Thursday, May 29, 2014

Sticky, Icky Internal Mess

   The other day at work, my manager and I discovered how to pull the back panel off one of the trash receptacles so we could empty it while standing behind the counter instead of going to the front side of the counter. This will (literally) save our bacon ~ (I overcooked bacon once because I forgot it was in the microwave because it takes soooooo looooong to empty all the stupid garbages and get them to the dumpster, which means we don't get a chance to empty them until they are overflowing and then it becomes an emergency because customers can't fit more of their trash into the receptacles and changing it from the back saves LOADS of time, hassle, etc.) 

   Anyways, complaining about my lousy job is not the point of this post, although I might do that post another time, featuring the Best of the Best of the stupid/heinous/grotesque/hilarious things that occur at that Place I Earn Money (For Now).

   I didn't have time to do much with our newfound discovery until today. I pulled the back panel off, emptied the bin liner, and when I reached down to pick up the stray coffee stirrers and sugar packet wrappers that had worked their way underneath, I stopped just in time before touching IT with my bare hand. Putting on a glove, I reached into the sludgy mess and grabbed a handful of gooey detritus. 

   At least a year's worth of coffee, creamer, and other assorted yuck had dribbled down under the shelf and began growing its own colony, with stirrer skyscrapers and highways of semi-molten Splenda packets. Hidden away, content in its secret revolting-ness, the mass grew, plotting for the night it would take over the store when the last light was shut off at closing time.

   Last night I had a bad dream. It brought up a lot of emotional sh*t for me, stuff that I've been trying to deal with for the past 5-6 months and haven't been doing so well at managing. 

   See, about 6 months ago, someone I trusted, someone I cared for very deeply, someone I thought would be in my life forever kissed me, then stabbed me in the gut. While smiling. I didn't feel the knife going in at first, just that flicker of recognition that something was wrong, so very, very, horribly wrong, when he stabbed me again. And then I knew what he was doing, but when something so out of the blue is happening to you, you can't think, you can't stop it, you can't even do anything to protect yourself. You just stare at him, mouth agape, and wonder what on earth is happening, what did you do wrong, why is this person you trusted doing this to you?

   I speak in metaphor, because thankfully I was not literally stabbed, but the betrayal feels the same as if I had been.

   Shock and horror and confusion, pain and bewilderment and desperate grasps at making sense of it all...but there is no sense to be had. Perhaps in some alternate universe, all has been revealed and the plot explained, but not in this one. I still don't understand the situation. Hardly a day goes by where I don't mourn the loss in some way. 

   Some days I recognize that the only way for someone to spew that much hatred upon another person is because they hate themselves and I can feel sorry for him. I pray for the opportunity that he would know exactly how much pain his actions caused me and to know that I forgive him anyways, so that he can reach a place of forgiveness for the people that have hurt him and created the type of person who would behave the way he did...and his wounds would heal, ending the vicious cycle.

   Other days...well, other days, I feel like that disgusting mass of convenient store coffee station offal. I mean, only someone who is trash, someone who is gross and horrid, someone you wouldn't even dream of touching without gloves on, someone who has a dark soul, putrid heart, only someone like that is treated so heinously, right? Because people who seem wonderful just don't treat decent people that badly, so that obviously that means I'm not decent. We get what we deserve in life. Karma. What goes around comes around.

   It's weird. When you talk with female victims of domestic violence, they almost always say the same things. They say that they were sure the first time was just a misunderstanding, that they pissed him off and any man would respond like that. They say it was their own fault, if they had just did what they knew they were supposed to, it never would have happened. They inherently claim responsibility for their abuser's despicable actions, because the idea that a man who says he loves you actually hates you as much as he hates himself is just too foreign of a concept. 

   We take people we trust at their word. When someone we love tells us we are bad people, we believe them. We want their approval, we want them to love us, and we do all sorts of things to try and achieve that goal. But here's the dirty little secret the panel is hiding...we'll never achieve that goal. We won't achieve it because perfection is impossible. They can't love us because they don't even know what love is. They despise us for loving them because they don't love themselves. They see us as weak for caring about them, pathetic for not standing up to them, standing up for ourselves. All abusers were once victims. They let crap build up behind the back panel until it got to the point where a vat of lye and a pressure washer couldn't even clean it properly.

   When I woke up this morning, I laid in bed for a long time, thinking about the dream I had. It was kind of simple...just me and my abuser hanging out, watching TV, having fun together. Then he turned and looked at me and smiled with that quirky side grin he had...and started saying all the things at once he'd ever said to hurt me, to manipulate me, to make me feel like dirt. 

   Maybe this doesn't sound so bad to you, but to anyone reading this who's ever been emotionally abused, degraded by someone they cared about, made to feel small and useless and know that can be so much worse than getting punched. Those words echo in your brain forever. They never go away. You'll be in a perfectly happy moment and something innocuous triggers a memory, and you are right back there again, stab marks appearing on your skin, your blood seeping out, wounds that refuse to heal and re-open again and again. Each time it happens, you hope it's the last time, because each time it happens, you never know if you'll be able to convince yourself the voice you hear is lying to you.

   Today I wasn't able to convince myself. All I could think was how to best drive the new person in my life away. You see, I might have the chance to be really happy with him. I might have the chance to spend the rest of my life really happy, with him, making every dream I've ever had come true, so obviously I need to ruin it, throw it away, get rid of him, because inevitably, he'll find out that I am garbage, and it'll just be so much better for everyone if we stop this right now.

    I got pissy with him for no apparent reason and he was obviously upset and a part of me didn't care. No, worse than not caring, I was happy to hurt him. Happy to shut him out, to act like I was cold and uncaring, I got a little rush and thought, “See how you like it!” Then it hit me...Who on earth was I talking to? Who was I trying to hurt and get “back” at? This guy who has never done a single thing with ill intent towards me? This guy who has been amazing, and for some bizarre reason seems to really want me, and care about me? Or...Him?

   I didn't want to open the can of worms with my guy about the other guy. I wasn't ready to bare my underbelly and make myself vulnerable. I've been shutting my guy out of my past thinking it was protecting our future, but it turns out to only be ruining our present.

    One of the things He used to do was try and make me feel crazy for having legitimate feelings and emotions. He'd act like my inner thoughts were insane and I was an idiot for having them, much less telling Him about them.

    So telling my guy anything about anything emotionally intimate is a challenge for me...I don't want to seem weak. Or crazy. So being all logical and therapist-y is my default mode...but then we never get past the surface with anything, and that's no way to have a serious relationship, so I let a little bit spill out. He was still listening so I spilled out a little bit more. I gave him this analogy about cars and accidents and how even though he was a different car, I was still afraid it'd crash like the old car did.
He said that was a good analogy. (I like it when people like my analogies; I use a lot of them.)

   And then I had to go to work, thus halting the conversation, which was super crappy timing.

   I guess there is no one, single point to this post. Normally I have a specific destination in mind when I sit down and write these things, but this one is different. The story isn't over yet, the lesson isn't fully realized.

    I don't yet really know yet if my guy is going to end up thinking I'm a sludgy, repulsive mess. I'd like to be able to say I'm perfectly healed because I've had a few epiphanies and a break through or two and about to trot off into the sunset, but I missed tonight's while I was writing this post and who knows what tomorrow's holds? 

    I do know that I've wanted to write about this stuff for months and tonight is the first time I've felt up to it, felt that it felt right to do so (lotsa feelings being felt up in here, yo). I do know my guy didn't make me feel poorly or embarassed, shameful or weird, crazy or blaming it on me PMS'ing for sharing what I did with him.

    I also know that by keeping quiet, by blaming myself, or running away from the opportunity to be happy...that would mean I really was a victim. A person can be victimized without staying a victim, I think. I don't want to hold onto that role any longer than absolutely necessary. Maybe letting some of it out is the only way I'm going to get over it. Drain the poison. Skim the dross. Purge the bilge. Analogies. Told you.

   Maya Angelou died today, the day I write this post. I've never read a thing by her until today...and this poem is what I stumbled upon first. While she was writing it for Black Americans, the words speak to me nonetheless. They are words of victory, of hope, of allowing ourselves to revel in the glory of our human-ness, our insinkable spirit, and our freedom from those or that which try to enslave us or bring us down to their level of hate and hurt...It seemed appropriate to share. 

And Still I Rise

You may write me down in history

With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may tread me in the very dirt

But still, like dust, I'll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you? 

Why are you beset with gloom? 

'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,

With the certainty of tides,

Just like hopes springing high,

Still I'll rise.

Did you want to see me broken? 

Bowed head and lowered eyes? 

Shoulders falling down like teardrops.

Weakened by my soulful cries.

Does my haughtiness offend you? 

Don't you take it awful hard
'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines

Diggin' in my own back yard.

You may shoot me with your words,

You may cut me with your eyes,

You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I'll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you? 

Does it come as a surprise

That I dance like I've got diamonds

At the meeting of my thighs? 

Out of the huts of history's shame 
I rise

Up from a past that's rooted in pain 
I rise

I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,

Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.

Leaving behind nights of terror and fear 
I rise

Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear
 I rise

Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,

I am the dream and the hope of the slave.

I rise
 I rise 
I rise.
Maya Angelou

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