turning around to see - ending up in a dance

**WARNING** There is quite possibly writing in here that could trigger someone into doing self-destructive things. If you are not in a good place mentally and this is an issue for you, please don't read it right now. It'll still be here later. I'm not trying to heal myself by triggering others or giving other people ideas for self-harm shit. It's a horrible, painful addiction and I will be quite terribly upset if I learn that my words have caused someone else any hurt.**

"Baby, when I call for you, I want you to come

And lay it out for everyone

Exactly how it was before any of this happened

And why I can't leave it behind"

-- Conor Oberst, "A New Arrangement"

I moved recently. It was probably 3 weeks ago that I began discussing my current situation and I guess about 2 weeks ago that I actually moved in. There were 5 days in there where I was not here, but up in Fargo with my family paying my respects to Grandma Quick's life and seeing her burial in tiny and all-but-barren Starkweather, North Dakota. Other than those 5 days away, I have been fully immersed in learning the ropes around this house, unpacking and rediscovering treasures from my storage unit, and adjusting to life in the countryside.

It just now occurred to me that it's been a lot longer than the 10 months of storage that I've not seen a few of my tangible memories. In the years prior to leaving Jason, now a little over 10 months ago (holy crap!), I didn't delve into many of these items. I left books on shelves and music in cases for many years without acknowledgement. Some of these things were untouched for so long because I was trying to let go, stop dwelling on painful subjects, and heal. I also left many items unexplored while I was falling in and out of love with my husband, which took probably 3 years. Half of me didn't want to focus on anything but my relationship with him and half of me wasn't allowed to retain memorabilia from my shrapnel-filled past without extreme measures taken to induce guilt, fan my self-hatred, and block any possible fond memories of Life Before Jason.

I no longer have most of my photos from any previous romantic relationships (except for a few copies my parents still had -- like formals from high school. He hated those photos.), I got rid of several CDs and tapes of and from ex-entanglements that I now crave (the music, not the entanglements), and I no longer have any paintings, drawings or sculptures made of me or for me by any male that I've ever kissed. That's sad to me. I've kissed some talented men and probably the only common thread amongst them is how their creativity moved me in some manner. Those tugboats of emotion are now gone. Sad!

I managed to escape my marriage before my journals were censored by a big fat marker or fire pit. Such heretical acts were on the docket to take place any minute for almost a year. I put up with a TON of shit as a result of "procrastinating" on this request, but it was worth every insult and mind-fuck and argument and sneer and threat that came at my stubborn resistance to erase all proof that I had a life prior to meeting the man I married. It was worth it, but I'll never put up with THAT shit again.

Gyah -- that really sucked.

The quote from Conor at the beginning of this post is from the song "A New Arrangement" on "Every Day and Every Night" by Bright Eyes. It recalls nights spent alone in my Powderhorn Park apartment when I lived in Minneapolis and driving to and from my job at the Heart Association, the last full-time job that I held, over my lunch hours when I needed to hurt out loud. I only went home over lunch if I wanted to cut my forearms or play with my unlit fire swings in my living room. Jeff Buckley was great for doing both, but mostly dancing with my swings. I learned that a few minutes of getting my heart to speed up with oscillating arms increased the blood flow and somehow made my purging of pain in the form of blood just that much more effective. Conor's music was always good for urging on the anguish, pushing me past a point of resistance until I felt real. Alive. Involved in someone else's pain instead of the crushing solitude of my own.

Hearing this particular music again ----- I'm looking forward to a summer filled with writing. Maybe not on this blog so much, but for my memoir. To finish the healing process and give legitimacy and create proof beyond my scars that I have been to Hell and I made it out. Turns out it shares the same physical space as Heaven, as well as Mediocrity, and our experiences within this life are entirely determined by how we see the world both inside and outside of ourselves. I used to hear those four lines:

"Baby, when I call for you, I want you to come

And lay it out for everyone

Exactly how it was before any of this happened

And why I can't leave it behind"

and in my mind I was singing about "how it was before any of this happened" meaning how life was before my mental illness hijacked my brain and "why I can't leave it behind" because I was trapped, completely engulfed in hot blistered soul sores.

Tonight I heard these four line and in my mind, "any of this" was now my current living situation -- the serendipitous events and souls who have changed my world for the better -- and I now can't leave "it" (my years of living hell) behind because I meant it when I vowed to do what I could to help anyone else who suffers like I have, and I think that if I can somehow explain what it was like and what I did to find my happiness - I think it could possibly help someone. It's worth writing for that possibility alone. If anything, it'll help ME, so there's my one person. :)

So yeah. Looking forward to delving back in, from a new perspective. I hope that down the road I'm able to share the full story with all of you.

<3

~Q~

4 years later & I still Love

I'm having a bit of a dilemma right now, and I feel the need to write, even if I don't end up even publishing this post. In fact, if my knuckles on my right hand weren't bruised from smashing them with my fire swings last night, making it painful to physically hold a pen and write, I would probably simply go to one of my many, many journals to find my best friend in the world. Well, the best friend I have constant access to, anyway (being myself and all).

What is it about vocal harmonies - any harmony really - that rips my heart half out of my chest and stretches my being out to infinity? Seriously - because it would definitely be a LOT easier to focus and write, maybe even work on the memoir that I've been neglecting lately, if I could just hit the "stop" button. Just when I think I can do that though......*sigh*.............it inevitably changes key or another song I must listen to is on next. Or maybe not even that much - maybe I just have to hit the "back" key just one more time, I swear. Uh huh. That's what you said an hour ago, Q.....

So what's the big dilemma, lady? Oh - it really doesn't go any deeper than that tonight for me, I don't think. Writing now vs. music now. Although, now that I'm thinking and typing.............. I continue to wait patiently for the fear to set in, to rob the present happiness I'm wallowing in, as it always has in the past. I used to be extremely uncomfortable whenever I would even catch a glimpse of life not sucking-ass for me. Lately though - I don't know what happened to me, and I want to figure it out, if only so I could tell other people in the hopes that it could be repeated for someone else. I am just so............content. It's weird, but in that very great way. The fear just isn't there.

I was rummaging through old writings from several years ago, and I came across this description of one night in my old apartment in South Minneapolis, in 2005. This was almost exactly four years ago for me now - November 18, 2005, to be exact. Wow - four years to the day. I didn't even plan that. Huh. I wasn't attempting to write in any sort of form at all - I was just in agony - I remember this night. My arms were on fire that night and I didn't call anyone - maybe because there was nobody I felt comfortable calling, maybe because it was super late at night, or maybe because I was being stubborn - that I don't remember anymore. I was sitting in my brown chair in the corner of my apartment with one of my notebooks, just........god that was a shitty time in my life. Anyways - please don't snicker at me, even under your breath or to yourself, because - well. Just please don't. Here's what I wrote exactly four years ago tonight:

So deliberate it can't be called an accident
So painful it couldn't be deliberate
but it was.
153 red lines marking a semi-decent night
that ended
Right
where the day began.
Alone.


I hear the hiss of the steam radiator
and the persistent tic of a kitchen clock otherwise known as a leaky faucet
into week-old dirty bowls and plates.
I see sixteen inches of paperwork to be filed,
an empty bottle of Premium beer,
and the bloody razor blades from last night's escapade.
I feel the warmth of sterile cotton sleeves,
taped on either end to hide
the violent map of repressed emotion sliced up both arms.
I smell a year's worth of animal life
that the occasional cleaning can't mask
and faint lingerings of opium incense and smoked resin.
I taste organic cheese ravioli,
my last Diet Mt. Dew,
and unbrushed teeth.
I am with pets in a human's world
inexplicably sad and existentially tired.


Hm. Maybe that doesn't make you want to cry when you read it, but that was a pretty accurate description of way too many nights for me at that point in my life. I don't ache to cry anymore when I read something like this, but I do want to somehow get to her, the girl who wrote these things that night, and assure her that it IS going to eventually be worth all the pain. Eventually, my love, you will no longer question your existence, curse your parents for bringing you into this eff'd up world, swear that having children is pure evil knowing how reality is, and you will smile - for real. Unfortunately, she still has to wade through several more years of hell and it's only going to get uglier before the nightmare ends. But it is worth it - I promise.

This is exactly why I want to write and talk with others and do everything in my sphere of influence to help. I owe it to her. I promised a long time ago that I wouldn't off myself if it would just stop hurting SO bad - just sometime, please. I didn't even demand immediacy or, shit - I didn't even specify "soon". Just - it can't be like this forever. Please take it away someday. Even when I compiled a document outlining my desired funeral plans, down to what I wanted to wear, what food I wanted to be there, and who got my beloved pets and music (Emily got the CDs - I think the pets went to my parents) and what music (including the all important lyrics) I wanted played during the service - even at that point, which was admittedly pretty low - that can't all be for no reason. I can't believe that - I need to believe that good, beauty and love can grow from where I've been and what I've survived, and what others have survived as well.

I do believe it. I'm living proof that healing is possible and that life is what you make of it. I've been asked by several people "what happened to you? what made you change so drastically? How did you get the strength to leave?" I think that trying to define this in one answer is a ridiculous undertaking, but not being one to shy away from the ridiculous - I'm going to go with this: I gave up control. I stopped believing that I could man-handle my life into fitting into how I thought I needed it to go. Giving up seems to insinuate something sad, negative or depressing, but I've found it to be just the opposite. I stopped lying to myself - I stopped pretending that reality was something that it wasn't - and I stopped pretending I knew how the rest of my life would unfold. I still don't know, and I don't really even want to know. I have a few vague ideas of what I'd like to work towards, but I prefer the future to more or less take care of itself, to keep myself surrounded in possibilities for the time being. I'm not saying that I won't make any decisions anytime soon. Hell - I decided to start selling lefse just 3 days ago, and now an entirely new avenue is opening up in front of me that I have never even considered, and I'm running with it.

Anyway - if any of you are in that shit place right now - oh honey child.....I've been somewhere in that neighborhood before, and I promise, I promise, I promise - this too shall pass and it WILL be worth all that you're going through right now. Oh - and you CAN write an entire post with great music playing at the same time. ;) I just did.

Much love,

~Q~

The overwhelming power of music

Here are the lyrics to the song I've been listening to for the past...3 hours now? It'll be longer by the time I actually post this.

Drugs or Me
by Jimmy Eat World

Stay with me
You're the one that I need
You make the hardest things
Seem easy
Keep my heart
Somewhere drugs don't go
Where the sunshine slows
Always keep me close

If only you could see
The stranger next to me
You promise, you promise, that you're done
But I can't tell you from the drugs

Don't let go
We'll dig a great big hole
Down an endless hole
We'll both go
You're so blind
You can't save me this time
Hope comes from inside
And I feel so low tonight

If only you could see
The stranger next to me
You promise, you promise, that you're done
But I can't tell you from the drugs

I wish that you could see
This face in front of me
You're sorry, you swear it, you're done
But I can't tell you from the drugs

(Take me)
I need your hands
(So far)
To pull me up
Take the wheel
(Take me)
Out from me
(So far)
Out from me

If only you could see
(I need your hands)
The stranger next to me
(To pull me up)
You promise, you promise, that you're done
(Take the wheel out from me)
But I can't tell you from the drugs
(Take the wheel out from me)

I wish that you could see
(I need your hands)
This face in front of me
(To pull me up)
You're sorry, you swear it, you're done
(Take the wheel out from me)
But I can't tell you from the drugs

Keep my heart
Somewhere drugs don't go
Where the sunshine slows
Always keep me close


Click here for a link to the song on YouTube


The band Styrofoam also made a remix of this song, and I've been going back and forth between the versions. Roughly 2 hours into my obsessive listening, while mindlessly gathering my daffodils on FarmVille, I started crying. Hard.

Jason was probably the first person to point out to me how delayed my reactions are, as a general rule. You were right, JJ. I was so relieved to be safe and away from the hell we were living in for so long, it took me over 2 months to miss you.

Fuck.

Yes, I swore. That will happen occasionally, although not nearly as much as in years past. Deal with it.

I've been hearing from so many people that I'm doing so great, they can't believe how great I'm doing, etc. People who aren't in the middle of something equally as painful as divorce and have nothing to compare to this shitstorm, seem happily surprised that I'm moving forward and getting my life back on track. I've regained my spark and passion for life, and they're all so excited. Those who ARE going through something similar, seem surprised, yes, but almost shocked, or maybe even a bit resentful that I can take something this huge in stride so easily.

Have no fear, people - I'm just a bit slow. I'm not sure if I've always been this way or if it's a defense mechanism I've learned after being burned as many times as there are stars in the Universe. This is what scares me about myself. How can I trick myself so thoroughly, that I'm not even aware that I have these stupid walls up and they're keeping me from feeling the pain all at once? Even though I am aware that I've built walls in the past, once again, I'm totally blindsided by the fact that they're still there. It has to be a self-defense tactic, right? If it all rushed in at once, I may just flip that switch permanently and never return to any semblance of sanity. Or I might just kill myself and be done with it.

No worries - I'm not at all suicidal right now. Not even thinking along those lines. I DO have these walls built, specially designed to only let the agony within the world in in manageable chunks.

I guess the reason that this song got to me so deeply is because "I can't tell you from the drugs". When I met Jason, he wasn't on drugs. Neither was I. By the end, I couldn't see his soul any more. I don't remember the last time the real Jason came out with me. He could probably say the same thing about me. Those lines between the drugs and my genuine self were awfully blurred. I don't remember the date I last used anything other than alcohol, which I don't actually have an issue with. I have zero problems stopping the drinks once they start, and I'm perfectly comfortable not drinking around those who are. The drugs though? I don't stand a chance against them. This theory has been thoroughly tested by me, and I finally figured it out. Better late than never I guess. I should've perhaps known right away, because the reason I loved drugs so much is because they were stronger than my mind, and my mind is exhausting. It NEVER SHUTS UP. Anyway, I've been clean for probably about 3 months now. It's a good start, and I have zero worries that I'll go back into that life. I don't want to even tempt it anymore, because I never ever come out unscathed. So - never offer me drugs. Especially not pot, because it was my all-time favorite, and it's the only thing I really miss. Should you offer me my drug of choice, we shall cease to be friends immediately, because that's just cruel. Fair warning.

Within probably the first week of dating, Jason & I dumped all our "red flags" out on the table, ready for the other to bolt. Neither of us did. And we both have some pretty big red flags. I guess I fell in love with J because he's the first human being that I ever showed all the ugly layers of myself to, and when I'd let him in on another secret that I found to be completely unacceptable, he only seemed to hold me tighter, like he only loved me more because I'm not perfect. He accepted me. I never thought that was possible.

Maybe it isn't.

Maybe it wasn't real love after all. God, that hurts.

How different would my life be right now if I had never tried drugs? If I hadn't tried to self-medicate for so many years? If someone would've figured out what was chemically wrong with my brain years earlier? If Jason & I had kept that initial promise to each other that we wouldn't go there together? I would be different, no doubt. I don't know if that would be a good or a bad thing. Really, it doesn't matter - that's part of my past and there's no point in worrying about it now.

I know I'm not the only person who feels completely and utterly unloveable, which is sad. It is actually better for me now than it ever has been in the past, though. At least now I get moments, minutes even, where I'm at peace and I know that isn't true, because I do love myself. I'm counting on this process to get easier over time and with practice because my first 30 years almost killed me - many, many, many times over. What really makes my heart ache right now is knowing that each person has to figure out their own truths, and no matter how much I suffer, no matter how well I'm able to tell others what I've learned (if I can even DO that well), they still have to figure it out firsthand, or it won't be their knowledge.

That's partly why I left Jason. My best girl, Ro, was absolutely right when she told me that probably the most loving thing I ever did for him was to let him hit rock bottom and wake up. Learn whatever life is trying to teach him, instead of keeping him comfortably miserable, hovering near the bottom but never actually slamming into it. I wasn't able to save anyone else, even the man that I loved. God dammit I tried. I tried so hard. I tried so hard, I almost lost myself completely.

Fuck. And I have no wise words or clever conclusions tonight. It just hurts right now. But, in the immortal words of John J. Nelson, my Gran'pa, "This too shall pass". I'm banking on it.

Love,

~Q~