Goodbye to You, The Death of Me

Why don’t I want to say goodbye? Send you a text and tell you sayonara.

Afraid I suppose, of your reaction, from 7,000 miles away.

Although honestly, I’m afraid of seeing you in person too.

I don’t want to see you.

I want to have a week free of you. Of your texts, of your phone calls, of your presence near me. Of wondering who you’re sleeping with tonight, of who’s touching you tomorrow.

While I hate to point fingers and label blame, the reality is that something about you, affects me more than nearly anyone else ever has. In such a repulsive way too.

I don’t just lie a little, about eating lunch here or liking that color shirt or .. whatever, perhaps even little lies are big lies, but.. the big lies, the really big lies, are all around me when you are here. And you don’t seem to care or notice.

How can you not care?

How can you be so disconnected from us all? That you don’t care if you lie with us, near us, to us, about us..

And why is it so hard to say goodbye to you in spite of this?! Am I really so frightened of what happens without? Without you? Without your support… without your hook into my life.

I guess that’s it, isn’t it. Am I ready to let go of all this space, all these things, to be free. If that is, indeed, what it takes. And will I be free, or will I just find your replacement, another you to teach lessons to another me.

I say I am ready; because living this way leaves me so pale, so… faded. Yet I can’t send you the text I want to, the email I think I should. Or find you where you are, and tell you the truth, my truth, a truth.

That I finally understand you will never, ever change, in this lifetime. That once burned shame on you, 25 times burned… holy shit, what am I doing with you?!

I am scared, of what your response will be more than anything. If I will have to watch my back, look over my shoulder, check my mail, watch every truck that goes by, just to see if it’s you lingering there.

Though perhaps our past should show me more of you and your behavior than anything else.

I thought I’d feel angrier at you right now, but maybe that’s having some space. Or maybe that’s me trying to protect myself. To shield myself from the truth of your lies.

That you would lie so much, that you would tell such things about me to others, to other women you sleep with, that you would treat me this way. A way that if you did it to my mother or my aunt, or my best friend, I would consider how to end you. But to me? To me.. I fail to defend myself.

Someday I will say goodbye, and the death of me now, will be the birth of me, then.

 

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Oh what tangled webs we weave… (The lies we tell)

when first we practice to deceive! – Sir Walter Scott

I’ve had Sir Walter Scotts quote running through my head today, and have loved it since I was a little girl. Though I didn’t always find it easy to apply to my life.

“If you tell the truth you don’t have to remember anything.” – Mark Twain

My mother was one of those, and still is for the most part, that is so affected by lying that she rarely will tell even the whitest of lies, or even a lie by omission. As she’s aged she’s less likely to find it as uncomfortable to lie by omission but telling a straight out lie is just not in her comfortably.

I, however, grew up lying. I lied, I lied a lot. It made other people happier if I didn’t speak the truth, my truth or the truth, it didn’t seem to matter.
So if I thought/believed that by lying someone else would be better off, I would do it, without a 2nd thought.

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Throughout my 20’s I learned (mostly through ridiculously angry fights with my partner) what I was doing, and how it was actually harming me. How I was repressing my truth, my light, my joy. For everyone else but me.
And how bitter I was becoming over it, how I was killing myself slowly, if not softly.

By the time I hit 30, lying became something I had to put energy in to, thought in to how or why or when. And I grew increasingly uncomfortable with the straight out lies, though I must admit the lies by omission are much easier to sneak by (myself).

At 35 I find I loathe lying, even by omission. I’m left so utterly uncomfortable by it that I feel nauseaous, even with a lie by omission.
I finally feel comfortable saying things such as, I really don’t want to eat there, or I really want to go home not out to a movie, or.. the little things, or so they seemed, that were actually quite big things over time.

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And when others inevitably show some irritation at me not doing what THEY want, I just don’t take it on anymore, it doesn’t worry me like it once did. Perhaps because now I see how much I began to hate the people I thought I was lying FOR. Making them happy in the moment was really just that, in the moment, and it didn’t last.
So I wasn’t happy, and they weren’t happy for long, so what was the point?

Considering my recent “career” choice, it is often necessary to not share everything, and even lie – for general safety of others around me. And I’ve come to hate what I do.

Not simply because of the omissions of my life, but because I’ve come to realize that most people lie. A lot.

Even the one other person in my life, aside from my mother, that I believed to always tell me the truth, even when I didn’t want to hear it; has been lying, a lot.
And another friend I love dearly, seems to lie habitually – and hey, I understand this, where it comes from, but.. it still hurts.
Neither of them knows how much I really know about the truth, or what I see to be the truth (the facts vs. their stories).

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So I’m in a conundrum, allow them to continue their lies? Confront them? Never speak to them again? (I can’t imagine this last one really happening)
Am I lying by NOT telling them that I know what they are doing?

Yes, I do still find myself telling those “little white” lies and occ. lies by omission, so perhaps I have no ground to stand on, despite my efforts to be as honest as possible, as often as possible, especially with these two people.

I suppose it doesn’t mean I have to continue to be in their company, truthfully it makes me uncomfortable to be around others whom I know to lie (whether to me or to everyone else is not really the point, is it?), and I realize I’m lying to myself to believe that to ME they must be telling the truth all of the time.

Perhaps the only answer out of all of this, the only, well, truth, is to be true to myself, true to others, and let the rest go.

Knowing we’re all a little bit afraid of what happens when people discover our truths, and accepting that.

 

“Teach me to behave like the orange which, though crushed and bitten, fails not to impart its sweetness.

Battered by unkindness, bitten by carping criticism, or hewed with hard words and cruel behavior,

teach me yet to pour the unceasing sweetness of my Love.” – Paramhansa Yogananda

 

Otherwise, I might have to move out to the country, keep my critters as my only company, and become a hermit..

Well, that doesn’t sound so bad some days.

Holding on and Letting Go

As I’m heading in to my 5th colonoscopy (and 3rd upper endoscopy) tomorrow morning, with all of the fun prep involved (ahahahahahahaha… oh fark it, it sucks), I’ve been pondering the energetic reasons for finding myself here.

I’m not able to move things through my digestive system (so what am I not letting flow in my life?), except for an episode every 4-6 weeks of violent, uncontrolled, purging from both ends. If I don’t take laxatives, or large portions of enzymes and avoid a HUGE and growing list of foods, and an enema now and then.. I can go weeks without, well.. going.

At my last ER visit they discovered something in my lower left abdomen..

I’ve had digestive issues since I was at least 6 or 7 years old. When after a trip to that bastion of great cuisine, KFC, I ended up with what is still to this day the worst case of purging I’ve had, the toilet bowl was such a deep red, it was terrifying – I remember it nearly 30 years later, that and the intense pain and discomfort.

For whatever reasons my mother had at the time (fear of discovery of a home issues, my stepfather being so drunk she couldn’t leave, ?) I didn’t see the doctor right away, much less visit an ER.

When I was about 11 I noticed that I often had to “help” things along – I won’t go in to the details because it’s just not needed.

I’ve read about others who’ve had to do this as well, and recently my aunt told me that not only did my great-grandmother have serious issues (ending in colon cancer) but that my grandfather, and my aunt have had nearly the same exact troubles. So, hey, I’m not alone! Hmm.

However about 2 or 3 years ago I noticed it wasn’t just slow or sluggish or.. a sense that I needed to help my body move the waste out and on, but that I wasn’t feel ANYTHING at all at a certain point. In my lower left abdominal area to be precise.

And not long before this, I’d begun to have recurring dreams in which I’m shot in that area, usually leading to death. Or a fading of consciousness. They continued until last year, when I’d lost all sensation in that area.

It isn’t as though I feel I have to go, but I can’t. I don’t feel anything at all.

Which leads me to wondering what I’ve killed off inside myself, and what I’m holding on to, unable to let go of. Because I do believe it’s all tied in together.

And what is my family holding on to – what did I choose to take on and deal with? 4 generations having the same exact troubles.

Here I thought I was making such progress in letting go, in feeling worthy, yet it has become clear (or not so) that there’s still some deep work to open up to.

I was frightened of tomorrow for a while, terrified even, in part because of such uncertainty over what will be my 12th procedure/surgery where I fall asleep (are the odds still in my favor?). Also because I wonder what they will find, or won’t find. And what then?

Surgery would just be a temporary fix to what is obviously a hundred year problem (if not longer).

I want to heal the wound that has haunted my family. Free us from this bondage.

And someday? I’d love to be free to use the bathroom without delay, discomfort, or the nothing at all… I’d love to be well.

 

Pieces Undone

Have you ever tried to piece yourself back together? Perhaps after a divorce, your own, your parents, a job loss, a parent (friend, lover, child) dying, a betrayal, or just a really terrible, seemingly damned, long day?

After some dark moment you realized that you were shattered, and that at some point you’d have to put the pieces back together. Maybe not today, or even tomorrow, hell, maybe not ever, because where you are right now… who cares about the pieces?! It’s broken… and that’s all you see, all you know.

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But then you find yourself slowly coming back to the mess, the shattered bits on the floor, that you’ve tip-toed past day after day, night after night. And you realize, it’s time – maybe not to grab it all and figure it ALL out, but it’s time to find two pieces that fit together, and see how that feels. Perhaps after that you’ll have energy to find another piece, that matches the broken edges of the other two, that slides together back in a way that almost has you fooled into thinking these pieces, were never really broken.

You only have to slide your fingertips over the edges, like your tongue sliding over the cracks in your teeth, the dryness of your lips. And there you feel it, the little crack, the tiny crevices no one else will ever notice.

Do you ever look at the pieces and say, No, that one I’m not using. That one doesn’t fit. It’s too shattered, it was ground in to dust, and there’s nothing I want it for. I will remake the whole without it. For every day I look at what I’ve pieced together, I will know.. that piece, I left behind, I let it go. I’m stronger, better, happier, or just.. OK, as I am now.

And I will do as the Japanese do, I will fill the space in with gold, I will not hide the broken pieces, I will call them out. As one site observes of Kintsugi “the japanese art of repairing with gold to create a perfectly imperfect piece of beauty”.

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Yes, that, right there.. A perfectly imperfect piece of beauty.

It has become more valuable, because it was broken, because it was brought back together, because the hidden is now seen. And there is an art in this, a strength.

What once was broken, can always be mended.

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Don’t read this

I don’t want you to read this, but I need you to.

I don’t want to write to you, I don’t want to tell you all the secrets I’ve been keeping. To show you the darkness that still resides within my very soul, to lead you to the places where I’m hiding.

I don’t want you to know that I was weak, where I wished to be strong. To know that I cried when I had no words, and when I had no tears left to cry, I simply disapeared. That the fear, and the tears kept me in such limbo, for so long.

That I have nothing to say to you.

Except, that I have everything to tell you.

And while I don’t want to write to you, I long to speak to you.

But my words would burn too deeply, my heart would pour out and my tears would light the darkness on fire.

I have listened, waited, watched, and learned. Now it is time to speak. You may not listen, or wait, or watch and you certainly don’t have to learn. I will share it all though, even when I don’t want to write to you, I will.

Veronica Yem

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