THE TRUTH IS MESSIE…

My e-journal, all the nitty-gritty, overly-emotional, sappy stuff…

C’est La Vie. September 14, 2016

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

 

 

When You’ve Had All You Can Take July 13, 2016

Filed under: LIFE,Talking Through — MESSIE @ 1:36 am
Tags: , , ,

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. May 26, 2016

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

 

Humanity By Way of A Tweet December 3, 2015

Filed under: Talking Through — MESSIE @ 11:28 pm

In the wake of the tragic shooting that occurred yesterday in San Bernardino, I got into a Facebook exchange with a friend last night that resulted in a flurry of well…absolute ridiculousness, to say the least…and ultimately, my deletion of this individual this morning. While I realize everyone is entitled to their own opinion and certainly, to broadcast that opinion on his/her own social media page–I have a very short tolerance for individuals who like to propagate their own agenda of bullshit negativity and cynicism–especially when they try to use a tragedy as a platform or backdrop to do so. Call it a pet peeve of mine.

Anyhow, so this individual essentially posted some b.s. status about the ineffectiveness of society’s use of “thoughts and prayers” in light of tragedies, such as the one that just occurred in California. Of course, he wasn’t the only one to do so. In fact, this little post has been making the rounds on my social media newsfeeds all day that more or less mimics what he had posted, albeit with a slightly more direct agenda targeted at–you guessed it–gun control and politics.

NYpost

Now, don’t mistake me for some sudden religious freak that feels “God” can save us all–because let’s face it, even if there is a “God”, I’m pretty sure he’s washed his hands clean of the human race long before now–or we wouldn’t be in the predicament we’re in. So, taking “God” and religious out of the equation…I’d like to focus on the whole “meaningless platitudes” sentiment.

“Meaningless platitudes” … of course is in reference to anyone who uses the phrase “thoughts or prayers” in response to something horrible like what happened in that building in San Bernardino yesterday, or in Paris just a few short weeks ago…you get my point. While I’m not the religious type and “praying” isn’t really my cup-of-tea, I honestly don’t see the point in faulting a person or person(s) for wanting to express their sympathies online to the victims and those affected. Will the victims themselves see these individual sentiments–probably not. But to just discount the fact that there are people all around the world that–although they’ve never met those victims and probably will never know them beyond their photos and names on some media or news outlet–they still sympathize…is just wrong. These “meaningless platitudes”…as they’re being called are–for worse or for better–proof that there are good people out there. People who care. People who feel for and sympathize with other people not because they have to, but because they choose to. There’s this quote–though I’m not sure the speaker of it–that goes “Being human is given. But keeping our humanity is a choice.” And it’s so true.

What happened in California…what happened in Paris…what’s happening in Syria, Iraq…the list goes on and on… it’s not something that can just be fixed with stricter gun control laws or more hard-hitting politicians, as the above-mentioned post seems to rally for. Sure, do I think we need stricter laws in terms of gun ownership–hell yeah. People can say what they want about the 2nd Amendment and how it’s “our right” as citizens to arm ourselves…but that’s not what the 2nd Amendment was created and intended for. We have a right to protect and arm ourselves, yes. But there needs to be limits and people do need to be held accountable. The 2nd Amendment wasn’t created for people to go out and buy an arsenal of weapons and stockpile ammunition–LEGALLY–to then use against other innocent civilians. I mean, most of it is common sense. I mean, what did you really think that individual with the long history of mental illness and the shady dealings and possible fundamentalist/terrorist-ties was going to do with all those guns and all that ammunition–save it for a rainy day? Come on, people. But even with stricter gun laws–it’s not going to solve the problem entirely. People are still going to find a way to get the weapons. You’ve heard the saying, where there’s a will, there’s a way. There are evil people in this world who want to spread their evil and hate and sadly, they’re winning. They’re winning because they’re getting the good people to turn on one another, to discount even the smallest acts of humanity.

Now, I can’t speak for everyone else, but I can speak for myself when I say that by posting a sympathetic tribute to honor the victims of a tragedy…it’s with the purest of intentions. The Facebook exchange with my “friend” was in reply to his untimely negativity and uncalled for cynicism, first and foremost, and secondly–to counter his assertion that “such sentiments are made to made the individual posting said posts “feel better”. I don’t know about the rest of you, but conveying how I sympathize with and grieve for the loss of life and the injured in yesterday’s massacre didn’t make me feel better about the situation, not in the slightest. And that’s because I know that the bloodshed hasn’t ended. It might be a day or a week or a month from now, but they’ll be another story, another senseless tragedy that fills up our television screens. More photos and names of innocent people will flash across our screens, their lives cut short because someone(s) somewhere CHOSE evil over doing the right thing, over humanity.

We’ve got an epidemic of violence on our hands and it’s up to all of us to do something. Whether it’s showing your humanity in a tweet or a status update or just doing something good for someone else … all those so-called “meaningless platitudes”, when you break them down in their barest of form  … they’re a glimmer of hope for humanity. And right now, I really do think we can use it…and not just here in the U.S., but the whole world…

At least that’s how I choose to see it.

xoMESSIE

 

 

 

Tennessee Melancholy … a poem November 29, 2015

Filed under: Nashville,POETRY,Talking Through — MESSIE @ 9:06 am
Tags:

**So I was cleaning up my hard drive/files and came across this little poetry homage of sorts to Nashville that I wrote a few weeks back when I was feeling especially nostalgic and homesick. Thought I’d share. 🙂  xoMESSIE**


Tennessee Melancholy -10/18/2015-

Been away just a few months now,

Feels like forever, sometimes.

And oh, how I miss those Sunday afternoon rides.

Those leisurely Interstate 65 drives;

Just Nash FM on the radio and I.

To my left and my right,

Beheld the prettiest of sights.

Green rolling hills that stretch for miles with no end.

Far away, beyond the horizon.

And skies so cerulean blue.

Tennessee, home sweet home, oh how I miss you.

Taking walks by the Cumberland,

Its’ surface rippling just the slightest in the Southern wind.

And flowers still bloom in Centennial Park,

Long after the Summer’s end.

And nothing compares to the view from Shelby Bridge.

Downtown on Broadway and 1st Avenue,

The streets are alive with music and spilling over with tourists.

Come dusk, the locals know best to steer clear and altogether avoid it.

Down in the Gulch is where you’ll find the dreamers—

the poets and painters.

Those altruistic, optimistic peace-makers.

The East side’s been busy, reinventing itself and all that.

Having worked hard and taken great strides.

Many would even say that it’s been gentrified.

Unless, of course, you hail from the West,

Who still believe they’re better than the rest.

Though why they think that—is anyone’s guess.

Walk the stage at the Opry,

Take a tour of RCA Studio B.

Stand where all the legends have stood.

Feel the glory, feel the awe.

Say you came, and you felt; and you saw.

Follow that roundabout to Music Row,

That opportunistic corner where they take nobodies and turn them into “STARS”.

“Nashville’s no city”, they say…”just a really big town”.

And now that I’ve been—I know they’re not wrong.

It’s true; you really can’t help but feel like you’re a part of it all.

Especially when the people are as welcoming as they are.

And you can’t explain how you know,

You just know that you do.

After so long running and aimlessly searching,

Never feeling like you truly belong.

You can rest, settle down.

Make a life for yourself.

Just let it all out.

The past, your fears, your insecurities; all your doubts.

You can let it all go.

Once and for all.

Now that you’ve finally found a place of your own.

A place to call HOME.

For me, it’s right here. .

My home sweet home.

This little big “town”.

Music City, USA.

The one and only,

Nashville, Tennessee.

~~

 

You Only Wake Up When It’s Over. October 5, 2015

VERSE:

It wasn’t one big blow that brought our love down
It was the hairline cracks that took it to the ground
Just kept creepin’ over time, spreadin’ like wildfire
It wasn’t one big blow that brought our love down

CHORUS:

Oh we didn’t wanna see
We didn’t wanna believe
The dream was gettin’ colder
Oh, we begged the truth to bend
It’s easier to pretend
Than to see it when you’re sober
You only wake up when it’s over
You only wake up when it’s over

VERSE:

There was so much ’bout you I didn’t realize
There was so much ’bout me I couldn’t recognize
You can only get a clear view, when it’s fadin’ in the rearview
There was so much ’bout you I didn’t realize

BRIDGE:

Oh we didn’t wanna see
We didn’t wanna believe
It’s easier to pretend
Than to see it when you’re sober

You only wake up when it’s over
You only wake up when it’s over…

(“Wake Up When It’s Over” – Michael Logen & Maren Morris)



**

Why, oh WHY, is it that it’s only in hindsight that we see all things in 20/20 perspective?

**

Why’d we first have to fall before we learned to stand? Why did there always have to be a lesson to be learned…why couldn’t things just be what they were? Simple. Easy. Uncomplicated. Why couldn’t it have just gone our way for once?

**

Why weren’t we satisfied until we’d broken and destroyed one another? Why did we toss around the words that cut the deepest? Why didn’t we take the high road and bow out gracefully? Left with our dignity? Why’d we let it go that far? Why didn’t we stop ourselves? Why’d we make excuses when we knew it was wrong? Why’d you get off so easy–how’d you, of all people, get to play the victim card? Why’d you have to go and make forgetting you easy but forgiving you  so damn hard? Why?

**



 

 

Truth Can’t Cure The Blind… September 1, 2015

I stumbled upon these lyrics the other day in some fan-fiction online and needless to say, this track has been playing on repeat on my playlist ever since…  It’s a relatively old track (from 2011) aptly titled “Nineteen” from a wonderfully gifted artist by the name of Alex G. (**You can check out her YouTube channel here!**)

**



VERSE: I’m tired of playin’ the part / Of a little girl who can’t use her heart / I’m broken, torn and scarred / From all the poison you threw at us / But you won’t know, ’cause you can’t see / The tattered child you’ve made of me

**

CHORUS: You’ll follow me into my dreams / And spit your words so desperately / And I’ll wash my hands of this tragic mess / And truth can’t cure the blind, if they don’t care to see

**

VERSE: Nineteen years inside this flesh / I fought through pain / I’ve paid my dues / But that’s still not enough for you / So where do we go from here? / You won’t keep me trapped in my fears / You’re sinking in your selfishness / We’re tainted by words left unsaid

**

BRIDGE/CHORUS: Did you even notice the look in my eyes / When I spoke of him for the very first time / And do you remember when you were my age? / Do you remember at all? / Don’t follow me into my dreams / And spit your words so viciously / I’ll wash my hands of this tragic mess / But truth can’t cure the blind / Yeah, truth can’t cure the blind / I wish you’d change your mind / But you don’t care to see…



 **

So…September happens to be Suicide Awareness/Prevention month…a little piece of information that I’m fairly certain a good majority of people out there aren’t even aware of…thanks nearly in whole to society. It truly amazes me that in this day and age with the level and amount of transparency that’s out there, not to mention along with the staggering high suicide and self-harm numbers that seem to just be increasing at such an exponential rate each and every year that society still views these issues as sort of “taboo” topic–as in something not to be discussed or acknowledged or god forbid actually dealt with, but rather as a problem that is willfully and purposely ignored and “swept under the rug”, so to speak. We’ve barely even begun to reach the cusp of change in this–to accept and acknowledge that not only is depression a very real, very tangible thing, it’s also a growing epidemic that plagues and affects the lives of millions of people, each and every day.


And no one is immune. People will say that they are…and they might like to tell themselves that–or they might have to just to get though the day–but they’re lying to themselves when they do because no one is happy 24/7. No one. Even the happy-go-lucky-iest h/she has his/her bad days, low points, and rough patches. Life isn’t always unicorns and rainbows. We all cry. We all get hurt. We’re all a little broken inside.


Some of us are just a little more broken than others.


And that’s okay.


It took me a long time to realize that. And it took me even longer to accept it. Like so many other survivors of suicide/self-harm, I lived in shame for a long time for what I’d done. I didn’t want anyone to know. I was so afraid of being judged, of what other people would say if they found out–how they’d look at me once they knew what I’d done. It’s strange, but it wasn’t so much their ridicule that I feared. Rather, it was their pity. I couldn’t bear the thought of people looking at me with pity in their eyes, feeling sorry for me…but most of all, I feared that look of them wanting to fix it–wanting to fix me. Especially when, little did they know, I was unfixable.


For years I held on to the same truth and told the same lie…that I didn’t mean to do it. That it was an accident. I was drunk. I wasn’t thinking clearly. You name it, I said it. But the truth is, I did want to die, I think. At least, a little part of me wanted to. Otherwise I wouldn’t have done what I did. Right? I mean, that’s the only logical explanation.


One thing people always ask is why. And honestly, there are so many things I could tell them. So many things I could say. I was young, dumb. Hell, I was only 20 years old. I was still just a kid in so many ways. And yeah, I was drunk–really, really drunk. I guess part of it was that I was tired of all the expectations of the people around me that I felt were weighing me down. Also, I was tired of all the secrets that I was keeping, hiding, and carrying around. Tired of pretending like I cared, when to be perfectly honest, at that particular point in my life, I couldn’t have given a damn. I really couldn’t.


Then there was my family. My crazy, dysfunctional, seriously screwed up–and that’s on a good day–family. I was sick of the fighting; the constant bickering and backstabbing and all-around one-upping. I was tired of being a girl from a broken home that didn’t stand a snowball’s chance in hell of ever being mended, or god forbid ever changing. It’s hard to believe the great childhood I had—and it was a good one—when I think about what my teen years were like in that house. I don’t think I could ever justly describe it—the depths of such loneliness and despair; of feeling insignificant. Of feeling forgotten. I was in a new school. My sister was away at college. My mother was preoccupied with her “boyfriend of the moment” and had her hands full with my juvenile delinquent of a brother. And I was just there…feeling lost…trying to make sense of this new reality I’d just been thrust into. No one noticed me. For years, I hid an eating disorder from them. For years, I kept a secret cutting habit from them. Then came that horrible night, and that horrible Planned Parenthood visit. I was a mess.  And somehow they were blind to it all. And as if having your whole world turned upside-down and inside-out on you in such a way as that isn’t cruel enough, my brother—after stealing my journal and violating my privacy one night—decided to make it his mission to ensure that I never forgot that night or what happened. You have no idea what it’s like to be constantly reminded of the worst night of your life after it’s been twisted and manipulated to fit and be used in someone’s attack against you. And the fact that that someone is your brother—your own flesh and blood—not surprisingly, the betrayal from that cuts far deeper. I was tired of it—tired of having to stand there and take it; having to act unaffected and hold back the tears–at least until I’d made it out of eyesight and earshot of him. What’s worse is that my family did nothing. They didn’t make him leave. They didn’t make him stop. When he’d start, they’d just tell him to shut up or tell me to ignore him—like that was going to happen—and which of course, was easy for them to say seeing how they had no idea what it was that he was even harassing me about. Having to deal with that day in and day out for nearly 2 years—it shouldn’t come as a shock that he’d beaten me down. As much as I hate to admit it, that’s exactly what he’d done. He pushed me to the point where I couldn’t escape it—and was literally so desperate to that I didn’t care if I lived or died. So when he’d throw around phrases like “go kill yourself” or “no one would care if you’d died”… you start to believe it. And then you actually try to do it. And you don’t care.


Over the years, many have asked me that “numero uno” question: Do you regret it?


Not to sound “crazy” or anything—but I don’t think I do. At least, not entirely. I mean, I’ve had a long time to think about it. Eight years at the end of this month, to be exact. I know that the expected answer is to say “yes”. That I do regret it. That, if I could, I’d go back and do things differently. I know that’s what society is expecting me to say…but if I were to say so, then I’d be lying.


**

wrist scars suicide attempt on 10.31.2007 with semicolon

**


I used to be ashamed of this scar. I used to look at it and feel guilty—angry even—with myself for what I’d done. I’d hide it, cover it up with long sleeves, lie about where it came from when asked…because I thought I had to. Because that’s what society has conditioned us all to do—to look at things such as suicide, depression, mental illness, and self-harm as something to be ashamed of—when they aren’t that at all.


These scars I wear are not reminders that I was weak. They’re reminders of my strength. They are my battle scars. A reminder to myself of the journey I’ve taken to get to here, and all the lessons I’ve learned along the way. And boy, there have been many. My scars are my encouragement. When things get rough and life gets hard—when I start to think that things just can’t get any worse—I look at these scars and I’m reminded that oh yes, they can. I could be back there in that moment again, literally at rock bottom—be that girl from 8 years ago…hopeless with no fight or will to live left and no future.


I could go back…I just choose not to. Because I know that it gets better. Because I know that it’s worth it. And as crazy as it sounds, I think I had to go through what I did—had to do what I did—to really get that final push. If I hadn’t, I don’t think I’d be here today. I really don’t. And I’m glad I’m here. Where I am. I’m happy. Life is good.


I’m no longer ashamed. And neither should anyone else be of their scars. We all learn in our own different ways. Sometimes it takes coming really close to losing it all to realize everything you have, to see exactly how much worth you have. So, in honor of this month, I’m wearing my scars freely, for the world to see…


xoMESSIE

 

 
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