Tag Archives: Pain

Part One: The Beginning Of The End

6 Jul

Okay, let’s slow this train down a bit.

Actually, let’s bring it to a screeching halt.

Over the past couple of weeks, it has come to my attention that the story of my last year or so hasn’t been told in the clearest of ways. As I sit back and read through my entries, my life on virtual paper, I realize, to some, this may be very true.

You see, in order to protect certain individuals involved in my mess of a life, I tend to take a different approach to writing about my everyday happenings and emotions. I do not do this to hide my responsibility for my own actions, but rather to not tell too much of the story and let the reader develop their own sense of relation to what I may be experiencing. In doing so, there have been sentiments and sympathy thrown my way from the best of people. And even though these words of encouragement helped me get through some of the hardest of times, I now realize that certain people may feel that I was not deserving of such kind words and that I was, in fact, playing the victim role when I shouldn’t have been.

Over the past couple of months, there has been a lot of twists and turns in my so-called life. Some have been bad, others have been extremely good. I have hit a new level of honesty with someone that I’ve hurt really bad. And in the interest of opening the book for everyone who has questioned me to see, in interest of keeping a level of honesty so high, I have decided to tell my story as purely and blatantly as possible. This is my attempt to set the record straight, to expunge and dispel any rumors and untruths. Some of you may hate me even more after this. And you know what? That’s okay. I am not doing this for the sake of your comfortableness. I am doing this for me, for her, and for the myriad of others I have hurt, confused, and completely baffled over the last year.

So, here goes nothing. I hope to see you on the other side.

(***Please note: This is my life. This is real. I am not doing this for sympathy or for personal benefit. I am not doing this to look good or to be played up as something I am not. This is my account of events and craziness that this last year has brought. You can do with it as you will.***)

******

Part One: The Beginning of the End

Shortly before the birth of our second child, I started to get really ill. Daily, new and mysterious symptoms would seem to pop up out of nowhere. As any good patient would do, I spent loads of time and money hopping from one specialist to the next. I mean, if they had an “ologist” added to the end of their specialty, I had one, if not two or more appointments scheduled with them. Test after test revealed a bunch of obscure abnormalities, but nothing that fit a bigger picture, nothing that seem to fit any type of diagnosis. On a daily basis, I could feel my mood decline, my happiness seem to sleep almost completely away.

Without a doubt, around this very time, I am convinced this is when a fickle little bitch called “depression” started to take hold. Of course, my wife noticed and urged me to get help. Me, being the alpha-dumbassmotherfucker-male, denied up and down that I was anywhere near that hideous label of being one of those “depressed” folks. I could surely handle these feelings on my own. I sure the hell didn’t need therapy. And medication? Heh. Medication was for the weak. I was NOT weak. I was a man, dammit.

With my mental status and physical status both quickly declining, thoughts of divorce crept into my mind constantly. I mean, I had fleeting thoughts about it before. But they were just that. Fleeting. There one minute and gone the next. What married person hasn’t thought about it one time or another? But this time around, it was different. Those thoughts that were once just an aberration, were now front and center on a daily basis.

At this point, I had been married for over 8 wonderful years. On the outside (and even on the inside) our marriage was rock solid and except for a few revolving issues (which mostly had to do with my emotional unavailability), we were the epitome of a successful marriage. But still, I felt broken inside. I felt like I never could fully open up to her and reciprocate the type of love she deserved. I felt like a coward because I couldn’t tell her what was going on in my mind out of pure and simple fear of hurting her feelings. I mean, what if these feelings all the sudden just went away? Why would I bring them up if they surely would soon disappear? But alas, the cowardice built up inside to a point that it brought another emotion in with it. Hello, guilt. How very nice to meet you.

As the months went on, my health was declining and failing fast. To make matters even more complicated, we now had a newborn in the house with a four year old to boot. Combined with the lack of sleep and an extremely colicy baby, my health was nearing a breaking point. Little did I know, I would be hospitalized soon. And not just for a quick moment either.

For the better part of a month, I was in and out of the hospital. I accumulated a total of 18 days in aggregate being poked with needles, blasted with radiation, and put on every type of intravenous medication known to man. In and out of drug induced consciousness, I could see my wife standing, sitting, sleeping, and watching over me all the while keeping a house together and two kids safe, healthy, and satiated. Not only was this very comforting to me, it was also crushing at the same time. Here is this remarkable woman keeping her vow to me in sickness and I am consumed with thoughts of divorce. Whatever was left of my happiness was wiped clean off the earth at this time. I despised myself. I hated everything I was. I was a fucking loser. I wasn’t a man. I was weak, lost, and above all, a terrible husband. Who could you even think of a divorce after she stood next you rock steady during your worst of times? What a despicable excuse for a human being I had become.

After an EUREKA! moment by a couple of physicians, I was finally released from the hospital and sent home to start my recuperation. As I arrived home and settled in, I was convinced that since we had made it through this toughest time, the thoughts that screamed so loudly in my head, would certainly reverse course and cease to exist. We had, once again, made it through the dark and there had to be nothing but light ahead, right?

But there was never any light coming out of my little tunnel. And being the intuitive, caring wife, she started to notice my attitude had changed. Still, I pressed on. Her questions about my happiness where quickly answered with a wide array of reassurances. For the most part, those reassurances were completely true. You see, I did love her. And I was happy on some levels some of the time. The problem had nothing to do with her. The problem(s) were all self contained. That is, until that night.

As the tears strolled down both of our faces, my mind finally came to terms with what just came blurting out of my mouth.

“I want a divorce.”

After 9 years of marriage, I had just brought down the entire relationship with four words. I felt sick. I wanted to vomit. At that point, I truly wanted to die. My mind swirled as she lashed out in anger and sadness. Throughout our entire marriage, I was hellbent on never making her hurt or sad. I tried my best to always insure there was a smile on her face at all times. But there I was, doing the very thing I promised I would never do. Hurting her was one of my biggest fears. And I was solely responsible for the tears, I was the only one causing the hurt.

That night was one of the worst nights of my life. My heart still pounds and my hands still shake when I think about it. A lot of people think that once you ask for a divorce, that’s it, that’s all there is. But that couldn’t be farther from the truth. Reality hits you harder than you ever thought possible. The hatred, the loathing, and the fear quickly invade whatever emotional vacancies you have left. Nobody ever wakes up wanting to voluntarily hurt the one they love.  I, for one, never thought I would be that guy.

But I was.

And unfortunately, this was only the beginning to the end.

(To be continued…)

The Storm Within

17 Apr

As I lay here in this empty bed, I listen to the thunder roll in from the west. With each crash and boom that resonates through my eardrums, I realize something insanely profound. As the pain and nausea sets in, this epiphany, this harsh reality, hits me hard like a sucker punch to the gut from an unknown opponent.

The thing is, I should have known this all along. This truth shouldn’t have come as a surprise in any way.

But it did. It took me completely off guard.

And as each flash of lightning illuminates this cold, dark room, my newfound sense of reality finally starts to set in.

I am a storm.

From a distance, you can appreciate and even love a storm. You can marvel at its raw power and beauty. A storm, will mesmerize you and lull you into a false sense of comfort.

I am a storm.

Most of the times, you will make it through a storm unscathed with little more than a few drops of water dripping down your face. But sooner or later, unapologetically and without warning, a storm you’ve seen a million times will turn on you in an instant. Suddenly, you are left wondering what hit you and what you are supposed to do next.

You see, I am a storm. You can only love a storm until it actually does damage to you. Like the best storms often do, I will ruin and destroy. And because of that, you cannot love a storm. Even the most seemingly harmless of storms are unlovable.

I am, without a doubt, a storm.

And as most experts say, you do not get close to a storm. It’s always in your best interest to just admire it from afar.

And Elsewhere

20 Nov

Another week, another, um dollar? Yeah, that doesn’t make much sense to me either. Anyway, I have been all over the place this week. Come and take a look at what I got into.

This week at MamaPop:

Tuesday’s Post: HIMYM Season Six Recap: Episode 9 “Glitter”

Thursday’s Post: ANTM Cycle 15 Recap: Episode 11 “Franca Sozzani”

 

 

This week at Draft Day Suit:

Thursday’s Post: Handshake Snubbin’

 

 

 

 

 

I was also a featured writer on Indie Ink this week. I am so floored and humbled to actually have my     work exhibited by such an awesome website.

Featured Post: Just Get Up

30 Days Of Truth: Day Seven

3 Nov

Day 07-Someone who has made your life worth living for.

The beeping from this machine grates against my soul. I know it’s coming. Without fail, every ten seconds, the beep will come. It’s no longer an annoyance. It has become something I fear, something I hate. Deep inside, I know it is helping me. The constant flow of chemicals it pumps directly into my body allow me to live one more day. But still, the pain is still indescribable. The sickness fills my body and rapes my soul. I want to quit. I want to just give up. But I can’t.

I know she will be back soon. With her haunting smile and assortment of needles, she’ll have to replace this I.V. again. I know it’s time. I can feel it leaking down my arm. I can see the blood mixing with the saline and pharmaceuticals. She tries to calm me as I start to cry. That’s all I can do anymore. As I drift in and out of consciousness, the tears roll down my cheeks. Here I am, a grown ass man, reduced to tears. It’s the only emotion I have left. Everything else has been taken from me. Tomorrow will come. No matter how much I wish it wouldn’t, there’s no stopping time. So I just cry. The tears are all I have left.

The nights are the worst. My mind is alive with a flurry of terror. I want to scream, but all I can muster is a failing whimper. My eyes strain to focus in the pitch black darkness as I look around to see if I am alone. I’m sure she’ll be back soon. It’s been a few hours since I’ve heard a voice from the stillness of the night. Right on schedule, I hear the click of the door latch. Without warning the blinding darkness is immediately replaced with searing fluorescent light. With a methodical precision, I am poked, prodded, and heavily medicated. As the morphine flows freely through my veins, I let go. Tomorrow will come. As much as I fear it, it will come.

The needles pierce my skin. The numerous cold stethoscopes assault my body. The otoscopes invade my ears. The radiation blasts through my body. No matter what they do to me, I can’t convey the hell I am experiencing. I just cry. My body limp, my soul gone. I just cry. As I lay flat on my back to ensure the spinal fluid doesn’t leak out the hole they placed in my spine, I wonder if this is it. Have I reached my end?

And then I heard his voice.

“Hi, daddy.”

I felt his warm little hand reach out and brush my arm. In that moment, I felt no pain. I could see the bewilderment in his eyes as he tried to make out just what was going on with me. He knew I was sick. That wasn’t a secret to him. But seeing the tubes and machines hooked up to me must have been a shock to his psyche. I wanted dearly to protect him from seeing me like that, but I didn’t need to. The smiles and hugs broke through my medically induced haze. Without hesitation, stories of his past week flooded the room. He wasn’t really phased by a thing. He just wanted to hug me, tell me how much he missed me, and tell me what he did at school last week. For a moment, I forgot about everything. It was just him and me trapped in a moment of normalcy.

Normalcy.

It’s a funny word. But when you have gone through hell, you plead for normalcy again. Just a little taste of it was all I needed. I needed to know what was on the other side looking in. His little sister was at home waiting. She was merely months old and I was missing out on precious time. Time I couldn’t get back. I had missed half of her life on this planet. As I heard him say goodbye and close the door behind him, I was at peace. No matter what I had to go through to get home again, I would do it. Instantly, my pain turned into an anger. I knew I was missing out. I wasn’t going to let this thing beat me down any longer. More determined than ever, I sat up in my hospital bed for the first time in days. I knew tomorrow would come. And for once I wasn’t afraid of it.

Just Get Up

29 Sep

I’ve been laying in this bed for 46 minutes now. My mind is wide awake, a flurry of activity as usual. The flashing red numbers and screeching sound of the alarm clock will me to move. Each flicker of red light seems to chant something annoyingly familiar.

Get. Up.

Get. Up.

Get. Up.

Another 16 minutes fly by. At this point the alarm clock has given up on me. Something in its internal circuit board has signaled a cease and desist. A built-in fail safe for people like me. Why waste sound and perfectly good electricity on someone who has clearly given up?

As I raise my head off the pillow, I brace myself for the world has in store for me. The house is silent and eerily still. The faint bark of my neighbor’s dog tries to sneak past the windowsill, but is instantly drowned by the deafening silence. By now, I’ve managed to force myself into a slumped over, but upright position. My muscles ache. My bones feel like they have been on this planet for more than 100 years. Without warning, the surrounding silence has now been replaced with the screams of my own mind. Thoughts of doubt, loathing, and pure misery dance around freely as if they were a ballerina on stage. And once they start, they rarely ever go away.

With my feet dangling over the side of the bed, I do my best to lift my head. The heaviness of my convoluted mind weighs down the rest of my body like a 1000 pound weight. My body feels like it’s made out of nothing but quicksand. My mind is nothing but jumbled mush. If I can just make it to the shower, I know everything will be okay. The scalding hot water will wash away some of this hideous mess. The tiny grains of sand will swirl down the drain and disappear. They’ll vanish and hide from me until this process starts all over again.

Today is just an average day. You see, Wednesday is a fickle bitch. Really, so is Tuesday. I am willing to bet that Thursday is no different from the rest. As my eyes focus on my weary feet, I begin to talk to myself. Each word more stern and borderline violent than the next.

“Get. Up.”

“Did you hear me?”

“Get the fuck up.”

And so I do. I trip over my failing body as I make my way to the shower. The hot water is my only reprieve. My only hope to feeling some sort of normalcy.

With one foot in front of the other, I get up.

I just get the fuck up.

Broken

12 Mar

Ever painstakingly, she opened one of her stunningly beautiful green eyes. The world around her was nothing but a foggy haze. Across the room, she could make out the faint flicker of a nightlight plugged into a wall socket. Instantly, she could feel the pulsating pain that seemed to circle her entire skull. As she laid on the floor, the cool sensation from the ceramic tiles was almost soothing and eerily familiar.  Without warning, the night’s libations came storming up from the lowest point of her stomach. This time, however, she didn’t make it to the toilet. At that point, she didn’t care. After a futile attempt to clean up the mess, she rested her heavy, wobbly head. Within minutes, she was fast asleep.

A few hours had passed. The rising sun glared through the eastern bathroom window. Its rays beamed through the pane glass and illuminated the small space with a ferocious nature. As the minutes ticked by, the sunlight crept ever so slowly across the floor until it reached her pale,  porcelain skin. The warmth was comforting and a welcomed change from the cold, unforgiving bathroom floor she used as an impromptu pillow. Every single metal object seemed to reflect the sun’s harsh glimmer directly into her eyes. Annoyed and ultimately nauseous, she reached up, placed her hands on the marble counter top, and clumsily pulled herself to her feet. There, staring back at her in the oval-shaped mirror, was a woman she barely recognized.

She wasn’t what you would call a traditional beauty. Her look was more unique in nature. She stood about five foot ten with red, shoulder length hair that appeared to glow when the light hit it just right. Her facial features were petite and very feminine. A few freckles scattered her high cheekbones, the kind of cheekbones that most women would kill for. She was long, lean, and fit. This type of shape came totally naturally for her. So much so, you would rarely find her at the gym or jogging down the street. Her allure was appealing to men and women alike. Her smile could brighten the darkest of rooms. Her laugh could silence the staunchest of critics.

As she glanced in the mirror that morning, she could tell that things had changed. At the young age of 27, her wild lifestyle had finally started to catch up to her. Her green eyes were stained a bloodshot red. Her face was painted with last nights make up, flecks of glitter, and dried vomit. She felt rough. She felt used. Lost in her thoughts, she began the all too familiar task of washing the previous night off and away from her. Gingerly, she pulled open the shower door and in a defeated tone, mumbled to herself  “Today is going to be different”.

As the water ran down her skin, all she could do is stand. The gentle droplets stung every square inch of her body. She ached from head to toe. The sensation was typical, the direct result from the previous evening’s debauchery. This had become an all too repetitive process for her. Over and over she chanted her daily mantra, “Today is going to be different” until the tears were too frequent to hold back.

As she made her way back to her room, she could feel the crumbs from the cold, creaky wooden floor accumulate underneath her wet feet. Her naked body quivered from the drafty windows in her pre-war apartment. Sitting at the corner of her bed, she began to plan the day’s wardrobe. Six minutes had passed, but she was no closer to getting dressed than when she sat down. The goosebumps that covered every inch of her body were the only motivation to finally stand. With a methodical precision, she rummaged through the endless piles of both clean and dirty laundry. One by one, each designer garment slid onto her soft, cool skin.

It was ten minutes until nine. By her calculations, this was the fourteenth day she had been late to work this year. Each act of tardiness was immediately followed with a lame and apathetic excuse.  As usual, she would spend the ride on the A-Train racking her brain for one more clever and deceptively imaginative alibi.

A quick layer of make up and a dousing of perfume was all she needed to complete her transformation. Her black, four-inch Louboutins scuffed the distressed oak floor as she made her way to the front door. As she grabbed the tarnished brass knob and twisted the deadbolt, she noticed the calendar that hung by a sliver of duct tape on the back of the door. Immediately, her eyes were drawn to the date. In her fragile emotional state, all she could do was cry. It was March 13th. An ordinary date to most, but to her it was day she was trying to forget. That day was the reason she had been spiraling towards an emotional hell. She couldn’t believe it was actually making her sob. It had been a full year since he left. Right there in front of her face, the date on the calendar was a harsh and cruel reminder. With mascara filled tears spilling down her face, she took a death breath, steadied her trembling hands, and opened the door.

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