Saturday, September 24, 2011

The Move and the Mind Fuck: Good God, I lived to tell the tale . . .

So the next two weeks were miserable.

The morning after I broke up with Alan, I felt sick from self-loathing and general hatred towards the universe. I always go through this period of shock and regret .  . . should I have broken up with him? Was it my fault? Was it too soon? I should have given this time to breathe.

I am not very patient.

That next day I worked LET’S MAKE A DEAL and went over to Frank’s afterward to do my laundry. I texted him I broke up with Alan and needed to self medicate. By the time I got over there, he had a packet of coke waiting for me and $150 to help with the new place.

As I ground down the nugs into fine powder, I asked him to read the GChat of Alan’s giant stinking dump on my life and tell me if I was overreacting.

As Frank scrolled through, I heard the occasional gasp or groan. I would rush over and ask, “What is it?”

He said, “Don’t look at it. You don’t need to read this again.”

I changed out of my LET’S MAKE A DEAL costume and hung out in boxers and a t-shirt, sipping wine, snorting coke and chain smoking. Frank took a picture of me on his doorstep, it really captured how broken I am. Its not about Alan, just the hope of Alan.

I had texted Alan a few afterthoughts to float around in our muck.

“I am actually a great girl- just need to get on my feet. Someday I will be someone great I hope. And maybe you will like me.”

“I saw you changed your Facebook relationship status and felt sad. I thought we could talk while I had reception.”

“Did you have to tear me apart in a dark hour? I trusted you with all of me and now its just gone.”

Alan: “You broke up with me in a text message during class. YOU DID THIS. I might talk to you someday. . but now? You have got to be fucking joking.”

The deal with getting the coke was only contingent on also getting xanax. Using the two, one when I got up in the morning and get through days of heartache, moving, working then more moving and one to allow me to sleep so I wouldn’t die. 

The week before, I had asked for 3 days off to move my things into Dora’s studio while Alan was in town, but there was a scheduling mishap; they had plans and were unreachable, and I didn’t have the key. So I had to move during a week where I had two days off. One day would be allotted to moving all my stuff to the new place. The other day would be the devoted to cleaning out my old place.

The days I worked, I got up, snorted coke, hiked the dogs and tried to make a trip to the new place with a load before my shift and then another after.

Frank, loyal as ever, was there with me. Mostly he smoked cigars and Facebooked while I organized everything.  I just wanted the company.

Though I was busy, losing Alan broke my heart into smaller pieces, whatever was left over from earlier this year. I was a mess at work. During this text message exchange:

Alan: “I reflected on what we talked about and realized it doesn’t matter if I meant what I said that shitty night. I spoke what was on my mind and you left me. It was nice to be able to pretend I was part of something special for awhile, but there is no way I will ever be able to trust you enough to be honest again and what I feel or think. You were right to end things.”
Me: “I agree. I reviewed the conversation and could never trust someone who took huge dumps on my life without logical provocation. And if you thought so little about me- we should not be together. I am sorry it ended this way, but you and Jaq make a perfect couple- judging people and their lives instead of seeking to understand and appreciate them. I deserve better. And thanks for texting me your base and self-centric ideas, always far superior to me . . . I showed you nothing but respect and love. “

I am scrolling down the text messages as I write this. More of the same. We struck nasty, cold messages back and forth like a small ball of power, crossing violently from court to court.

I was actually holding out hope he would be sorry and explain why he said such hateful things to me until that afternoon. I broke down crying on the doggie playground. Sasha, my hot, tatted bi-sexual manager, pulled me off the playground. I kept chain smoking and trying to drink water.

I was making those hyperventilating sobs, the kind I made when I was six. Everyone was trying to calm me down, Trent, the receptionist, a co-worker who defriended me because I used the bitch voice on him once, even the sarcastic, Filipino Human Resources woman who violates every labor law known to America. They all hugged me. They took turns carrying my shift when I had to sit down from sobbing.

I told Trent I am going to fucking kill myself. I can’t live with losing everyone I love like this, hating me. Em, Abe . . . my parents. Its like every one who sees the real me, despises me and then destroys me.

Alan: “As for being mean to you. . you hurt me really bad and keep contacting me . . making it worse. . what do you expect? Me to be happy?”

Alan: “Wishing you had never met me . . . yeah . . . join the club. . its got a big membership list . . also fuck you for that . . I just want time away from you. . you hurt too bad . . “

At the end of my shift, Trent joined me on the playground and I just broke down. Something about hugs reduced me to a sobbing mess, no matter who it was. Trent said, “I hate seeing you like this. Come on. You are beautiful, you are smart …”

I said, “Why does everyone I love have to tear me apart?”

Trent was getting misty watching me sob, “Because they just see a lot of potential and they don’t understand.”

The only thing that got me through that week was Frank, the drugs, the dogs and the move.

I am not an idiot. I know that Frank wants to have sex with me. And I would be lying if I said we didn’t fool around. Despite the underlying motives, I needed someone around me to just be there. I was periodically sobbing between loads, between lines.

He held me on my mattress, dragged out to the living room floor, alone with just my computer and he buried his face in my neck and said, “Do you want to hear good things about yourself?”

I nodded.

He said, “You’re beautiful, you’re smart, you’re a great writer.”

I said, in that high pitched six-yearr-old voice, “I am?”

Alan: “No question of why I might have been so upset.. no concern about what happened.. you don't care because I didn't listen to you complain and say what u wanted to hear.. just let's break up, by text message no less.. that's pretty selfish and juvenile.. u want to fuck up what we have over petty shit without a chance to mend.. fine.. but its your fault and your doing..
Enjoy your life.. you are all that matters right?”

Alan: “How do you not understand?  You did this.  You crossed the only line I had.  This isn’t the first time I loved someone who cared so little they could end things through a fucking text message.  I've seen worse.  But this manipulative crap about how you dumped me for good reasons bullshit makes me so angry.  And breaking up with me via TEXT MESSAGE.  Damn you for making me keep doing this. Leave me alone.  I don't trust you to look out for anyone but yourself.. why else would you keep doing this?  Its so YOU can feel better.  So you can have what YOU need.  So take care of yourself.  That's all I wanted when I got angry at you Wednesday anyway.”

I would cry when the sun was down and I was done with the last load of the night. There was nothing to do but take the pain away with my magic fairy dust.

If someone gave you a small baggie of powder that made you feel ok again, in a matter of seconds, would you turn it down? I was battling thoughts of suicide. I hated myself. Its not just Alan, its the never ending spiral of financial crisis, the getting fired by bosses who hated me, the never booking commercial work, the crisis I created for myself taking in all these animals and refusing work that comes with any kind of security.

I have obviously created a pattern for myself, I struggle, I fail, form fast/intense bonds with people and then it all blows up in my face. Nothing gets better, it just repeats. And that, my friends, is hell.

I was already thinking about a suicide note, dropping Brad off with Alan and Wilson. I had the key to his apartment. I could just disappear down there in Mexico or by the border somewhere. The pit bulls, but what about the pit bulls? My parents are too old to handle them and my sister lives in a 2nd story condo that looks like a museum.

No one would take them.

I am sure Belle (my cat) would stay with Dora . . . maybe. She keeps pissing on their fridge.

Over a small ashtray, I had several fine lines of coke laid out for me. I would hover over them sobbing, “The more people get to know me, the more they hate me.” I could feel my tears streak down my face with trails of dust and dirt spilling over my cheeks just before drying and rising off of me like sand surviving the ocean waves.

I stopped sobbing only long enough to do a few lines. And then I would quiet and collect myself.

Frank, “This is the most unhealthy thing I have ever seen.”

Me to Alan: “Relationships aren't perfect, they have missteps and heartache and bad words. I want to know the man I love doesn't think I am a total fuck-up. I am still struggling with those words you said and trying to tell myself you don't think those things, that I am an ok girl.”

Me to Alan: “A bonus would be to know we can make it through bad days, find a new way to communicate so I don't press like I did when you were having a rough day. Work on it. Develop trust and get through stupid shit together.

Stop hurting us, you aren't just hurting me, you are hurting us.

My Alan ... I miss my Alan ... you were my family and now you just cut me off.”

Alan: “I can't promise anything.. especially when being pushed into it.  I do believe what I said.  I do think you are wasting the chances you are given to accomplish what you want in life and I think you are lying to yourself about being happy or confused about what happy is.  It hurts to watch that and to just have to accept that you know what you are doing when you obviously don't.  So if you can't handle me saying what I believe honesty like that or worse then you are incapable of being in a relationship with me.  I feel that I have to tell you the truth or nothing.  But I wouldn't leave you. Only one of us thinks that's a more justifiable way to hurt someone than fucking TALKING.  That's why I want to be left alone.  Talking to you is just pain and nothing else now. “

Me: “I guess you just don't understand me . . . or care to then . . . I care about your opinion but not when it lashes out in an abusive fashion.

There is talking to someone about the truth with advice as a caring adult and equal and then there is repeatedly slapping me in the face with scarring remarks. No, I can not live with that.

I don't deserve to be cut down to size and made to apologize for instinctively walking away from it. That's not fair. And if you don't see that, you are simply incapable of a relationship.

I tried.


Alan: “You just said everything about as correctly as possible. We both found
our limits at the same time.  We can love each other as much as is possible and there's still no way to fix this.  I guess I don't need time to think after all.


I was averaging 5 to 6 hours of sleep, forcing myself to eat at least a bean and rice burrito once a day, maybe a slice of bread with peanut butter on it.

I wasn’t tired, I was hyper-efficient. I had already organized the new space and just had to push through cleaning up the old place. I was smoking so much, my lungs burned. I wanted to disappear, I wanted to get buried in all my useless junk and die in a pile of ashes.

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