, and that the court date is only a mere formality.

So why I am so afraid of it?

I couldn’t tell you that.  Maybe because, to me, it’s too ceremonial, it reminds me so much of a mockery of our marriage.  Something we so lovingly cared for and crafted and planned out, dreamed of, rehearsed, and found such joy in…eradicated in ’30 seconds’ (which is what the court clerk assured me yesterday).  Four and a half years with someone…burned away to nothingness?

Yes.  All of that.

You’d think I’d be excited.  You’d think I’d be happy.  The things that he’s said and done in the last eighteen months were heinous.  He has not treated me the way you would even expect someone to treat a casual acquaintance.  To quote one of my friends “there is a difference between murdering someone and torturing them to death”, and when it came to how our divorce was handled, he definitely chose the latter path.  His reasons for doing so, I will never know.  I’d like to think it was all misguided fear of hurting me.  He didn’t want me to know.  He didn’t want me to be hurt.

Or I could choose the more likely scenario — he was protecting himself.  His ego, his reputation.  He didn’t want the world to know what we were, who he was, what he really thought of me, what really went on behind closed doors.

I feel so old beside him these days.  And it’s not even because he’s 28 and I’m going to be 30 in just three months.  I just feel so much older than him.  I remember when we first started dating, how weirded out I was by the fact that he was a mere four months older than my younger sister.  Over time, I stopped sensing the almost-two year age gap between us; it didn’t seem relevant.  And in the last two years…it’s there like a massive rift between us.  It’s not even that I’m so much older than he is (I’m not), it’s just that I want so many different things than he does.  I was ready.  He was not.  And it fell apart.

I hate when people say “well, you kind of rushed into marriage.”  We were dating for two and a half years before we got married…I don’t really call that “rushing.”  And you can’t really put a time limit on something like this.  My parents were engaged after only six weeks and they’re going to celebrate their 33rd anniversary in October.  It’s not a “one size fits all” sort of scenario.  And I think that’s been the most difficult thing about it.  There’s no rhyme or reason, nothing I could have done.  Sometimes it just doesn’t work out.  The end.

 

All I want now, is strength.

Strength to get through the court date — July 8th — with my head held high, and no tears.

Strength to know in my heart that I am making the right decision; the only decision.

Strength to look beyond July 8th, and see that the world isn’t ending.  This world, maybe.  But the new one is coming, and it’s brighter and more complete and fulfilling than this world was.  Even if I can’t see where the path leads right now.

Strength to hold my anger, my pain, and whatever bitterness I feel inside, because releasing those thoughts, those words, out into the world, solves nothing…but it may destroy something.

Strength to be classy.  I never wanted to be trashy, I always feared loud confrontation and drama and theatrics.  Please, when this is over, let me have the strength to have carried myself in such a way that nobody will be able to say anything about me except that, through it all, I redefined “class”.

And above all…

Strength to never reproach myself for what has occurred, for any of the choices I have made.  They may not have been the easiest decisions, but they were the right ones, no matter how I felt at the time.  I may not be happy with them now, or with the direction that my life has taken.

But oh, I believe, I believe with my heart and soul, I am not done yet.

There is beauty left in the beyond.

 

Even if the sky is falling down

I am…not in a good place today.  And I couldn’t tell you why.  I got home yesterday feeling low, and it hasn’t improve one bit since then.  If anything, it’s gotten worse.

I mentioned in my last entry that, while I was at Wildfire, my hair caught fire when I was doing a trick with my fire staff.  I brushed it off as “no  big deal” and at the time, it really wasn’t.  One of my friends said “I don’t understand how setting yourself on fire is ‘no big deal’.”  But I really wasn’t trying to be cavalier.  It just…didn’t upset me as badly as I had thought.  Well, karma had it in for me, because on Saturday night, I really did catch on fire, and it was not good.

I was spinning fire staff at a friend’s house.  My safety was my friend Drea.  The treeline at my friends’ apartment is low, and I didn’t properly “spin off” the excess fuel on my staff before beginning.  During a trick, I accidentally brushed the wick of my staff against my shirt.  And my shirt went up in flames.  Drea, who hadn’t been safetying long, saw the flames and froze.  I tried to brush them off but I only succeeded in making a bad situation worse.  With nothing left to do, I threw the staff aside in order to “stop, drop, and roll”, like we’re taught when we’re little kids.  Until age 29, last Saturday night, I’ve never once had to do that.  But it was instinctive, and it worked — sort of.  There were still a couple of live flames on my shirt when I hit the ground, and those were quickly beat out by a couple of my friends.

Unbelievably, I wasn’t burned.  My left side was slightly singed, but the pain stopped after a couple of hours.  I’m very fortunate.

I have been feeling off ever since this happened.  There are so many stupid, ridiculous, painful feelings right now.  Something that usually makes me feel so powerful, so happy, so free, is frightening to me.  That primary rule “respect the flames” — I feel like I only thought that I did, but I wasn’t taking it seriously enough.  How could I have been, to have screwed up so badly?  I’m lucky I wasn’t severely hurt.  I’m embarrassed that I screwed up, and so badly, in front of my friends, most of whom are much more experienced than I am.  It’s also two times I’ve set myself on fire in two weeks.  The first time was no big deal — a lot of people screw up tricks and hit themselves with their wicks, especially when learning.  The second was a stupid, stupid mistake — an incomplete spin-off that left an excess of fuel on my staff, which transferred to my body and set me alight — that could have easily been avoided.

I don’t know why it is hitting me so hard lately, but I feel like an overwhelming failure.  Which is a complete 180 from where I was a couple of weeks ago.  Back then I was feeling powerful, strong, smart, talented.  Now I feel…empty.  Useless.  Weak.  A failure.

There aren’t too many lower points that I’ve hit, than lying on the ground, crying from fear and pain while my soon-to-be-ex husband frantically beats the flames out of my shirt.

 

 

In any case.  I’m fine.  Everyone’s fine.  I’m just…not where I was a couple of weeks ago.  The path my life has taken in the last eighteen months has been very “two steps forward, one step back”, and sometimes…I’m just not in a good place.  Like right now.  I hate that, but it is what it is.

The good thing about the low points is knowing that — like the high points — they’re not forever.  Life is a series of ups and downs.  I am out of the horrible darkness I was in a year ago.  I am not quite where I want to be, but I’m in a better place than I was.

 

And when the darkness begins to lift once more…I will spin again.

You have to set yourself on fire

The last few weeks have been a roller-coaster, and of course, the ride isn’t over yet.  I am putting the finishing touches to the edits on my prospectus…and it’s a nightmare.  The fear of not being good enough is all-consuming.  Worse, there’s a depression that’s hung over me since the move.  It’s not the apartment (I love it), it’s not my roommate (she’s wonderful).  It’s just that I put way too much pressure on the move, too much emphasis on thinking that once I moved, I wouldn’t hurt anymore.  Surprise!  Not the case.  If anything, I think I may have felt worse, because the move, with the due date for three major papers just behind it, combined with the choice timing of some douchebaggery from David, spiraled me into a very bad place over the weekend, and I’m still struggling to crawl out of that, and get back to where I was before.

Depression, stress, anxiety, and way too many tears, combined with work pressures (I’ve had to go into work on a weekend two weeks in a row) and some overwhelmingly bad nightmares, and the result most days is…this:

Sometimes, I just want to give up.  My life took an abrupt turn for the worst on September 26, 2011.  It has been twenty months since then.  And twenty months is a fucking LONG-ASS time to be sad a majority of the time.  Sometimes I get so damn frustrated with myself.  Why are you not over this yet?  Why is this divorce still bothering you?  Why can’t you move the fuck on and stop living in the past?  Why do these things still make you sad?

It has the combined effect of making me irrationally angry.  At myself.

But you know, I looked back in my blog a few months, to the entry dated January 29th, 2013, entitled “Death of All Dreams.”  And I read back to those words that I wrote, pre-filing, pre-moving, pre-…everything I’ve done since January:

There before me, on a funeral pyre, are all the dreams I had for myself, all the unfulfilled promise that we had when we met, aged 23 and 24, so ridiculously in love, ready to embark on this great journey of life.  We were going to be different.  I know that nobody goes into a marriage planning on divorcing.  From day one, we said that divorce was not an option.  And then…it was.

They lie there, on this mythological pyre, so many memories and dreams and plans.  I turn them over in my hands before putting them back down…

And although he has stripped the memories, the dreams, the hopes, even the love, bare, and laid them on the pyre, I haven’t been able to set the pile alight.  Because you see, he won’t.  He won’t do it.  Only I can do it.  Because he never will.

He left them there and walked away, he thinks I can never bring myself to end what I never wanted to end.  To light all of those dreams on fire, watch them melt and run together and evaporate into thin air.

He doesn’t realize that once they are burned, once they are gone forever, once I give them up…I can start dreaming again.  I can hope again.

I just have to find a way to strike the match.

Lord, help me find a way to strike the match.

 

And sometimes it seems like I haven’t come so far.  But when I look back on there…I did find my way.  I filed.  I moved.  I struck the match and burned it to the ground.  The only way that I could move on was by burning the past, and I did it.  I did it.  I burned it.  It’s still burning.  There’s no sense staring back and trying to reach in to salvage the pieces as they catch and burn.  I’ll only hurt myself.  Even if I pull them from the wreckage…they’re still charred, they’re still gone.  No sense in looking back.  Burn it.  Burn it all.

And then, when it’s over…it’s over.  And you can begin again.

When there’s nothing left to burn…you have to set yourself on fire.

Boston, You’re My Home

The Marathon Bombings have taken all the wind out of New England’s sails today.  Boston is a wreck.  Nobody knows who did it, or who is responsible.  There is blood in the streets.  Men and women are missing limbs.  Parents went to bed last night without their child.  The city is in chaos, it will be weeks or months before we know who did this, years before everyone feels normal again, and never before we find out why.

I am not from Boston.  My family is.  My ex-husband’s family is.  I have so many friends who live in Boston that my heart was in my throat as I scanned my newsfeed on FB yesterday, mentally ticking off each person who checked in and said they were all right.  That beautiful city, my favorite in the world, torn to pieces on that most special day ingrained in Massachusetts’ history — Patriots Day.  It’s rocked Boston, Massachusetts, and New England as a whole.

But there is not a single doubt in my mind that Boston will rebound from this.  Boston is scrappy.  Boston is defined by its strength, by the legacy of the thousands of Irish immigrants who came to the city, forced there by the potato famine in Ireland.  The tenacity that makes the rest of the country call its people “Massholes”, some fondly, some in irritation.  The tough but loveable accents, the dropped “r’s” that sound like “a’s”.  The magical city of dreams where a ball team that hasn’t won in 86 years can defy all odds and take home the title.   The birthplace of our nation’s freedom, where the first shots of the Revolutionary War were fired.  The beginning that has no end.  Boston has everything.  Boston is everything.

And she will overcome.  The city by the bay will rebound from this, stronger than ever.  There is no doubting it even for a second.

Not-so-realistic Idealism

My life trips by on a sequence of “busy nothings” as Jane Austen would say.  I’m busy trying to find a new apartment, busy with school, busy with work, busy with trying to keep my brain occupied and not think about K, the relationship that could have been but wasn’t.

I wonder sometimes if I am idealizing it.  K was, after all, the first man who paid me any sort of attention, post-marriage to D.  He was like an oasis in the desert, he showed me how special I was, and how not all men would take me for granted.  It’s true that we clicked, in many ways — we shared many similar interests, we made each other laugh, we were certainly compatible in many ways.  But it disturbs me how much I compare everyone to him these days.

I never went through a period where I compared anyone to D, because my relationship with him had already withered to the point of nonexistence by the time I was ready to shelve my marriage and proceed on.  How does one compare prospective loves with a man who hasn’t been your love for some time?  Although D and I just separated six months ago, and just filed for divorce in February (though we had to re-file in March), our relationship had been breaking down since September of 2011.  It’s been so long since we were close, as husband and wife should be, that I can hardly remember what that life was like.

I had expected my interaction with K to feel…forced?  Difficult?  Guilt-ridden?  And I experienced none of those emotions.  I was like a child exposed to sunlight for the first time after playing in darkness for years.  Like a flower that withered on the vine for eighteen months and is suddenly drenched in water.  I felt alive, vibrant, special, vivacious…ready to take life by the horns again.  For several days, I felt that liveliness…and then it was snatched away, and darkness fell again, though to be as dark as it was before.  Potential was realized.  If not with K, then with someone else.

I never thought it would be the friendship I missed.  Someone calling me every night, asking how I’m doing, how my day went, what is happening with me.  I wonder sometimes…did I let him go too easily?  In a world where it took me so long to finally convince myself to let D go…did I cut ties with K, did I let him go, almost too quickly?

No time for second-guessing.  This is life, you don’t get a re-do.  I could call him, I suppose…but I promised I wouldn’t, that I’d give him the space he said he needed to work out his life.  And it hasn’t even been a week yet.  Would be a good way to look like a grade-A psycho!

No, it’s better to let silence speak for me.  Focus on school, focus on work, focus on getting an apartment.

On living my life.

 

 

Exactly one year ago today, D told me he wanted a divorce.

And look how far I’ve come, what I’ve accomplished, since that day.

Longing for the other side

Oh chickies, I don’t know how much effort I can put in to writing about the weekend but suffice to say it was a blast and I’d love to do it again, but not right away, because driving through New Jersey sucks (I hate it now for more reasons than just the Jets) and staying up until 3:30 AM drinking wine the night before you have to drive six and a half hours home is a poor life decision I’d rather not revisit.  But it was amazing just the same.

Pictures as promised!

All of us at lunch.  Can you see me?

Samantha, Nicki (my driving partner), me, and Nichole (who let us crash at her apartment over the weekend):

One of my favorite pictures from the weekend…back at Nichole’s house later that night (after a few glasses of wine).  Nichole, Morgan, me, with Nicki on our laps and Nichole and her husband Tom’s roommate Calvin photobombing:

It was an absolutely amazing weekend, but let me tell you, the driving part hurts, and I’ll be very, very happy to never, ever drive through the state of New Jersey again.  New Jersey sucks.  (Sorry to anyone who may be reading this who is from New Jersey)

Aaaand this is the week where anyone who knows me, knows that I go absolutely batshit insane.  It’s Holy Week, the week of Easter, the busiest week in our calendar, and this is the sixth time I’ve gone through it.  For some reason I’m always in less than tip-top shape the Monday of Holy Week.  In 2011 I fell off my bicycle in a nasty road accident the Friday beforehand, and came in Monday still hopped up on pain pills and sore as hell.  Last year I was sick.  Today, I’m just exhausted.  Tack on going to the courthouse (again) this afternoon and then counseling with DS and I am just…shot.

 

Sometimes I feel a little…bipolar? shall we say?  Split?  I have days when I think What a relief it is that I no longer have to worry about what D is doing, who he is talking to, if our marriage is going to end, etc.  And then there are days (like last night) where I cry and I think I just can’t do it, I can’t go through with this, I can’t be strong, I can’t get a divorce, it hurts too much, God, just don’t let it happen to me.  There are days, still, days nobody sees or hears about, when I lock the door to my apartment and I curl into a little ball, clutching my extra pillow against me as hard as I can, sobbing and repeating over and over again, “I don’t want to hurt anymore,”

And then I straighten up, and I dry my tears, and I come back to myself, out of the hole of my anxiety and terror, and I move on with my life.

There are two quotes that I keep to myself, during times like these.  One of them is from Andrew Lloyd Webber, from years ago, and the other is one I just read, the other day, from a friend of mine’s blog.

“Bad moments come, but they go.
Some days are fine, some a little bit harder.
But that doesn’t mean we should give up our dream.
Have you ever seen me defeated?
Don’t you forget what I’ve been through, and yet
I’m still standing.”

– Evita

“Five years ago, I remember casting desperate pleas to my future self; months away, years away, decades… I just wanted to release some kind of gossamer thread into the yawning abyss and feel my future self ripple back some reassurance that I was going to be okay.
That it wasn’t going to be dark forever.
That I would heal.
That it would get better.

Right here & right now, I’m grabbing the other end of that gossamer thread and rippling back that yes, darling—
yes, it’s going to get bright again, even brighter than you could ever dream.
Yes, you are going to heal.
Yes, it is going to get better, and at times, you’ll feel such a fierce gratitude for how much better than you’re not sure you have the capacity to hold it all—
but, of course, you will.

&, yes, above all things,
it going to be absolutely worth it.”

If somebody tells you…

…that you don’t need to have divorce papers served by a marshal (just save yourself the money and hassle and do it yourself!): they are lying.  Or if we’re being nice, vastly wrong.

Because of this, our divorce date has been pushed back, and I need to go and re-file.

The word “exhausted’ doesn’t even begin to cover it.  I just want to curl into a ball.  So much of my life is just a huge, expensive, difficult mess.  I try to balance work, school, and what I’m calling a social life these days.  And then something like this just smashes through all “LOL J/K” when I think I have things — finally — under control.

D messaged me when I told him that this was dragging out and just said “I’m sorry.”  I was ready to text him and say it’s not his fault we were poorly directed and that the courts try to dick every single penny out of you.  But you know, it IS his fault, the whole mess is his fault in the first place.

Talking to K (new friend) yesterday, about all this, I could sum it up thus: “We didn’t look at marriage the same way, and that is why it fell apart.

It’s so unfortunately true.

And 99% of the time, I’m so okay, I’m really okay, I don’t want to go back and change anything.  And some days, like now, I just think I don’t want to do this.  Not now, not in April, not in July…never.