Baby Turtles Killed My Marriage

One day, I was messing around online and came across a Youtube video. In it, baby turtles were hatching and making their way to the water. I watched it once, twice, a dozen times, riveted to the screen for reasons I couldn't really understand. All I knew was I wanted to be there, on that beach in Florida, seeing this firsthand.

But I couldn't. My husband cared not at all for things that weren't interesting to him. He routinely got fired from whatever jobs he could find, so we were always broke. He was also a diabetic who refused to take care of himself, and medical emergencies were becoming commonplace.

I started wondering what it would be like to have my own life. One that didn't revolve around one incredibly selfish person after another. What would it be like to not have to carry the burden and responsibility of a relationship all by myself? To be committed to someone who actually saw me as a real, live, human being? Or even just be committed to myself, living my life the way I wanted?

The lies, the drama, the never-ending stress--in that moment, I realized my marriage was over. I was done. And when I'm done with someone, there's no going back.

We separated not long after, though it would be awhile before we actually got the divorce. Two years of barely speaking to or seeing one another. I kept being asked if I was upset to finally get the divorce, and I still don't understand. He lied to me. He lied about me. He told people I was abusive. Anything to attempt to turn people against me. I cared about him, but I was never in love with him. And he never saw me as a person. I was convenient and willing to be used.

When I saw him in court, it was like he was a stranger. I couldn't quite wrap my mind around the fact that this person had been important to me. And when it was over, the only thing I struggled with was wondering if I should say any last words. But what?

"Have a nice life."

"Thanks for wasting six years of my life."

"Congratulations on your impending wedding. Idiot."

In the end, I said nothing. May we never cross paths again.

I've since crossed watching baby turtles hatch off my bucket list. In theory, it sounds neat. But then I remembered that a good portion of them don't make it to the water before being eaten. Running up and down the beach waving my arms and screaming "Nooooooo!" to make sure they all reach the water safely is not my idea of a good time.

Creeps and Sticky Rice

I was at a Chinese restaurant with my parents and sister when I noticed the guy sitting across from us. He was staring at my sister with this creepy smile on his face. Initially, I gave him the benefit of the doubt: Maybe he was just zoned out and while his eyes were on her, his mind was somewhere else. It happens. But he was still doing it the second time I looked over. And the second. And the third. And the fourth. Somehow, no one else at my table had noticed, but it was really bothering me. So I set down my fork and gave him my own best creepy face. After a minute or two of this, I wondered if I was going to have to say something or if maybe I could get away with giving him a lobotomy with the nearest chopstick. Finally, he noticed me staring at him. I took care not to let my expression change. I didn't look away. I didn't even blink. Apparently he found being stared at by a creepy stranger uncomfortable, because he got up and left.

The rest of the meal passed without further incident, at least until I decided to try the sushi. I've had some ready-made stuff before and liked it, so I thought this stuff would be even better. I like trying new foods, but my texture issues do make it difficult. I hate having to waste food for any reason, but if I can't handle the texture I can't eat it. And though I've perfected the act of discreetly spitting food into my napkin, it feels extra awkward and gross in public. I also hadn't yet realized how much worse my sensory issues were getting. So I grabbed two chunks of sushi because they looked different and I was hoping at least one of them would be good. Upon noticing that I was about to try a new food, my family paused their own eating and watched expectantly. Of course, they know all about my texture sensitivities and find my resulting adventures amusing.

Well..I've heard of sticky rice before, but I never really knew what it was and did not make the connection until it was too late. 'Sticky' is a good word for it, though I don't know where they get off calling these swollen, rubbery pellets of doom 'rice'. It *looked* like rice, sure. But not only did it not feel like rice when I bit in, these horrific, nasty things were now stuck to my teeth. And my hands. I didn't even get a chance to actually try and eat this thing because I was done as soon as my teeth touched this abomination-in-rice's-clothing. Into the nearest napkin it went, as I reminded myself not to panic. Yes, there was something hideous stuck to my hands, but it wasn't the end of the world. I just needed to get rid of it and pretend none of it ever happened. And never, ever try a new food ever again. Or maybe I'd just give up food altogether. That sounded like a good plan to me.

"Oh," I said.

 "Ugh," I gagged.

 "Oh. No. Bathroom?!"

Translation: I need to wash this sticky nastiness off my hands but I am too grossed out to communicate effectively. Please direct me to the nearest bathroom because ohmygodfuckthis

I am forever grateful for junk food. It never betrays me.

That's Not My Happily Ever After

  Many times, when a female abuse survivor tells her story, it ends with her finding a healthy relationship. Now, all experiences are valid, and I am always happy to see a difficult story end on a good note for the speaker. It can encourage those who are thinking of escaping, or those who are in the process of escaping. Anything that inspires someone to make a better life for themselves is a good thing.

The problem is the commonly held belief that one is defined by their partner, or by their relationship. We see it play out in personal stories, books, movies, and hear it in songs. “Someone loves me even though you didn't.” It's triumphant. It's validation. It's increasingly seen as the endgame. Without achieving this goal, you haven't “won”.

I take issue with that. I may have more relationships during the course of the rest of my life. I may find someone I want to keep around long-term and it might be a healthy relationship. Or I might choose to just stay single. I don't see single as a bad thing. I think it's good for people to be able to be comfortable with their own company. I am not bitter. I'm not broken. I don't disparage anyone for having or wanting a relationship. I admire those who are more resilient than I am. No matter what, they pick themselves up and give someone else a chance. They know what they want and they'll keep looking until they find it. It takes me a long time to even think about sharing my life with someone else again once a relationship goes bad. There are others who fall as fast and hard as only usually very young people are able to do. It terrifies me to observe, but I think it's neat that they can do that. I just don't have it in me. I don't think I ever did.

But I finally have a place all my own again. My abusers have no power over me. I have some of the most amazing friends and family. I have a dog I love more than anything. I live in a beautiful place in the world. My life is nowhere near where I'd like it to be, but that doesn't negate the fact that there are so many wonderful things about it. I have experienced so many things I never could have imagined, some so surreal I can hardly believe that they really happened. And most days I love living in this strange world of ours.

The truth is, my happily ever after is not a person, and I'm not waiting for it.

I'm living it.

Right now.

Reset

I was nineteen when I first really struck out on my own. Completely unprepared for living on my own, with fresh, deep wounds on top of old emotional scarring, the intervening years have not been pretty. I lost my first apartment about a year after I got it. It was the first of many. I was ashamed of my PTSD, neurological differences, and having been placed on SSI before I even had a chance to venture out on my own for the first time. I was "other", I was unable to "pass", to have a life that resembled the lives of those around me. Time and time again, I forced myself to remain in situations that just made everything worse. The years between then and now were filled with constant chaos, fear, danger, and self-destruction. I was shocked when I lived to see my thirtieth birthday.

Last year I made the decision to move back into the same apartment building I started out in. I've had to deal with a lot of flashbacks, which I expected. It's very difficult for me to live in an apartment setting but I'm coping with it better now than I ever have. For the first time since the first time I lived here, I have a place all to myself. I can share my space or have my solitude. No fear that I will be attacked in my sleep. No shame that my housekeeping is pretty much a perpetual work of progress (Okay..less shame. I'm working on it). No one repeatedly disrespecting my boundaries, triggering my PTSD, or disrupting my routine. I can actually go out and do things now, since I don't have to come home and be around people. A certain amount of solitude is vital to my well being. 

Between my ongoing struggle to cope with my emotional baggage and fibromyalgia, I'm often exhausted. I have a long, long way to go, and oftentimes I'm not at all certain that I'm going to make it. Sometimes I'm not even sure I want to make it--there's a certain comfort in maintaining old patterns, even if they're toxic as hell. Preferring the certainty of misery to the misery of uncertainty, as the saying goes. 

But I'm here: Still fighting, still surviving, and if you're reading this then you are, too. Hang in there!

Starting Over

I began blogging several years ago. Initially, it was a place to put my fears and frustrations as I learned that escaping abusive relationships was far easier than watching a loved one (and their children) go through the process. Over time, I got further and further away from using my blog as a platform to speak out on many different things that affect me and plenty of others. Several stressful situations in my life were steadily eating away at my mental health. As a result, my blog became a very dark place. While many of the things I have to say are dark, scary, and sometimes downright gruesome, the most important thing has always been creating a safe haven in any form, in any place, that I possibly can.

I am an autistic, pansexual, intersectional feminist. I am an abuse survivor with PTSD. I also have a chronic illness to manage in the form of fibromyalgia.

I believe everything I have endured is worth it if it ultimately benefits someone else. Maybe someone will read something I've written and feel less alone. Maybe they will be encouraged. Maybe they will allow themselves to dream of something better.

I can only hope.