Love

Love can be the most gloriously awesome and the absolutely worst goddamn feeling on earth.

Why is that?

Love can make you feel like you have found the reason for existence, like you can't wait to wake up every morning, like magic is real, as if the very act of breathing is divine.

How is it that the single most amazing amazing sensation can also crush your soul?

Love is awful.

Love will consume your soul and eat your world. Love will keep you up at night, make you cry yourself to sleep at the end of each day, and disintegrate your being.
Love will be your reason for living, and the cause of your most painful destruction. It will make you think the world is worth saving, and without a moments notice, it will show you that you would kill, die or live for it; inevitably whichever option is most painful.

Love will make you desire life more than anything, and by the same token, it will laugh in your face and make you wish you were dead.

Nobody tells you this shit when they're reading you childhood fairy-tales at bedtime.

I fucking hate love. Love is a life-wrecking cunt, and your heart is an idiot with no sense of self-preservation. Love will destroy you. It will claw your goddamned eyes out and leave you begging for more.

I have also discovered that the depth of my love can be measured proportionately by fear. Sleepless nights wondering if someone is alive, made it to their destination, the lack of a return text surely implying their unfortunate demise, the heart-wrenching sorrow and loneliness of being shut out, of knowing that one has disappointed the object of their affection....That's fucking love for me. Measured most by the terror of loss.

I fucking hate love. Nobody tells you that the feeling which makes you fly is also the one which makes you want to slit your wrists on a sunny April morning when everything around you seems normal and the world keeps on turning as if your life hasn't disintegrated.

People say follow your heart...Trust me, your heart is a goddamned fool. It will break itself into a million pieces while bashing itself against the rocky shore of desertion or destruction, Without a care for the mind and soul laid to rest in pieces beside it.

And still we search for meaning in it all. Because it matters and we need something which explains the magic, something to justify the agony.
Perhaps this all lies simply in the fact that one cannot really know one of two extremes and must experience both to truly feel and experience the depths of either? Or perhaps such conclusions are simply a way for people like me who open their eyes in the morning with little to no desire for life, wishing the good feelings of love were still more than an aching memory...

Love will give you the desire to live, and make you wish for your death. All within the mere space of a single breath.

Nobody tells you that love is simply the inevitability of a glorious tragedy.

Didn't Come Home...

I don't think he likes me much anymore. In all all fairness, I am pretty damn unpleasant these days. I'm afraid it's a vicious circle...The longer he stays with her, the worse I am (I really am trying not to be. Success is...Elusive) and the less he wants to be with me.

He said he'd call me yesterday...He said he'd come home after having coffee with her. He didn't call, he didn't tell me he wasn't coming home, and he didn't come home.

Odd...

It's odd, you know...How you can literally feel your heart breaking.

He's been with her for two days and has completely quit speaking to me.

It's odd, you know...That there is no sound when your heart breaks, nothing phenomenal happens, the world keeps turning, the sun rises and sets. Life around you goes on just like it always did, as if nothing has changed, as if you could ever be again who you were before.

It's odd, you know...How you can literally feel your heart breaking and no one hears the silent sound.

I Came Crawling Back

In all honesty, Iv'e become a little manic lately. He knows it, the kids know it, my sil knows it. I start to sundown around five every day. It's great. At least I still see it, right?

I came crawling back to him via phone yesterday. For the first time in a very long time. I told him that I couldn't fix myself and begged him to help me, told him that I didn't know if I could make it back from the fucking edge, and I thought I really was broken. Professed my undying love and devotion, told him that I'd die without him becuase he was my fucking world, I sleep with his shirts, and please just make it all okay before I'm dead inside, and did everything short of begging him to come home.

He went and fucked her instead. And he'll probably do it again tonight. I said I was moving to the guest bedroom. He tells me she still loves me, that I'm pushing him away and building walls, that I said I'd always be there for him and I'm not.

I don't know how to be okay anymore. I'm in too many pieces to pick up at this point. I don't even try anymore, I just look at them and think, "huh, there goes another one".

The Lost Boy

I'd be lying if I said that my current state of mind was based solely off of him and her...there is another contributing factor to my melt...I guess I need names here...The Lost Boy. While he sure as hell is no boy, the term is rather fitting.

How did the lost boy find his way into my world? I picked his resume for my husband two years ago. Out of hundreds. And he was/is the One. Not from his resume, but from who he is. He was one of three people I told I was quitting the day I walked into the office and said "fuck you, I'm out". I will never forget his response...He looked at me and said, "No, don't quit! You can't leave me all alone here!" I cried on my way out of that room, I think I hid it well, but it almost kept me from quitting. Ultimately, I did walk out the door that day, because of the soul sucking cunt. I'll never forget the tone of his voice in that moment, and I'll never again do anything to cause it. Fucking ever.
He was there for me, one of only two who would look me in the eyes at work when my husband was fired. He was there for my husband when I was fucking him over with the soul sucking cunt. Because he needed someone, and I said, "call the Lost Boy" The loyal One. And my husband let him in. ALL the way in. He then proceeded to use the Lost Boy to push her out of my head. And it worked. One day I woke up, looked at her from the outside in, and knew that I had made the biggest mistake of my life. So I begged my husband for out, but he was already too far in...But I digress.

Any secret of who I am, every fucking trauma, how I feel, or what I am really like, which I have not spilled to him, has been told to the Lost Boy by my husband. He may not understand me, but he knows more about me than any other human being on the face of this planet besides my husband.

My husband pushed him. Into my mind, as somewhere I could go, as a shelter to run to, as a comparison of understanding in truly loving outside of our marriage. He has been generous with his allowances of the relationship I could have with the Lost Boy, but the truth is, those allowances are not so difficult to make when you know that they will not be--my feelings do not determine the route which Lost Boy and I take our relationship, Lost Boy does, and it is clear that anything beyond a friend who is your 2 am phone call because you trust them more than anyone in this world, is unacceptable. I'll take that for the enormous and unparalleled blessing that it is. But that enormous and unparalleled blessing does not dissipate the ache.
Yea, I fell. I fell fucking hard. But ultimately, I couldn't/can't run there. I figured this out in the depths of falling apart. And it has made the crash that much harder.

I told him my truth as it applies to him. And he stepped back. Way back. I can respect that. He's got a girl who he thinks is The One, and I'm not looking to be the soul sucking cunt in anyone elses life, especially his. The offer will always stand--me. However he wants, anything he wants, whenever he wants it.
So what he accepts is that married woman who makes dinner once a week, who he refuses to be alone with, who updates his resume and fiercely advocates for just how damn good he is at what he does, who will do anything for his girl because she is his, who will patch his brother up at two in the morning, pack lunch, and say, "Hey, I had a bad dream, please be careful out there".

The crash was hard. Really fucking hard. I spent a lot of time not accepting when my husband told me where to go for comfort. When I decided to go...I discovered that a major miscalculation had been made, and there was nothing to grab on to. I'm not gonna lie--it hurts. And I'm fucking lonely. And I do respect the Lost Boy's reasoning. He deserves his One, and I NEED to be good for his life, so I'll avoid fucking that up, in any way, at all costs. The way I see it, there's two real quick ways for me to make it to the top of his shit list--fuck with his relationship with his girl, or fuck my husband over.

Have I mentioned that I really have turned into an alcoholic? Yea...The girl who had never done anything more than take a handful of mushrooms really did live on blow for months and now polishes off a fifth of tequila a week. I'm a fucking mess and I know it. Some days I have a problem with that. Every now and then I have the desire to change it. For the most part, I can't see beyond surviving the miraculous appearance of next months rent. I make sure my kids are good. And they are. My eldest is turning into one hell of an awesome human being with a shining 4.0, and my youngest has the best grades in his inner city elementary school. Apparently grades don't top off at 100...

But this was about Lost Boy. The boy whose not a boy, who wanders through my dreams and makes my stupid heart skip a beat every time he smiles at me. The one I'll never taste.

It is terrifying because it's true...

It is what it is, and this truth isn't going anywhere, regardless of circumstances.

I'd be lying if I said that I didn't resent the fact that my husband pushed him into my mind so hard, yelled at me that I had him to go to, and told me Lost Boy was how I was to survive him and the soul sucking cunt. Because I no longer belonged to just him, I belonged to the Lost Boy too.

Because the truth is, Lost Boy doesn't feel as I do, and one cannot belong to someone who does not want them to belong.

I do try. Gods know, I do fucking try.

Here I Am...

To be a slave...A slave accepts these experiences I am having. A slave has agreed to whatever the master decrees, and attempts to do so with some modicum of grace. But the truth is, I haven't lived as a slave for years, and I am now expected to accept and function as slave and best friend.

I am where I am because of choices I made nearly a year ago. I fell in love with her, I let her in, I agreed to do whatever it took to have her.
All debts come due eventually.
I have learned that the price is his heart. She wanted me to get to him, and she succeeded. Perhaps not to the length she had originally wanted, because after all, it's one thing to love someone and want them to choose you over their family, it's another thing completely to be able to handle that person when you get a real taste of them.
I did some awful fucking things to him for her...

He used to keep his phone at his side for work. Now he carries it with him throughout the house at all times of day and night for her. For years I have carried my phone from room to room waiting for his text, fearing a missed call. These days I try consciously to leave it in the other room, to not live my life waiting for that call, that text, that one more message; like he awaits hers.

I was so over her. I barely thought about her at all. Life seemed to be moving on in its own fucked up but maybe gonna be okay sort of way. Then I accidentally discovered that he had been talking to her, and it felt like the sky fell. And they started talking more. Every day. And now, even in my dreams...For a while I lusted after sleep, for its peace and escape from reality. Now I dread the moment my mind drifts off because it is no better than these waking hours.

And when he saw her, he came home smelling like her, I could feel her all over him, and we fought. And he fucked me like he hated me. The next time he touched me, she texted twice. The next time I thought he was going to fuck me because he was going to be gone for days and morning sex is his thing, he stayed in the bathroom talking to her for 45 minutes instead. We fought for an hour after that, and he left. That was Wednesday. He'll be home tonight.

And I wanted to tell her that I hate her for this. Not just for what she did, but for the hell she inflicts daily. Now. But he told me not to say it, that he had asked for space, so there was no writings of bitch go fuck off and find some other space to take away, find some other goddamn person to break and just. Fucking. Rot. In. Hell.

So here I am saying it to the page.

The Beginning in My Ending

When we moved here to this godforsaken pit of humanity three years ago, I told him that my worst nightmare was mostly living alone here with the kids while he traveled to other states for work. I forgot to mention the cherry on top that I never saw coming--that work and leaving being combined with a soul sucking cunt from the pits of hell, someone he would be deeply in love with was my real nightmare.

Three years later, she has set herself up exactly where she knew he wanted to be, I live here with the kids, and he works...There.

In my dreams she is wrapped around his being while I stand there screaming into my own silence. And all he sees is...Her.

When he's home, he's talking to her. When he's at work, I am no longer the one he talks to--it's her. Every single day and night.

Say what you will about hate, you're probably right--it's a useless emotion that has no impact on the object of its direction, it is consuming and casts a shadow upon everything.
I do hate her. She is absolutely the most vile awful fucking being I have ever met in my life, and I have met some truly evil people.

He always told me to write whatever I wanted on my blog, until I had some really nasty things to say about her. And since she reads there, for the first time ever, he requested that I censor myself. So here I am.

This place is neither my descent nor my rising. It is merely reflections of my endings.