Happy 2017

~ Shadows dancing in that timeless rhythm we all know.

Shadows drowning in eternal damnation; the lover’s sin.

Over and over, then over again.

Throwing caution to the wind.

Trying not to lose ourselves in the end.~



 

A little late, I know. With taking care of the twins, school, work, doctors, and just life in general, it’s hard to find the time to update, but… such is this crazy, beautiful life I live. Anyhow, hope the holidays went amazingly for y’all. Best of wishes for the New Year!!

Lots of exciting changes and announcements on the horizon! Stay tuned!!   🙂

xoMESSIE.

 

 

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Happy 2017.

~ Shadows dancing in that timeless rhythm we all know.

Shadows drowning in eternal damnation; the lover’s sin.

Over and over, then over again.

Throwing caution to the wind.

Trying not to lose ourselves in the end. ~


 

A little late, I know. What with taking care of the twins, school, work, doctors, and just life in general, it’s hard to find the time to update, but… such is this crazy, beautiful life I live.  Anyhow, hope the holidays went amazingly for y’all. Best of wishes for the New Year!! 2017–damn! 🙂

Lots of exciting changes and announcements on the horizon! Stay tuned!!   🙂

xoMESSIE.

 

 

C’est La Vie.

So, I’m supposed to find out in oh about 12 hours or so whether I’m dying or not. Just kidding…well about the dying part. Truth is, I have no clue what the doctor is going to say tomorrow. All I know is that she got the blood work results and notes from my recent 2 visits to the ER — non-headache related — last week and the nurse that called me was really cryptic-like on the phone. She wanted to know “how much the doctor in the ER had told me” and that it was “imperative” that I make an appointment to come in ASAP, but refused to tell me anything over the phone. Yeahhhhh.


So, of course, I’m here thinking I’m gonna die or something because-genius that I am–I made the dumb decision to pull up the numbers from my bloodwork — isn’t it amazing that everything is online now and patient-accessible?? — and hit up Google and WebMD. Not the smartest move, I’ll admit. So here I am thinking that I’ve got some deadly infection or disease or god-forbid kind of blood cancer and well–it’s stupid because it’s all probably nothing. Probably. Hopefully. I mean, aside from these stupid headaches and those 2 off days last week and just that over-all feeling of being run-down–which is most likely just me running myself ragged with work and whatnot and barely sleeping–I feel fine. Not perfect, but relatively fine.


So, I’m going to cross my fingers and hope for the best, because I’ve had just about enough of doctors and the inside of ER’s and hospitals–not to mention surgeries and treatments and meds–these past 15 months to literally last me a lifetime. And if by some chance it is bad news, well then, I guess I’ll just have to suck it up and deal. If I’ve learned anything the past couple of years, it’s that life happens and it’s unpredictable as hell. You can try to slow it down, try to control how everything turns out…but you just can’t. Most of the time you’re just a rider on the damn roller-coaster…and you got to go with it, and hang on it. Or let go, close your eyes, and hope like hell you don’t fly off and end up a pancake in the grass below–that the inspector didn’t miss that loose screw or belt on his recent check, that way you don’t go out in a blaze of gore (not glory) like those people in “Final Destination” did–yuck.. Horrible, horrifying analogies, I know. But I’m reaaaalllly tired, so you’ll have to give me a break on my writing and this short, short post. I can barely keep my eyes open.


So anywho, fingers are crossed, pillows are fluffed…it’s lights out for this girl. ‘Til next time (and hopefully with a good update).

xoMESSIE

 

The Lovers’ Noose… a poem

You took my hand, promised to never ever let it go.

Saying “Baby, let’s just take this nice and slow.”

Then you fastened the rope, hung the noose;

held me close.

With a twist and a tug; tied a knot—then you pulled.

Yeah, you pulled so tight ‘til I gave in.

‘Til I was yours.

Heart, body, and soul.

A clever rouse, I should have known.

I was right there. You were so close.

Now we’re enemies and adversaries; each other’s greatest foe.

Oh, how did I not see it, how could I not know?

With your sweet kisses and pretty words,

Reeling me in just to cast me right back.

Over and over again.

Then out of nowhere, not a word, you just turned.

But you never returned.

You dug the hurt even deeper, made it worse.

You preyed on all my deepest fears.

I swear I must have cried an ocean’s worth of tears.

For you.

And I still remember those moonlit nights.

I replay the images over in my mind.

Not often, but sometimes.

Tangled together, your body and mine.

Feelings and emotions, always felt but never spoken.

Alone in the dark, with no one to witness or see.

No one to hear or ask me why.

As I break the silence, close my eyes and cry.

I travel back in time.

I know the fury will come soon enough.

It always does.

Do you remember the broken glass?

The accusations you threw that I threw right back?

I do.

I remember all the lies,

The ones I couldn’t forget if I tried.

(And I really did try).

How you claimed your innocence in the public’s eye.

How you played that victim card of yours to the nines.

When you said the blame was all mine.

But you know, that’s just fine.

It’s your conscience on the line, not mine.

How it’s come to this, how it went that far, I’ll never know.

We said no strings, no hearts.

No falling in love.

But then I fell.

I fell so hard.

And it was good, ‘til it just felt so wrong.

‘Til all that mattered; who I’d be and who I was, was gone.

‘Til there was nothing about you left for me to love.

Finding comfort in the fact that it was over with and done.

That the storm and the worst had passed.

Even hurt like that…it doesn’t last.

‘Cause someday.

When you’re ready, when the time is right.

You’ll forgive, you’ll forget.

You’ll learn to trust again.

To live in the now, not then.

You’ll find someone new to love.

And you’ll box up the past.

Push it to some dark, deep place in the back of your mind.

To be forgotten for the rest of time.

Have no doubt, you’ll find your way.

You’ll find your purpose, your place.

Where you stand in the middle of it all.

I promise you will figure it all out, somebody, somehow.

You WILL find yourself.

Your heart will heal, your soul will mend,

The world will right itself again.

And as daunting as it will seem

(and it will for quite some time)

Just know.

You’ll get through the hell.

You’ll move on.

It may feel like you can’t, that you won’t.

Just breathe, just believe.

Just hold on, just be strong.

Be patient.

It just takes time.

Trust me.

You’ll survive.

-JLR-

9/12/2016

When It’s Good, It’s Good…

Love. We all need it to survive. Or do we?


Is it weird that I don’t have a single memory from when I was little of playing Princesses. Not one. And most little girls do. I know, I have nieces. And they just love dressing up and playing make-believe and pretending they’re the pretty princess waiting for her Prince Charming to come riding in and whisk her off to that land of happily-ever-after that the fairy-tales all promise. My oldest niece, when she was like 3-years-old—or thereabouts—she had this little princess getup/dress/costume–whatever you want to call it—and she just had to wear it EVERY day. I swear she wore that thing for months. She took naps in it, would wear it over her normal clothes whenever she’d leave the house, and on the nights that she didn’t fall asleep in it, my mother and grams would sneak into her room and take it—then wash it and put it back in its place before morning came. She loved that dress and her little high heels that she’d prance around in. And she loved telling stories about her life as a princess and how, when she was bigger, she was going to find and marry Prince Charming and they would have the happiest life together. “Forever and ever,” she would say.


I never did that, at least not that I can recall. The same with Barbies. I do recall always playing “house” though, mostly with my cousin Katie. I remember that we used to argue over who’s turn it was to play the Mommy and the names of our “babies” aka dolls. For some reason we both had this crazy obsession with wanting to name our dolls Melanie–though I have absolutely no idea why. But that’s beside the point. I guess the point I want to make, for the purpose of this post anyhow, is that there was never a Prince Charming, or Ken doll in any of those “house” scenarios. Baby Melanie was enough. It’s a strange thing to reflect upon, to know that even then, I had the right idea—that happiness and capability didn’t have to be defined by the presence of the opposite gender. What do you know, even five-year-old me was too smart for her own good. Lucky for me, that hasn’t changed much. 🙂


I’ve always had this fear in the back of my mind, for as long as I can remember, that I’d somehow fuck up any kids that I might have. It’s no one’s fault really. It’s not like I had a horrible childhood or that my own mother was that awful. She just had different priorities, you know? She wasn’t mean or abusive and she always made sure we had what we needed. She loved/loves us…in her own kind of way. She just never really wanted to have kids…she didn’t have that overwhelming maternal instinct that some women do—like my grams who lives and breathes for raising children. And that’s nothing against her or anything, it’s just how she is. She’s always been pretty upfront about that. Do I hate her for putting whatever relationship and guy she was with at the time before us—my siblings and I? Not really. I think I realized fairly early on that she was flawed…and being aware of that at such a young age…it just was what it was, I guess you could say. I didn’t yearn for her love and attention. My grams poured that out in buckets when and if I needed either of those things. It wasn’t until I was in my teens when I started to really feel the effects of her behavior and increasing absences…and even then, it was more frustration than resentment. My brother, when he gets angry, he’ll throw the past in her face and give a whole litany of reasons for how she was/is a horrible excuse for a mother. But that’s the irony of all ironies, considering he’s got three kids himself and he’s not going to be winning any parent-of-the-year awards either any time soon. Personally, I prefer not to bother much with the past. The way I see it is that it happened, it’s over and if there are moments that she wasn’t around for and subsequently missed—well those are mistakes and choices and regrets—should she have any—for her to live with, and not me. That’s not to say that I haven’t been frustrated with her at times, particularly when that behavior began to impact my oldest niece. It was one thing with my siblings and I growing up–we had my grams to fill that void—but it’s different for my niece. My mother and grams both have custody of my niece, but my grams has my two younger nieces to care of and they—especially my niece Emma with her epilepsy and string of other medical and developmental issues—take up a lot of her attention. And my grams, who will be 76 next month, isn’t as active or patient or youthful as she was when we were growing up. That being the case, my mother has doted on my oldest niece since she came to live with us when she was just a month old. It was all about my niece for a long time and then my mother started, well…being my mother again. She’d stay overnight with her boyfriend, spend her weekends at his place. Little by little, my niece had to share that #1 spot with that guy…and he wasn’t a fan of kids being underfoot so more often than not, she’d get pushed aside and left behind, so to speak, by my mother. I never did stand for that, and I’ve been pretty vocal about it over the years—not that it’s made much of a difference. My mother is who she is. To think she’s going to change—whether it’s for us or my niece or anyone else–is just naïve. I’m not saying it’s right, but it is what it is.


To say that my mother’s behavior hasn’t influenced me in any way…that’d be a lie. It has. Of course it has. Even though I’ve never hated or deeply resented her for it, it’s not a behavior or manner that I ever wanted to replicate. In fact, I’ve sworn it my whole life that I wouldn’t be like her…that I wouldn’t be one of those women that needs to have a man in her life to be complete or that would prioritize a man over the ones that really matter and that should come first. I’ve promised myself that so many times that I’ve lost count.


I guess that’s where love comes into play. It mingled with that nagging fear I have to not be her and made everything so wonky. Love itself, it’s a pretty fucking scary thing (excuse my language). It’s heaven and hell…literally. It’s good when it’s good, but when it’s bad…watch the fuck out. Love takes no prisoners. The paths from love to heartbreak are so numerous, but each is littered with corpses. Corpses of those who either fell too hard or didn’t fall hard enough. Corpses of those who got too close and got burned and decided the pain wasn’t worth a replay; of those who traded their souls and self-worth for a chance to just experience the feeling, even just for a little while. I learned that first-hand. And the thought of doing that again…it scares the hell out of me. I was in love once—at least I think it was love—and I’ve got scars to prove it. I crashed and burned. The pain and the heartbreak—it was unimaginable. To be that vulnerable and to literally put your absolute faith in someone—to give a person the power to destroy you in one fell swoop should they decide to, to put your heart in their hands…it’s a rush, the greatest high—or the worst, depending on how you look at it. And sometimes it works out and it’s great…and sometimes it doesn’t. It’s like throwing a dice. You close your eyes and you hope and pray that it lands in a way that’s favorable to you. That’s big. That’s overwhelming.


Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever feel that high again—if it’s a rush and a taste that I’ll spend the rest of my life chasing. It’s not that I don’t want that happily-ever-after or fairytale ending. I do want it…if it’s out there. I don’t want to these fears of mine to define me, but in many ways, they already have. I’ve met some pretty great guys in the years since that one all-consuming heartbreak. Amazing, sweet, funny, and damn-near perfect guys. Through no fault of their own, I’ve bolted the moment things started to get anywhere close to being serious. I have one of those great guys in my life right now—for a while now actually. And it’s great. He’s great. The distance isn’t so great—what with my being up here in NY and all. I’m not sure if it’s “serious” …but he’s been more than obvious and even quite vocal about his desire for it to be so. I usually brush it aside or change the subject when it starts to lean a little too far in that “serious” direction. I like him a lot and I know the feeling is mutual. In fact, it didn’t take only a few months in when he said those three words. You know the ones. I, however, have yet to reply in kind. He’s, believe it or not, been really great about it. He hasn’t pressured me into saying it back. I think he can sense that I need more time. Which I do. I mean, the next time I say those words, I want to really mean them. I don’t want to say them just because he has and does. The last time I did it all wrong. I fell so hard, so fast and I let it consume me to the point where I no longer recognized myself or the person I had become. I don’t want to make the same mistakes again. I can’t go through that again. So when I say those words, I have to be ready. Ready to say them back, ready to take that step and make a serious commitment. I don’t mean marriage or anything—I’m not sure if I even want to get married ever—but something serious and real…and heartbreak-proof, if possible. I want to avoid the hurt, as much of it as I can. So I’m being careful…cautious. I’m taking it slow. And he’s actually okay with that, for now at least. Where the future lies for us is anyone’s guess. Maybe it’ll work, maybe it won’t. I’ve tried to picture it, a future with him in it, and it’s not terrible. That’s a sign, right? Progress. That means something. At least, I like to think that it does. We’ll see.


I don’t know what’s going to happen with him, with us…with me. But if I’ve learned nothing in the past 7 years, it’s that I’ll be okay. I’ve had a lot of time for reflection over the years, to figure out who I am and the person that I want to be. 7 years ago, I didn’t know any better. I was young and naïve and I put so much stock in an ideal kind of love that truly was the thing of fairytales. I put all my faith and heart in the hands of a man who was completely undeserving. I gave him all the power and he lorded it over me the entire time we were together—though I didn’t realize that until it was too late. He used my feelings to manipulate and get what he wanted from me, until he had no use for them anymore. It took me a long time to see that relationship for what it was: a teaching moment. I learned a lot from it. I learned to look deeper and not take everything at face value. I learned that monsters come in human form, of all shapes and sizes—even one with twinkling green eyes, smooth lines, whose kiss was like sin in pill-form that could melt you from the inside out. I learned to stand on my own two feet and how to be strong. I learned to expect the worst, so as not to be disappointed too much when people—ultimately—fail or let me down. I learned to be okay and to wipe my own tears. But most important, I learned that I don’t need a man to be happy or successful. Or whole. That having someone is all well and good, but not absolutely necessary. I learned that to really love someone else, I had to first love myself. It’s comforting to know that I’m still capable of loving someone else, if and when I choose it. I learned that love isn’t a given thing, it’s a privilege. You have to be worthy of it, deserving, and all-in for it to have the greatest chance of working out.


Love, it’s a beautiful drug. We don’t need it. We can survive without it. But if we do it right and we’re lucky, we don’t have to.

xoMESSIE

 

All For Nothing.

Nine years ago, I almost died.

At my own hand.


It’s not something that I talk about much. Or like to think about, for that matter. And there’s really only a handful of people in my life that know about it–that know all the horrific, gory details. Not that it’s something that I’ve ever tried to deliberately hide or anything…it’s just not the kind of thing you talk openly about or that comes up in casual conversation. You wouldn’t think that in this day and age that suicide would still be such a taboo topic for people…but the reality is that—unfortunately—it’s still very much so. First and foremost, there’s that stigma of shame that almost aways accompanies the individual that attempted to take their life. And I can tell you, having experienced it myself, that stigma and that shame…it’s damn near overwhelming. It took me a long time to get past that shame…years, in fact. For so long, I felt like I was drowning in it. I’ve never felt so alone in my life as I did during that time. So lost. For weeks and even months after it happened, I just felt like I was being judged all the time. It all started when I was still in the hospital, first with the emergency room doctor and the nurses and social workers, and again with the psychiatrist that I spoke with while they’d kept me in the psych ward for the mandatory 72 hours. My memories of that night are still a little hazy—I was drunk to oblivion, with a BAC so high, everyone said it was truly just amazing that I didn’t die from alcohol poisoning—but I do clearly recall the doctor waiting hours before stitching up my wrist. He wanted to give me “time to sober up”. I’m still not absolutely sure of his motive or reasoning behind that decision…I’ve always just assumed that he was—albeit in his twisted and medically unethical way—to teach me a lesson. I think he wanted me to be sober enough to fully comprehend the extent of my actions. Maybe he thought he was helping me in the long run, using my pain and suffering to physically remind me and thus ideally, prevent me from making the same mistakes or trying to hurt myself again. I would like to think that–as a medical doctor sworn to do no harm—that he was trying to help me and that he wasn’t being deliberately cruel or sadistic. Either way, his scare tactic did work…for the most part. I don’t think I fully realized how far I’d gone and what I’d done until that moment in the little consult room in the psych ward when the orthopedic surgeon examined and then informed me of the extensive nerve damage I’d done and that I needed to have immediate surgery. That’s when it really hit me: the guilt and the shame. I knew that I’d screwed up HUGELY and as such, I regretted my actions. Truly. Still, the regret was—IS–tricky. I know that what I did was wrong and it definitely wasn’t the healthiest/safest way to cope with the feelings that I’d been having at that time. I was going through a lot—a lot had happened and I was, admittedly, not in the right frame of mind when I made that decision to do what I did. I know that I hurt my family and those close who knew, and I know that I hurt myself. I’m not proud of that. But at the time, I was just trying to find an escape from all the chaos, in the only way I knew how…by hurting myself. I wasn’t thinking about anything or anyone else. I was just thinking of the pain and how alone I felt. I couldn’t talk to anyone without them trying to “fix” me and it just seemed easier to make it all go away, to go that far. I didn’t want to deal with anything. I just wanted to disappear…for good. As odd as it sounds, it was that attempt that saved my life. It really was a wake-up call and it made me realize and really take a closer look at what my life had become…and decide that rock-bottom wasn’t where I wanted to be for the rest of my life. As it turns out, I did learn a lesson from it. And it prompted me to change and to take back control over my life. So in that sense, I don’t regret the act. Without it, I don’t know what would have happened or what/who I’d become.


As I said, it took years, but I eventually stopped feeling ashamed of it. It happened, it was over and done with—I couldn’t change it. I knew I’d make a mistake and I accepted that, but I wasn’t going to let it or anyone define ME for it. No one’s perfect. Everyone makes mistakes. Granted, mine nearly killed me, but the logic itself stands. I was only human. I’m not ashamed to talk about it—if people ask. I don’t try to justify or encourage suicide and/or self-harm—but I am an advocate for your life being YOUR LIFE and your body being YOUR BODY to do with it as you so choose. I mean, you don’t know what a person is going through. And you can’t judge someone for their decision when you don’t know the circumstances behind it. You can’t feel someone else’ pain or hopelessness. You can’t know that it’s a person’s only option, their only escape from a world that’s broken them so completely and devastatingly. Until you step into that person’s shoes and have stared down the barrel of a gun or held the smooth metal of a razorblade between your fingers—don’t you dare try to assume to understand. Suicide just isn’t that black and white. There’s so much grey area that people aren’t aware of and that don’t understand.


That feeling of absolute hopelessness—I haven’t felt it in so long. Until today. And that’s why I’m writing this. It’s been a horrible, brutal week for me. Starting Monday with an out-of-the blue email from the attorney in Tennessee informing me of his intention to withdraw from the case. Of course, I was floored and I contacted him back to find out what had happened—considering that as of not even 2 weeks ago, I was told that everything was fine and that the case was progressing as it should. He claimed he had been hired by my NY lawyer to file the necessary motion in Tennessee and that he hadn’t from the NY lawyer since their initial phone conference. Thus began the day-long hassle of trying to reach that NY lawyer myself, and his ultimate reassurance that everything was fine and it was all just routine litigation and not to worry about it. That was Monday. On Wednesday, after the scheduled phone conference between both lawyers, my NY attorney came back with a completely different story…this time saying the insurance had filed a motion to dismiss because they claim that my insurance policy didn’t have Uninsured Motorist Coverage for accidents that occur out of the state of New York in a state whose law doesn’t mandate their drives to have Uninsured Motorist coverage on their insurance. It’s a long story that I’ve literally been going at for days now and STILL don’t have any real answers, but the gist of it is that because the accident happened in Tennessee, which doesn’t have that mandate, my New York policy and UM coverage is essentially useless—despite the fact that had the accident had been my fault and the guy still uninsured, my insurance company would have paid him for 100 percent of his injuries and damages. It’s fucked up…to put it bluntly. I mean, you get car insurance and full coverage, get charged with these exorbitant premiums, just so that a situation like this DOESN’T happen, and then you have the very unfortunate of said accident happening in one of the like 4 states that doesn’t have a particular mandate, and your own insurance company screws you over the coals with fine print and litigation. I mean, what the hell is the point of having insurance if they aren’t going to honor the coverage you paid/are paying for. Its total bullshit is what it is.


To add fuel to the fire, I can’t even talk to or get any answers on all of this that I’ve been told because I’m not the lawyer. And my lawyer won’t send the insurance company the letter they need from him saying that he’s no longer my lawyer—which he’s essentially already said that there’s nothing else he can do for me, which in my book, is the equivalent to saying that he’s no longer on the case. I’d like to think that he’s trying to help me, but I’m not an idiot. He’s a lawyer. He’s in it for the money. And since he seems to think he might be able to get the insurance company to negotiate and payout their previous settlement off that I’d rejected months ago…of which, of course as my lawyer, he’d be automatically entitled to 33 percent of it. He wants the money, for sure he does. Does he deserve it—hell fucking no. He hasn’t done enough work to say so and certainly not enough to be entitled to a third of anything I may be offered. I mean, he hasn’t done shit. Well, except for get pissed at me for refusing the original settlement and demanding that he pursue the case to trial. I haven’t even heard of him since that, until this week after all this happened. He didn’t even tell me that they’d hired a Tennessee attorney to handle the case. I found out about that when his paralegal called asking me to sign a medical authorization form for them. He didn’t explain what the Tennessee case was for or what the lawyer was hired to do. And the Tennessee lawyer has a completely conflicting story to the one the NY attorney is now throwing out with. Basically, the TN lawyer is saying on thing and the NY lawyer another and I can’t confirm or deny what’s being said or what’s true because I’m not fucking allowed to talk to the insurance company. So basically, I’m screwed. I don’t even know what to do at this point, or what I can do. It sucks.


Honestly, I don’t even care. I’m just so sick and tired of it all. I literally came up to New York for nothing. I left Nashville, the place I call home, because that’s what the lawyer and my family insisted I needed to do—to seek treatment and get a lawyer. I’ve done all that, for 14 months, I’ve done it. And where did it get me? Absolutely fucking nowhere. The doctors, while they’ve confirmed this all being permanent now, haven’t been able to find a treatment that helps with the headaches. They’re at a loss for what to do and basically, I’m stuck just dealing with the damn things and oh well. And now this with the lawyers. I mean, what the fuck. And what really gets me is that it’s been 14 fucking months and this NY lawyer didn’t catch or find this supposed clause in the insurance policy that he’s had this entire time? Clearly someone wasn’t doing their job. I’m just now finding this out? It’s such fucking bullshit that it’s not even funny. It’s ridiculous. Because these lawyers didn’t do their job and because the insurance company has decided to be a sneaky, fucking asshole…I’m the one getting screwed. How is that fair? It’s not. At all. I never should have left Nashville. This was pointless and a waste of my life and I’m just so pissed that after all this hoop-jumping, it was all for nothing.


That having been said, I think the hopelessness is a little justified. I mean seriously…why me? Why does this shit keeping happening to me? I’ve paid my dues and then some, so why is the universe still trying to rape me sideways in this life thing? I don’t understand it. And to be honest, I’m tired of trying to find the answers and to understand. I don’t care anymore. I just want it all to go away. I want to disappear.


I mean, can you blame me?

-MJ-

When You’ve Had All You Can Take

I want to cry. Just when I thought I was finally getting somewhere with these doctors—nope, right back to where I started. “I’m sorry, but there’s really not much else we can do.” I got that today from my new neurologist, the guy I was just starting to like, just starting to trust that maybe—maybe he might have a clue as to what the hell was going on—and that maybe, he might be able to figure out something we could do to figure out these headaches. I’m not looking for a miracle here. I never was. I know miracles aren’t handed out every day. And with my record, it’d be a long shot. So, no I’m not asking for a cure. I’m simply asking for something to stop every day headaches, or at the very least, something to dull the really bad ones—the ones that get so out of control that they’ll literally last 2-3 days and make me, I’m not mincing words here, want to die. Like literally…make me want to die. No one understands how exhausting this is. I’m literally so tired of these headaches, both figuratively and physically. Day in and day out, not being able to do what I want to do—not being able to have a life. I had a life, before this accident. A pretty good one. Things were finally going good. I was in the city I wanted to be in. I was doing what I wanted to do. And then some random asshole decided to stop dead-cold in the middle of the fucking Interstate, for no apparent fucking reason and cause an accident. And because of that, my whole life stopped. One person’s jerk-off decision, and my life was turned upside down and inside out. And it’s not fair. It’s so fucking unfair that I just want to scream at the top of my lungs until I’m blue or hoarse or something—but I can’t even do that. Why? Because I have one of those lovely fucking headaches right now and crying and screaming—hell any noise or movement or anything really—just makes it worse. So I can’t do anything. I’m stuck. The world and life is moving around and on without me and I’m stuck here. In this bubble of pain. And I hate it. I hate it so damn much.


As you can probably surmise, my visit with the neurologist didn’t go well. I’d assumed we were going to talk about switching meds and trying yet another one in his supposedly long list of miracle headache meds that he’d spoken of in our last appointment, namely for the fact that I’ve spent the past seven weeks (on this last drug) dealing with every-day headaches, constantly nauseous, and feeling light-headed. 2 weeks ago, in the midst of yet another lovely headache, it got so bad that I passed out on the bathroom floor. Fun? Not so much. Anyhow, so I came prepared with everything he’d asked for. Including the list of all the meds I’d tried since the accident, including all the ones they tried in Nashville, like he’d asked me to put together. But when he found out about the last med not helping and took a look at the med list of all the ones they’ve tried me on, he basically threw in the towel and said that he was out of options, since I’ve tried all the meds they usually prescribe without any relief. He said it was at the point where he would typically recommend a long-term narcotic regimen for pain control. Of course, I nixed that one right away. And that’s where I really wanted to scream because it’s like they don’t even listen to you or look at your chart when they recommend things. Because if they did, he’d have seen that I’ve already tried that route. In fact, that was the first thing they tried for the headaches down in Nashville. First with the hydrocodone. Then with the Percocet. Both made the headaches worse. And according to every doctor that I spoke to, that made sense, considering they were supposedly “concussion headaches” and its common knowledge that concussion headaches don’t respond to narcotics. So yeah, been there, done that. Not a chance in hell am I looking to make these damn things worse. No thank you. And besides, who the hell wants to be on narcotics long-term? I mean, to hell with your liver function…there’s enough things to be addicted to in this world…like hell do I want it to be oxy. So I’m sure I’m probably one of the few people that’s ever refused an endless supply of narcotics, but oh well. I’m not going there. There’s no point. I’m not going to make myself sicker.


Another thing that struck me during our visit was that he came out and said that he didn’t specialize in post-traumatic headaches, so he really didn’t know what advice or treatment to advise me on. I mean that right there…you’d think as a doctor…as a neurologist…if you don’t specialize in the headaches that I’m having, then here’s a thought—how about you refer me to someone that does? I mean, I’m no genius or anything, but wouldn’t that make a hell of a lot more sense than to put us both through wasted hours of talking about nerve blocks and Botox injections and medication for migraines—which he’s already come out and made clear that I don’t have so those types of treatment will be pretty much useless against—you know? I mean, it’s just so fucking ridiculous. I could tell that he was frustrated because I was frustrated, and a big part of me wants to just stand up and be like, are you kidding me? How dare you sit there and be frustrated when you’re the doctor? You’re the one that took an oath to heal and to help and you’re literally sitting there shrugging your shoulders and giving me non-answers that I could have looked up on my own at home with my computer and Google. And you’re frustrated? Like no, dude. You don’t get to be frustrated until you’ve gone through this for over a year now—you’ve gone to half a dozen different doctors and specialists—sat through all their tests and scans and listened to them shrug it off and say oh, give it time, they’ll go away…only to be told a 13 months after ALL of that, that no, they aren’t going away, that they’re something you’re probably going to be dealing with in some capacity for the rest of your life and that oh by the way, we have no idea how to help you manage them so you have to grin and bear the pain. So no…you don’t get to be frustrated dude. I get to be frustrated. You—you fucking do NOT. That is what I would have liked to tell him. But I didn’t. Instead I just sat there while he talked away about some half-ass acupuncture idea that, to quote him “chances are, it likely won’t work but it can’t hurt to try” and this idea of a Toradol/Benadryl/Regen cocktail that he wants me to try at home (that’s the pain cocktail they typically give you when you go into the ER) which is literally so potent that it gives you ulcers—but he wants me to try it for the really bad headaches. Which of course, makes no sense at all. I’m supposed to take the cocktail when I feel a bad headache coming on—and by bad I mean one of the ones that goes for like 2-3 days. And it has to be at the onset, because it’s useless if you do it once it’s already in full-on KILL ME NOW mode. Only thing is and that he doesn’t quite get—is how am I supposed to do that when it’s not as though I have a sixth sense and can predict the future and know that the headache is going to be one of the bad ones that lasts that long. And I can’t take it at the onset of every headache. That’d be like every day at this point. I’d had no stomach lining left by the end of a week. I have no idea what this doctor is thinking. If he’s trying to help me—I really don’t get the logic. I really, really don’t.


And right now, I’m just so tired of it. I want to say to hell with all of it. The doctors, the meds, the tests, the Hail Mary’s, the last ditch attempts—all of it. I’m just so fucking tired. If anyone else has any other ideas of what to do, I’ve love to hear them. Because right now, I’m fresh out. I have nothing.

xoMESSIE

Washed Clean.

Still got the flowers that you sent / And the note you wrote that said that we were meant / To be forever / I keep them all as evidence / In a drawer under the mirror / Filled with empty promises / I don’t know why I keep letting you lie to me / Hard as I try it seems / I can’t break away / I thought that you would be the hero / Come and save the day / But you’re a villain / Your sins unforgiven

~~

I’m going down, and you have watched me drown / In a river of tears, lost beneath the stream / Under the waves, I’ve found the strength to say / The river of tears has washed me clean / Go ‘head and wish me well / I’ll cry a wishing well / I’ll fly before I fail / I’ll set sail and drift away / So I won’t need you here / Love sinks and hope floats / In a river of tears, a river of tears

~~

I catch your scent in every wind / And I recall the love we had  I can’t pretend / That I don’t miss you every now and then / But the hurt is for the better / Moving on, it’s now or never / Lost in the tide, I can’t keep my pillows dry / Like there’s a sea in my eyes / I realize that sometimes love brings you flowers / Then it builds you coffins / And far too often / We end up falling to our demise

 ~~

Alessia Cara “River of Tears”


Oh, LOVE. It’s the damnedest thing, is it not? Why does it always have to be so hard—why does it have to be so damn complicated? So damn confusing?

I thought I knew what it meant once. I thought it was real. Now I’m not so sure. About love, about that time in my life…about any of it. Was it real? Or was I just in love with the idea of being in love? I have so many questions, but I always come up short with answers. So much time has passed that I’m starting to forget…that I’ve forgotten.


I’ve moved on. Let’s not confuse this for something that’s it’s not. That’s not what this is. This is looking back and sifting through some of the mess, with one hand letting go, and with the other trying to figure out what the future looks like from here.

Again, was it love? If you ask anyone, they’ll say it wasn’t. They’ll say he was a fraud. That I was only being used. And they could be right. It could be true. I’d like to think that it’s NOT true, but I’m not that naïve. Either way, it screwed me up. I’m screwed up now. Everything is different. Everything. I learned from it all—the whole life lessons thing and all that—but it changed me. Some for the better, some not so much.


I have trust issues. Commitment issues. Big ones. Granted, I had them to a degree before—but that mostly stemmed from inexperience and naiveté, I think. But now…now they’re worse. Much worse. It’s hard for me to let people in, to really be myself and open up and go there. With anyone really…but especially with the opposite sex. It’s not that I don’t want to or that I don’t try—there’s just this disconnect, this wall that goes up that I really have no control over. It just goes up and it’s there and I can’t do anything about it. Is it my fault? Well, partially I guess, sure. And at the same time—no. Something happened. I didn’t imagine that. I was hurt. Really hurt. I had my heart broken. I was used in some of the worst ways you can use another human being—emotionally, physically. I was tricked and misled and lied to…and we’re not talking about a couple of times here or a few days. We’re talking over the length of fifteen months. I was fooled into believing I actually meant something to another individual and against all my better judgement, I fell for that person. Hard. I fell so hard. For a lie. For a fantasy that never was and never could be. And it was all deliberate. It’d be one thing if the other person didn’t mean to, if he’d just gotten caught up in the moment and it spiraled out from there…but that’s not what happened. This person, this guy I thought I knew, this person I defended and stood up to all my friends and family for…what he did was deliberate and calculated and just plain cruel. Every phone call, every meeting, every stolen glance…it was all intentionally done. As was the betrayal and backlash when the truth came out. Every word he said, every accusation and insult, every lie he and whomever else he had do it with him spread about me—it was intentional. He wasn’t a victim. We didn’t just lock gazes in that bar or meet out of some twist of fate. It wasn’t some love story gone horribly wrong. It was a deliberate manipulation and planned attack. And I was the casualty. I was burned. Badly. And while the physical reminders of that might go away, the emotional ones are still very, very present. Even now, all these years later. Though his name is no longer a whisper on my lips, his face no longer lingers in my mind or in my dreams, and those memories—for all intents and purposes—have long been locked away and forgotten…the scars are still there.


Which is why I’m in the predicament I’m in. I’ve gotten better. Some. I’m not quite as jaded and cynical as I was. But when it comes to love, I’m still wary. I try not to be, but I can’t help it. I have this amazing guy in my life and as badly as I want to just let everything else go and just be with him…a part of me is still holding back. Waiting for the other shoe to drop. Because he can’t possibly be as amazing as he seems. It’s got to be a ruse. That’s how I feel. It’s not rational and it’s driving me insane, but I can’t help it. He’s asking me to jump. He’s willing to hold my hand. And I’m just standing there on the edge, like a complete and utter idiot, scared out of my mind. I want to. God, how I want to. But there’s so many what ifs running through my head. What if I jump and it doesn’t work out? What if I end up with another broken heart? I just got mine pieced back together…I can’t imagine going through that kind of pain again. Or worse—what if it works out? What if we take that leap and it all goes well for awhile…until it doesn’t. Because people leave. They just do. You see it all the time. Relationships, marriages—they don’t always work out. And growing up, I’ve watched too many “love stories” spark and then die out. People aren’t faithful, they cheat, they always want what’s on the other side of the grass, so to speak. It’s not pessimism…it’s being realistic. It’s a horrible way to live, always doubting everyone…doubting yourself. Even when you have all the facts, when you know that he’s not him—that he doesn’t have some girlfriend or wife and child stashed away somewhere—and you want so badly to believe again in fairy-tales and love and happily-ever-after…it’s still so hard. He’s not the villain in this, and neither are you…and still, you hesitate. Because you know what can happen when it doesn’t go the way you’d hoped. When you’ve put all your faith and trust in this one individual and in doing so, you’ve essentially given him everything he needs to break you down and tear your world apart, from the inside out, if he so chooses. It feels like a game. You don’t want it to—and you don’t want to look at it as that because you don’t want to be that girl that’s always waiting for the other shoe to drop or expecting the worst in people—but it’s out of your control. And that control—it’s all that you have. After everything that’s happened, after everything that he put you through and stole from you…it’s all that’s left. It’s everything. And you cling to it. And it’s hard to give that up. Even if you’re there, even if you’re ready to, even if you want to. It’s still hard to let go.


He understands. God help him, he’s practically a saint. After all this time and even the distance…he’s willing to wait. And I know that guys like him don’t come around that often. I know that I should jump at this opportunity and just let go, once and for all. But I’m scared. I’m so fucking terrified. Love hurts. Everyone says that it’s not supposed to—that it’s supposed to be this great feeling and that when it’s right—when it’s really right—it’s not supposed to hurt. It’s supposed to be the greatest feeling in the world. And maybe they’re right. I honestly don’t know. But I want to. I want to at least find out. I’ve already experienced the heartbreak and the devastation. I know what it’s like to have the world ripped right out from under you—to have that one person you gave so much of yourself to turn around and treat you as if you were, as if you are less than nothing. I know that feeling. I’ve been there. I lived and breathed that feeling for so long, slowly suffocating. I don’t want to live like that anymore. I want to come up for air. I want to breathe again. To feel clean again.


Am I ready? Hell if I know. I just know that I’m tired of living in fear and in the shadows of the past, second-guessing myself and everyone around me. There are still good people in the world—good guys…I have to believe that. And I have to trust myself to know the difference. I’m not that naïve 21-year-old girl who let herself be fooled by a pair of twinkling eyes and smooth lines and empty promises. I know better now. And he’s not him. If I have to keep reminding myself of that every single day, then that’s what I’ll do, but I’ve let him in this far…maybe it’s time to take down the walls…to really take that leap of faith. I’m terrified…but I think it’s time.

It’s time.

xoMESSIE

Our Skeletons.

I’m going back. To Nashville. I’m going HOME. Yes, because that IS what Nashville is to me, it’s HOME. Not here. Not anymore. A home is a place where you feel loved and protected and safe and wanted. And I don’t feel any of those things here. I should. My family is here. And therein lies the whole of the matter. There’s this saying that goes “…sometimes it’s funny that the people you’d take a bullet for, are the ones pulling the trigger.” It’s true. With my family, it is SO true. My “family”.


You know, there was a time when I would have gone to bat for any one of them, no questions asked. A time when I actually believed they were good, loving people. When I would have said that while “sure, they’re a bit dysfunctional, but what family isn’t” and defended them to others…to myself. Growing up, I didn’t really think much of the dysfunction, you know? It was just the norm. The fighting, the secrets, the cops being called on nearly every holiday or family get-together. I ignored it, hid it. On some level, I think I was probably ashamed of it. I mean, our house wasn’t the place for birthday parties where you invited your friends from school or sleepovers. There was just too much yelling and drama for that. The older I got and the more skeletons that came out of the woodwork—the more I realized just how selfish and callous and oblivious they could be. I finally started to see these people for who and what they really were. My grandmother—the woman I’d pretty much looked up to and idolized my whole life—I saw her for the controlling narcissist that she is. She’s the matriarch of the family, through and through. Right down to who holds the reins and what is and/or isn’t. She’s spent her whole life raising kids. She loves kids. It’s the ones out of pull-ups and grade school that have opinions of their own that she despises. Oh, how she loathes anyone and everyone who dares to even breathe a word in opposition to her. Heaven forbid she’s ever wrong about anything. And my mother—well, she wasn’t much of an enigma. I’d figured her out long before the training bras came off, so to speak. I guess that happens when you’re five-years-old and you wake up in the middle of the night from a bad dream and Mommy’s nowhere to be found…so you go to the window and watch her getting in the car and leave with whatever guy she happened to be seeing at the time. And while you’d like to say that it only happened once, you can’t. Because time and time again, she put you and your siblings in the 2nd priority slot and never the first. It’s hard when you’re little, you know? You’re five. You don’t understand why your Mommy would rather be with some man and not you. You don’t know why you aren’t good enough, or what you didn’t do for her to love you enough. You blame yourself. As you get older, the clouds lift and everything starts to look a hell of a lot clearer. You start to blame yourself less. You realize that it’s not—that it’s her. And part of you feels sorry for her—because she must be sick or at the very least have something wrong with her to be so cold and disinterested in her own child. But the other part of you—that’s the part that gets angry because you’re not a kid anymore. You know that the decisions she’s making are exactly those…decisions. Choices. A deliberate and conscious effort and action. That what she’s doing is wrong and unfair. You know it and you want her to know it…but you know it’s pointless because in the end, it’s not going to change who she is. That that is who she is. And all you can do is accept it and move on and hope like hell that you didn’t inherit that motherless gene from her that makes you love—for all intents and purposes—but not actually care about your child if and when you decide to become a parent yourself.


I’ve made so many excuses for them over the years and I’m done. I’m just done. I can’t do it anymore. I can’t defend them when my heart’s not in it anymore. And my heart’s not in it. It may be a horrible thing to say, but they aren’t worth it. I came so close tonight to giving in and giving up and cashing in all these chips I’ve collected over the years…because of them. And the fact that they could push me that far and that close to the edge—well, it scares the hell out of me. And I’ve come too far and worked too damn hard to get to where I am right now to throw it all away for them. They’re my family. They’re supposed to have my back. They aren’t supposed to be the ones to stab the knife in it. They’re supposed to be loyal, but they don’t have a loyal bone in their bodies. I honestly don’t think they even know the meaning of the word.


It’s a long story, but there’s been a war launched between my brother and I this week. He’s had his skank of the moment and her kid nearly moved in here. Neither my mother or grandmother want her here and he’s been told, but of course as he always does, he does as he pleases. Because they don’t have the nerve to confront her directly, I did. Well…he didn’t take too kindly to that, or my calling the bitch for what she is: a whore. And I don’t use that word lightly, but she is one. Hell, that’s pretty much his type—blonde, white trash whore. Of course, you can’t dare insult any of his skanks because then he turns the tables onto you—in this case, me. So it was back to the whole “I’m a whore, I’ve slept with half the county, traded sex for coke…blah, blah…” spiel that’s so worn I’m surprised he doesn’t have dry mouth when he says the words. He also tried to punch me in the face—would’ve if my mother hadn’t stepped in the middle—and threatened to kill me. Wait, what were the words… oh yeah… “I’ll bury you.” Yep. And yet, I get told to shut up and just ignore him. No calling the cops or going to family court and getting an order of protection against the bastard because of course, that wouldn’t look well for them. After all, they have the kids to consider. Funny. They’re so concerned about these kids when it’s convenient for them and never when they actually should be concerned. And the kids aside—what about me? Where the hell is their concern over me? Their flesh and blood. Someone they claim to love. Someone they constantly say they don’t want to go back to Nashville. Where the hell is their concern when he’s spouting his bullshit at me? Holding the worst things to ever happen to me over my head? The bastard has held that damn party 9 years ago and my secret over my head for years. But you know what? I’m done caring, of shutting up and letting things go just so he’ll keep his mouth shut about that night—things he read in my journal that he stole—the words and secrets of a scared 16-year-old who had literally just had her entire world turned inside out, who had to cover up and lie because she didn’t want them to think less of her for having made the mistake of going to a stupid party and getting raped. Even so, I’ve come to terms with what happened and the things I’ve done. I’m not a saint, nor have I ever claimed to be. I’ve made mistakes. I made one that night. I’ve made a hundred more in the time since. I won’t deny that. But I won’t stand there and shut up as he calls me a whore and accuses me of sleeping with scores of men and trading sex for drugs when I have never and would never do such a thing. I may not be lily white, but unlike the trash that he whores around with, I can sleep at night knowing my sexual exploits.


Rather than cause a scene or hell—make her leave–what really pisses me off though is that they continue to let her come over—despite both still saying that don’t want her here—ESPECIALLY after all the shit he’s done and said to me over the past few days. And the fact that his smug fucking bastard self is winning is what pisses me off the most. He gets what he wants and nothing changes. Nothing. Ever. Changes. It’s the story of my entire fucking life. And they don’t see a thing wrong with it. They don’t see how their silence is, in essence, condoning everything that he’s doing. Everything that he’s saying to me. I told them to make a choice. Either get rid of her—and stand up to him for me, for once—or I’m done. And they chose to let it be. To “keep the peace” by not making her leave—as in, not get him pissed off by kicking her out. So…they made their choice. And their beds. I’m done. I can’t do it anymore. They aren’t my family anymore. They’ve shown it time and time again that they have no regard whatsoever for how I feel. So I’m going HOME. To Nashville. To the place where I don’t feel like yelling and screaming at the injustice of the people and situation I’m surrounded by every five minutes. The place where I don’t feel like I constantly in a backslide into the past, being dragged under and drowning by memories. The place where I feel like I actually have a chance. A future. Where there are people who actually care—good friends that I might not have known for very long, but that I trust a hell of a lot more than these people I share the same blood with. Those people—they’re my family now. And maybe that’s a horrible and hurtful thing to say, but until you’ve met my family, until you’ve lived with them, been dragged down into their hell where there’s no air and you can barely breathe and you’re alive but you’re just waiting for someone to do the humane thing and let you out of your misery…don’t judge me. Don’t you dare.


As soon as I can make the arrangements, I’m gone. As badly as I want to just pack it all in, get in the car and drive and not look back right this second—hell, at this point I don’t think I care what the destination is so long as it’s a hell of a lot of miles between there and here—I can’t. I’m stuck here, thanks to these damn headaches and the doctors—half of which don’t have a clue and the other half who seem to be getting off on treating me like a guinea pig the majority of the time. Thanks to the lovely state of Tennessee and the even lovelier medical specialists it employs, whom for some godforsaken reason won’t treat a patient with out-of-state insurance, nor someone who doesn’t have full-resident status in the state—despite the treatment being for injuries sustained in an accident that occurred in that lovely state. Oh, the irony! So thus the dilemma I find myself in. I am stuck. I can’t stop treatment—I need it. And I’m hoping like hell that it works. Then there’s the legal aspect—the lawyers and this damn court case. So no, I can’t just stop. So instead, I’m spending my time trying to find a loophole—something—that could fix this little dilemma of mine somehow. Once I figure that out—figure something out—I’m out. Once and for all.


I’m going back.

I’m going HOME.

 

xoMESSIE

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