Abysmal Failure (warning, graphic content)

Abysmal Failure

If there were ever any two words that could describe me, those would be it.

I used to think the two might be ‘Eternal Optimist’. But I’m not feeling all that optimistic at the moment.

There is also ‘Hopelessly Romantic’. That fits. Any possibility of romance for me at this stage of the game is surely hopeless.

What about ‘fucking crazy’? Yeah, that fits. Anyone that has lived the life I’ve led and believes the things I do has got to be crazy. There can’t be any other explanation for it, really.

I didn’t ask to be brought into this world. In fact, if given the choice, looking back, I think I’d choose option B, only I don’t believe in abortion.

Besides, had I not come into this world, neither would Tyler. But then his life has not been stellar either. I hope he finds structure, contentment and a purpose in the army. Chances are he’ll find alcoholism, heartache and either injury or death in another country where most likely the people will probably hate him for going there to help them in the first place.

Hooah.

I’ve lived my life with the pathetic notion that things CAN and WILL get better. Why? Why have I always believed that, given the track record that is my life? What in the hell is wrong with me that I won’t just fucking stay down when I’m knocked there? What possesses me to get up, and try again? Someone once said I was the poster child for turpitude. I’ve been kicked out in the cold barefoot, I’ve been kicked up a flight of stairs by a man wearing a pair of steel pointed toe boots that –I- gave him, locked in a room for days on end without a bathroom break, without furniture, without…anything. I’ve been beaten down, battered and bruised. I’ve been lied to, stolen from, deceived, molested, raped, put on display like a thing for a group of men who found it funny, and offered up as a consolation prize for sex, after being regarded as unworthy of such an offering in the first place. I’ve been bloodied, and had that very blood wiped on my good set of curtains, so I wouldn’t forget what I had done wrong in the first place to…deserve...it. I’ve been made to do grueling, menial labor while being threatened with a Doberman Pincher attack if I didn’t do it fast enough, or well. I saw that dog maul a woman once. She had to get numerous stitches in her arm. I was lucky enough that blisters didn’t deter me from getting the job done, and right.

I’ve been unwanted, thrown away, despised, mistreated, ignored, betrayed and abandoned. I’ve been called fat, ugly, worthless and disgusting. My own father, well the man who was the father figure in my life anyhow, called me a slut. I was 16 and a virgin at the time. The names cunt, whore, bitch, and other unsavory titles have been given to me over time.

The only good men in my life, and there have been two…maybe three…seem to view me as a little fixer upper. I’m a project, like a car that doesn’t run, that needs a new engine rebuilt, dings taken out, some body work (major at that), and other minor and major changes before I’m ready to be put on the block. Maybe not for sale, but definitely not a keeper either.

That probably sounds a bit harsh, but it is how I feel. It is not that they don’t care about me. That’s actually part of the problem. They do. They genuinely care about me. They care about my well being. They want me to succeed. They want to see me come out on the other side of all this…stuff…and become a successful, independent… normal…person.

When you say it like that it doesn’t seem like such a bad thing. But.. they don’t want me to be those things with them. Like a baby bird in a nest I think I’m supposed to find my wings and fly…preferably far far away…or maybe not so far. But not all that close, either.

I have never been loved in the true, romantic sense of the word. “I care about you”. That is the extent of what I’ve heard. Not that those words are bad. They aren’t. In fact, the person they come from right now means more to me than I could ever possibly describe. Coming from him, they mean a whole lot. To know someone out there somewhere cares about you is a nice thing. But it’s sometimes not enough. I want love! I want someone to look at me and not see all the damage that’s been done. I don’t want to be the sum of my battered, broken parts. I want to be looked at with love. I want someone to see in me the things that I dream, that I believe in. Why can’t just ONE person on this God forsaken planet want me, passionately? Or at least, be mildly interested?? I’m not ugly. I am fat, I’ll be the first to admit that. This wall I built around myself is a strong fortress. The bad part is, not only does it keep any possibility of anyone getting in…I can’t get out. I built it too strongly, and now I am trapped like Rapunzel in a high tower. Only I don’t have the long glorious hair as a safety rope to get me out. But I am NOT unworthy of being loved!

I hate it when people feel sorry for me. I don’t want to be the object of pity, or sympathy! I have clawed my way through life and damn it I deserve something for that! I have been told how strong I am, and yet I seem so weak at times. I AM strong! Stronger even than anyone who knows me might realize. I have fought against inner demons, and outer ones. I have overcome obstacles that would have stymied many lesser people. I have taken everything I’ve stated above, and I STILL wake up the next day with the (admittedly stupid and foolish) belief that things CAN and WILL get better. Today could be the day! It never is, but it just MIGHT be!

I am not unworthy. I don’t know why I have to keep telling myself that to believe it. Why is it that the good just seeps through the cracks, but the bad stuff takes root and lives forever within me?

You would think by now I would have learned my lesson well, that I was smart enough not to take out my heart, all stitched up, patched together with pieces missing, and offer it to anyone again. But I haven’t, I’m not, and I do. I still give it away, time and again. It has been stomped on, squished, broken, and wrung through the ringer. The one good thing is that, while the affection is not returned in the same manner, at least its current holder is not unkind. He is gentle with my heart. As damaged as it is, he treats it as something precious.

I have been going through a healing time. But I got into a situation that became volatile and not only hindered my progress, but brought me back to a really ugly place. I felt trapped. I tried SO hard to make it work. I wanted, just one time, to overcome and have just a normal existence. Maybe then I might have been able to be ready to receive love, somehow. I know that things don’t always revolve around love, but in my world, they kind of do. It seems that’s what I’ve spent my life living without for the most part, and what I’ve tried for a lifetime to find some of for my very own.

I just don’t know how to be any way other than how I am. For good or bad, this is me. Take it or leave it. The problem is, if I say that to someone, anyone…most likely they would leave. I don’t want to be fixed. At least, I don’t want that to be the primary concern of someone I am in a relationship with. And the way things are at the moment I’m not sure how they could be any other way. The way things are with me, that is. I wonder sometimes if I will ever be whole. Maybe that isn’t even an option. Perhaps it is not something I should even try to attain. Maybe…just maybe…it isn’t necessary. Maybe there is a point somewhere that is good for me that doesn’t involve being someone else entirely. I’d like to think so, but I’m just not sure.

I don’t know what so called normal people feel like. I don’t know what it feels like to have a family in the traditional sense, whatever that may be these days. I am not all that familiar with being nurtured. I will add a disclaimer here and say, not familiar with it outside of my Mother. She was my champion. She was the one person in this entire world who completely understood me, and always, without fail, knew what to say to me. If my mom said it, it had to be true. She was never wrong. I’m not even just saying that because I loved her so much. She really did know what to say and do. She knew what advice to give me. She knew what to say to make my demons go away, at least for a little while.

I don’t know how I can go on without her. It has been over a year now, and I still feel it as strongly as the day we said goodbye for the last time. The last words she said to me were “You are a good daughter.” But…I wasn’t. She spent her life trying to give all her children a better chance than she had. And towards the end, I was the only one left still floundering. She hung on despite what surely must have been excruciating pain, just to try and help me out a little longer. She managed to talk a car salesman into letting her purchase a car knowing she was sick with cancer. She made one payment on that car before she died. It was her pride and joy, because she got it for me. I couldn’t even hold on to that. A tow service was sent from 3 states away to come and take it from me. That was a particularly low point in my life. The one thing my mother wanted more than anything was for me to be self sufficient. She wanted me to have a home, and a car…a good job, and yes, even love. I had to tell her it was okay to go, because she was clinging on with the last vestige of strength she had, in her worry over my future. I lied to her and told her I was going to be all right. But I think we both knew I wasn’t. At this very moment, I believe I have taken one step forward and a whole bunch of leaps and bounds backwards. I should still consider myself in a better place than I was in, and in many ways I do. I’m not starving to death. I am not about to be on the street. But I’m certainly not where I thought I would be even 2 months ago. I thought I was on the road to recovery, but it seems that was a gross miscalculation of where things were going.

Though I don’t have anyone telling me what a failure I am, I still feel like one. And while I don’t hear how disappointed anyone is in me, I am disappointed in myself. Why could I not just be strong enough to put up with anything so that I could prove to myself and the few people who matter to me that I can succeed?

I think that might be part of the problem. You see, I am a survivor. But it seems like that is what I have spent my life doing…just surviving. I don’t want to be a survivor. I want to live, laugh, and love. I want to be as whole as possible. I don’t want to count simply living and going on another day as a success. Because in truth, it just isn’t.

I guess the one good thing is that I still wake up every day believing something else, something new and better, is possible. I don’t know why I still have that grain of hope within me, but I do. And I guess I’ll just keep trying, until I succeed, or the tiny flicker of light in the darkness goes out. It hasn’t yet. Though whether that is good or bad, remains to be seen.

I’ll keep hoping until then.

Autumn Equinox

“My sorrow, when she's here with me, thinks these dark days of autumn rain are beautiful as days can be; she loves the bare, the withered tree; she walks the sodden pasture lane.”

-Robert Frost

Today is the first of October. Autumn is in full swing, at least it seems that way here. For me, the fall has always been a time of reflection, of memory, and sometimes, of melancholy. The sounds of the season, even the cars on the streets outside, somehow always bring me back to my high school years. I remember lying in bed early in the morning, just before getting up, and listening to the sounds outside, anticipating the start of a new school year, and what adventures it would bring. Too, was the nervous feeling of wondering if this year I would fit in. Usually by day two of a new school year I gave that hope up in favor of being an outsider on purpose.

That might sound strange, but it's true. Part of it, I think, was that I was in control of my own destiny, at least in my mind. If I didn't fit in by design, then it was by my own choice, and not something I was forced to endure. Ridicule then, became fuel for the fire of my independence and creativity. I was (and still am) an artist, with all the quirky traits that people normally associate with we artsy types. I went to a little farm school that was typical of the Midwest. I, however, had lived my life on the open road, it seemed for as long as I could recall. Being part of a military family sometimes means that you move around a lot. I had lived from one end of the country to another. That we settled in the Midwest rather than the West Coast..well.. that was simply part of the bane of my teenage existence.

Because of my diverse experience, as well as a rather indulgent mother (who didn't even flinch when I shaved half my head, spray painted my hair neon pink, and wore safety pins in my lip and ears) I was the only punk/new wave person in our entire town. I was in the year book every bit as much as the most popular girl and boy in school. It was simply for very different reasons.

I guess when it came right down to it, I was heading things off before they actually occurred. My outward appearance took attention away from the awkward, lonely girl beneath all those trappings. My false bravado was worn like armor. It was only when I was back in the safety of my own bedroom that the facade could be lifted, and I was once more...myself. My room was my sanctuary. I nursed the wounds of unrequited first love beneath the pink canopy of a French Provincial bed. I eased the ache of unpopularity with plates of macaroni and cheese and pizza and anything else I could stuff in my face while watching Facts of Life, looking like Nathalie but wishing I was Blaire. I cried enough tears to cause a second coming of Noah.

I know that for every story of hurt and heartache I can share, there are hundreds upon thousands of others who could do the same. I guess that's the bond we as human beings get to share, or at least one of them. I survived my teenage years somehow, as most of us get to do. While I no longer have pink hair or safety pins sticking out of my head in odd places, I am sometimes still that awkward, lonely girl. I have progressed from stuffing my face with every available food I could possibly find, to writing down my thoughts and feelings and figuring out how to make myself better. I'd call that a success.

Autumn symbolizes a last glorious gasp before the bleakness of winter sets in. For most of my life I have related it with death. All those leaves lifeless on the ground gave good reason for my melancholy to set in. This year however I look at it differently. It's not about death; it's about getting rid of the unnecessary in preparation for a much needed rest, and renewal and growth. It is the ending of one time in preparation for the beginning of another. The trees are simply slimming down, becoming a blank canvas for the glorious beauty of spring. Change takes time. It's always happening, though, whether we see it or not. My life is like that right now, both physically and in all other areas. And for the first time in a long time, I do not mourn the fall. I am not bleak at the thought of winter. And, most of all, I am very much looking forward to my spring.

Surprise!...Or...Not

Did you ever have one of those moments, you know the ones where something you have known all along suddenly...hits you? Well, I had one of those moments today.

You see, I have been officially diagnosed as having Bipolar Disorder. Big scary sounding thing, isn't it? I spent the morning in a doctor's office undergoing a grueling evaluation. Not on the top of my fun things to do list, let me tell you! But.. a necessary evil, as they say. The thing is, I am having a hard time explaining the changes that occurred in me from the time I walked through the door to the doctor's office, to the time I left. But there were changes, indeed.

It's not like I have lived a normal life and suddenly *BAM!* I have this mental affliction. I have had the symptoms for better than twenty five years. I simply chose to ignore them. Or at the very least, I have refused to face head on what I should have known all along. It's a sobering realization.

This disorder runs in my family. My birth mother has a severe case of it along with other issues. My older brother was in the throes of a depressive state when he chose to hang himself in the alley between two buildings, thus ending the promising life of a spectacularly talented artist, not realizing that on that same day his wife would find out she was pregnant with his child. Funny how fate does things like that sometimes.

As for me, my life has been pretty harsh, if one chooses to look at it on the most basic level. I've lived through and experienced things beyond what many people might even be able to imagine, let alone endure. Yet through it all, I somehow have managed to wake up nearly every single day with a renewed hope that somehow, this time, things would get better. It doesn't seem to matter how many times I've been beaten down, trodden upon; left. I refuse to admit defeat, at least not for very long. I cannot lie and say I've never wallowed in a glorious bout of self pity, because I have. But somehow it never lasts for long.

On the surface it would seem that my life could be a text book case of what bipolar disorder is, and does. I have euphoric highs and magnificently low lows. I've felt certain that I was going to conquer the world with my wit, and I've believed without a single doubt that my presence on earth was not only not needed, but a travesty. I've imagined my death at least a hundred different times, and considered what those I cared about would think when that time came. Alternately, I've considered the possibility that no one would give a whit about my passing, should it occur at some untimely moment. Suicide is simply not an option for me. I have seen it too much in my own circle of family and friends for it to ever be something I could do, no matter how low I got. Wanting to die, well now that's another thing altogether. I couldn't count the number of times I've wished I could just ... not wake up. Thankfully, those times are not all that frequent, and my wish was never granted. God has bigger plans for me yet.

The thing I find strange right now is how disconnected I feel from myself. It's not like I suddenly came to a realization that I have issues. I mean, I've known pretty much all my life that I was different somehow. I've even looked up the symptoms on more than one occasion. Bipolar disorder always came up as one of the possibilities. In fact it was almost always the only result of my search. But still, I continued onward without facing the truth and reality head on. I could say it was a mistake, but I won't. Today is so much different; it's like a veil has been lifted from my eyes. It is both calming, and confusing. I think that right now I am stronger than I have ever been, and the timing was perfect. Yet there is still this feeling of shock, odd as that may sound.

I've lost relationships because of my actions, and reactions. I know that much of it had to do with the chemical imbalance in my brain. But I am not going to consider myself blameless. As much as I have seen the ravages of this disorder in my family, I knew what was what. I simply did not want to deal with it. I did not want to be like her...like them. There is a certain stigma that goes along with any mental illness. Often times people on the outside act like it is simply a matter of willpower or self control. Or God forbid...contagious. But let me tell you something - it is by sheer will alone that I have come as far as I have. I am not the person I was ten years ago, or even two.

In lieu of available medical treatment, I have had to rely on a lot of soul searching, prayer, and determination. I'm not saying every single thing can be overcome with those things. But I can tell you, to a certain extent, they have worked for me. I had this feeling of being stunned when I was told that I did indeed suffer from bipolar disorder. But.. why? Was it really that much of a surprise? I guess it's just a matter of perception. As long as I had not heard it 'officially', then I could always deny it. Denying all the crazy stuff I've done all my life, well that is another matter altogether. But now.. I am faced with the knowledge that I do indeed have some things that have challenged, and will continue to challenge me for the rest of my life.

I'm not sure what that means, exactly. But the truth is, I'm glad. I don't want to ever use excuses for bad behavior, because there are none. But at least now I can understand a little bit better how my thought process works, and why I have such difficulties sometimes. I am stronger than this. I've proven my strength time and again throughout my life. In some ways, I am probably more strong because of what I have overcome. So how can I be mad about that? I'd like to think I am a worthy person, that it might be worthwhile for someone, some day, to take a chance and love me. Until then, I am going to revert back to my previous post. I have plenty of love to give, and I will give it. It doesn't matter whether I get it in return or not. Real love, true love, doesn't work that way. When you start putting conditions on love, it becomes a contract. Unconditional love is selfless. So people are self centered, unreasonable, illogical. So the love I give is not, or maybe cannot be, returned. I am still going to love anyway.

This includes, but is not limited to, myself. I am more than the sum of my parts, flaws and all. The less I become, the more I am. I myself am paradoxical, so how could I live my life any other way?

Kimberley

Anyway

The Paradoxical Commandments
by Dr. Kent M. Keith

People are illogical, unreasonable, and self-centered.
Love them anyway.
If you do good, people will accuse you of selfish ulterior motives.
Do good anyway.
If you are successful, you will win false friends and true enemies.
Succeed anyway.
The good you do today will be forgotten tomorrow.
Do good anyway.
Honesty and frankness make you vulnerable.
Be honest and frank anyway.
The biggest men and women with the biggest ideas can be shot down by the smallest men and women with the smallest minds.
Think big anyway.
People favor underdogs but follow only top dogs.
Fight for a few underdogs anyway.
What you spend years building may be destroyed overnight.
Build anyway.
People really need help but may attack you if you do help them.
Help people anyway.
Give the world the best you have and you'll get kicked in the teeth.
Give the world the best you have anyway.
© Copyright Kent M. Keith 1968, renewed 2001

Once, not so very long ago, someone sent that to me, and said that I was the first person they had ever met who actually lived by those principles. I was floored. It was a great compliment, and I was honored to know someone felt that way about me. I'd like to think that it was true. Even further, I hope that it still is. Just in case, I went back to the web site, www.paradoxicalcommandments.com and accepted the challenge presented there. I even printed out and signed a certificate as written proof of my commitment to live the Paradoxical Life.

There is a reason this is all so important to me right now, and I'll get into that later. But for now, I'd just like to say hello, and welcome to my blog. And, since this is a confessional, I will let you in on a little secret.

I'm still fat.

Now, before you think you've been duped and reach for the little red x at the top of your screen to leave, let me explain. I am not as fat as I used to be. And in the not so distant future, I won't be fat at all. I have been on a quest for health for some time now, and I've come a long way. I still have a long way to go, but I'll get there. And I am already a former fat girl...on the inside. That poor chubby chick with greasy french fry stained fingertips and chocolate smeared lips is a thing of the past. I would embrace her, but instead I'll just let her story, which is mine, give comfort and healing from the pain of the past.

If you stay long enough...you might just learn a thing or two about me. Until next time, happy reading! And if for some reason you don't, I'll keep posting...anyway.

Kimberley