We choose to see what we see...

Photo of the Post: 3 Eyes Can See
Well I guess I shouldn't say I never saw it coming. I chose not to see it coming. I chose not to believe it was happening- day after day. Those on the outside can see it, but why couldn't I? Blinded by love? By infatuation maybe. Blinded by the happiness of someone wanting to "take care" of me?

It starts so subtle. Once I got into that comfort zone - relaxed, feeling free and on top of the world, like no one could stop me (funny I say that as a "Free Fallin'" cover by John Mayer comes on) slowly the problems began. It was like we couldn't survive without one another. We had to do everything together. We depended on one another...it was more like latched onto one another like leeches. Sickening to think of now, but at the time was so incredible to be wanted and needed and to want and need someone in return.

After the fun, or "honeymoon" stage (as many call it) subsided, one of the first things I noticed was that it was no longer okay for me to have friends of my own. Well, it didn't help that we had moved to a city two hours south of where all my friends were in the first place, but still, not being able to make new friends because of her hurt. A lot. Of course, she could talk to and hang out with whoever she wanted. But, when I met someone worth befriending, it was a jealous fit of rage that always led to a fight. Easier to not have friends and come straight home after work to avoid confrontation.

Having no one to talk to besides the one person in my life manipulating me behind my back was really hard. Only I didn't know I was being manipulated at the time. Needless to say, I fell back into that deep dark hole of depression once again that I hadn't seen since my mother passed away when I was 15 (next series of stories to come...)

Nights began to feel more lonely by her side. On occasion I would roll over in bed at night, while the rest of the city was fast asleep and our puppy was snoring under my legs, and I would stare at her face. Not for long. Only for small fleeting moments until I had to walk out to the living room and make up the futon into a bed. Comfort at last - well not exactly.

As soon as she noticed I had moved out of our bedroom she must have felt compelled to come let me know I was in the wrong once again. I can't count the number of nights I was awoken in the early morning hours to her familiar, yet so unfamiliar voice telling me what a piece of shit I am.

"You are dumb ass bitch piece of shit. You think someone is gonna want you when I'm done with you? Fuck no. You are a used up piece of garbage going nowhere in life. I am the only reason people find you attractive. When I leave you in the gutter no one will think twice about your dumb ass..."

Well, I'll tell you something...someone wants me. Now. In the future. In the temporary. Forever. Who knows...but there is someone. So fuck you.

New to blogging...

Well I guess I saved that first, irrelevant blog in the first place instead of actually publishingit. So, let's call it even and start reading my official first post from "...what the fuck do I want to do with my life?" Deal? Deal.

My First Blog...

I've been doing a lot of thinking. Why did I even write that last blog? Humor? Sure. Not sure what the hell I wanted to blog about. Absolutely. But, even more of what races through my mind more and more everyday, as I'm sure everyone has in common with me is: what in the fuck do I want to do with my life? Well, tonight, as I sit at my sisters house, snuggled up with the puppies (a great dane named Rigby, and a miniature schnauzer, Jade), sipping a glass of red wine, Brazilian jazz playing softly but strongly in the background, and delivered Lo Mein growing cold on the kitchen counter, I want to write. For tonight. Tomorrow. The next day. Next week. Forever. Who knows?

After arriving at my sister and brother-in-law's cozy Denver home (and grabbing a cheap bottle of Barefoot Shiraz), I pulled down my bra straps and hiked up my gym shorts to sit outside in the warm, cool breeze, which only the spring season of Denver brings this truthfully, to catch some short-lived sun and re-read a book that inspired me many months back. Tell me later if you can catch on to the book....

Within 20 pages I found myself smiling, pondering, thoroughly questioning, and deeply relating to on some level. Unhappy at where her life is, she collapses on the bathroom floor sobbing, praying for the first time in her life to "God" (who she goes on to give a brief explanation of her terms of what or who "God" is to her). She introduces herself aloud as if meeting an acquaintance and pleads, "Please tell me what to do. Please tell me what to do. Please tell me what to do..." (Page 15).

I have found myself in this almost identical situation.

I woke up one early morning, 22 years old, in an upstairs neighbors apartment. The bed was damp from the ice bag that had rested on my face as I fell into a deep, traumatized sleep the night before. What do I do? "Please tell me what to do..."

Do I tip-toe back down the outdoor stairs to my homely Orlando apartment that now seems like a strangers home from a bad dream? What do I say when I creak open the beige door to apartment #103 and find my girlfriend awake? Or what do I do if she is sleeping? Do I crawl into bed and snuggle up behind her back searching for comfort and safety like everything is normal? No. I can't. The thought crosses my mind and I almost gag in my mouth as I slowly make John and Tiff's guest-room bed, searching for the answer. "Please tell me what to do..."

The night began care-free: appetizers and a beer out at a local sports pub. Text messages flowed (I know, I know). Laughter was abundant and with more laughter came more friends and more booze. The night continued and it continued long. What did I get myself into? I had a French mid-term in the morning. But, as I always say: booze, friends, and love will blind you. Well, I just made that up. True story though.

At the last stop of the evening words no longer spoke the truth. Glances exchanged no longer showed love-only that which the bottle brings: jealousy and anger. Needlessly to say, my girlfriend left me there. No money. No cell phone. No car. And I was drunk. Fuck.

After stumbling down a very main street in Orlando, I managed to loose my shoes and get kicked out of a gas station for asking to use a phone. Sobbing uncontrollably, a couple in a pick-up truck asked me if I was in trouble. YES! After explaining my situation, the couple offered to take me back to my apartment. I thankfully and drunkenly hopped in the bed of the truck and they took me home-sweet-home. Or so I thought.

I came-to on the floor next to our queen size bed on the beige carpet-bleeding severely from the nose. Our temporary roommate we had been renting our guest-room to was trying her best to lift my exhausted body from the floor. She got me to the bathroom, tilted my head back, all while screaming profanities to my girlfriend. At least one of us could. I couldn't believe this had happened to me. I couldn't believe this had become my life. Me.

I remembered being in high school, when one of my dearest friends suffered from a severe eating disorder because her boyfriend told her she was fat. I was always the one who told her she was so much better. She didn't deserve the abuse. She was beautiful (voted so in our senior year superlatives in fact), and told her she was being manipulated by an asshole. How could she not see that? She never could find the words to explain. I didn't understand. But, when I looked in the mirror, blood flowing out of my nose and down my chin, I understood. I never saw it coming.