03.29.04 As I said in my livejournal today - my eyes are swollen from crying myself through last night. That's something to be said from someone who hasn't (because of medication) been able to squeeze out a single tear in almost two months. I don't know what started it - or when. It wasn't anything in particular yesterday that made me completely snap. It had been building from everything on top of everything. I'm not here to bitch or complain or get sympathy. I'm here to record this event in my diary. I don't need any judgments - I'm not asking for compassion. I'm just writing this out for later when I'm in Lydia's office so that I don't forget any details... and so here goes. I think I'll start from the end and go to the beginning (wherever that is). I guess I would start out with the fact that I grabbed a stack of exacto-knife blades from my craft box last night and managed to make a small scratch on my left wrist before I was tackled to the floor by BF and held down until I stopped squirming. Even after I stopped struggling, he sat on my back and held my arms with one hand while he threw the blades across the length of the house. He reached over to my purse that was lying a few feet away, pulled out my prescription bottle of Xanax and took out six of them. He forced them into my mouth and told me to swallow. He then picked me up like a small child and laid me on the bed while he held the cell phone in one hand, 911 on the screen... but he never hit the send button to call. Before that happened we had been sitting on the floor talking about things. And I had reached for my purse on my own - he stopped me, saying that I wasn't going to deal with my problems with a bunch of pills. Then I told him that I didn't need the pills and that I could deal with it in a different way. That's when I reached for my craft box. While we had been sitting on the floor, we had been discussing the things that have been going on with "us". His dad told me one thing (that BF had been buying meth and missing work and telling him about our sex life, etc) but when confronted - back talked his way out of those things... saying that he never told me any of that and that I must have been confused. His dad is a complete two-faced bastard who pretends to be concerned for BF's well being; yet is too frightened of losing his son's love to confront him face-to-face and would rather lie than tell the truth about what he had said. The fact that BF would take his father's word over mine triggered my need to calm myself down before I broke anything else in the house and that's why I reached for my Xanax. Before we sat down, I had been lying on the ground while BF gathered his clothing from the closet and packed it into a suitcase on the bed. I lay there telling him to "hurry his ass up, and get the fuck out of my house"... I finally jumped up off the floor and started "helping" him by throwing what clothing I could grab up out the front door. I told him that he'd better take everything with him because it would be set on fire if he left it here. His clothing looked ridiculous spread out on our manicured front lawn in the middle of downtown. Piles of t-shirts and jeans still on the hangers. I had been sitting at the computer when he came in. I had been sitting calmly with a plan. I sat calmly as he raged about the house complaining that our little "contract" was unfair as far as giving me control of his finances. I had sat there with a smirk as he screamed and called me names. It wasn't until he grabbed my shoulders that I went into a rage. I broke everything in this bedroom. The heater, the stereo, the shelves, candles, pictures. Up until he had touched me, it wasn't real. We had a screaming match in which I called him an alcoholic, drug-addicted, loser, trailer-trash, son-of-a-whore. And he in turn called me a controlling, crazy, bitch. I called him a poser, for growing up with a rich daddy who bought him thrift store clothes from Hot Topic to fit in with his "freak" friends... while I shopped at Goodwill because I was fucking POOR as shit - sharing a bed with my mother until I moved away to college. I lost control of my mind for a little while - screaming and breaking things. Then when he tried to stop me, I started hitting and kicking him until he pushed me to the floor where I lay there. Before that screaming match, I had been sitting at the computer all day typing up a contract filled with rules for us to follow in RESPECT for one another. I showed him the contract as soon as he walked in the front door and saw my overnight bag packed and ready to go. The only argument he had was the part marked money & finances where it outlined the rule of him giving me his paycheck every single week so that I could prevent him from buying any more fucking meth instead of paying his goddamn car payment. I told him to sign it or it was over. Over. Over. I threw my engagement ring on the floor and grabbed my bags, where he stepped in and started packing himself. "I'll leave. Don't worry. I'll leave," he kept muttering. "So you'd rather leave me than give up doing drugs?!?!?!?!?!?" FUCK YOU!" I screamed some more hurtful things (including things about Adam, his crack-whore mother who is in prison, his fat-ass lying father, and the rest of it all...) at him and that's where our story catches up with itself. ----- Later that night (as he held me on the bed) he looked at me straight in the eyes. For the first time EVER, he told me that he in fact had a problem with drugs and that he was going to get help. He promised. The phone rang and he answered. It was his father - he told him that he had more important things to do and hung up. A few minutes later the phone rang again and it was Kenny - he told him the same thing. He held me and stroked my hair. He told me that he that he would do anything for me. That he loved me enough to do ANYTHING I asked him to do. And then he took his bottles of pills (Adderall, valium, etc) and flushed them down the toilet. Kenny showed up with a six-pack at our door, and he was (for the first time ever) turned away. "I have more important things to do." That was what he said again at the door to his best friend. More important things to do, like work on our relationship. The only thing that matters. I missed work today - a mental health day, I call it. I have an appointment with Lydia at 1 pm and then from there possibly another appointment with Rowley about the fact that I truly believe that I would have "done it" for sure this time if BF hadn't been there to basically wrestle me to the ground. I have tried it before. I was too chicken shit to make the cut deep enough. I was only 17, though... and it seemed more like a cry for help than anything else. At least that's what my then-psychiatrist had told my mother. I tried unconsciously for years with drugs and drinks - with taking risks. With getting myself in trouble, in the hospital, abused, and even raped. I tried for so long that it became less that I wanted to die and more that I just didn't want to live anymore and didn't care what happened to myself. I tried to pretend that I was better. That I had grown up and out of that "teenage-angst"... only it wasn't a product of hormones. They it seems only aggravated it. It was a product of a little girl deep down inside that wanted revenge on the world that had hurt her so much. It is that little girl who cuts and starves herself. It is that little girl that believes that there is nothing worthy of herself except pain. PAIN. Nothing more. It is I as an adult that struggles against this little child. Screaming in my head that she won't destroy me. She can't. She's only a child. |
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