Nosebleed section

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Why? Why, why, why do I torture myself? How do I forget and attempt to have any genuine communication with this person whose mouth is dripping with lies? That is, the rare moments when they bother to speak to me.

The manipulation just doesn’t end. Not one day.

I had spent years feeling as if I was trapped in the bottom of a well. Clawing, and getting nowhere. Watching the sun and moon pass over me, taunting me. Waiting for a glimmer of an escape.

It’s oh so dramatic and miserable but the pain, the pain was so real.

I’m so glad in this moment that I don’t feel anymore. Too bad though that I also am incapable to feel any sense of relief. At least I am aware none of this actually matters. That this tiny dust speck of a planet we inhabit, and our even smaller lives, realistically have very little value beyond what we assign it with our massive egos. It comforts the last existing logical parts of my brain, not emotionally of course, but still, it is something.

“But it just might be a lunatic you’re looking for”

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In some schools of thought you attract what you want, what you are. I say bullshit.

I was duped. He appeared charming, intelligent, funny as can be, intense, passionate, spiritual, a big thinker, without boundaries… for the first 6 months.
It was a whirlwind. A dream. A fairy tale. We spent passionate night after night making love 6, 7, times or more. He always lit candies and incense, played music. Sometimes he’d give me a single rose or a poem. We’d be together every night. I’d leave at dawn to return at dusk. I’d have stayed if I didn’t have to go home and bring back my mothers car. I’d have stayed forever. Nothing else in the world mattered. He held me so close. He never took his eyes off me. We couldn’t be close enough.

I felt like I met my match. Little did I know that soon it would vanish overnight.
We were married. I got pregnant, just like we said we wanted. We.
We immediately got a tiny little apartment. I was very ill with the pregnancy from the start but never made a fuss. From the beginning he completely shut off. He became a paper doll of himself. He was gone and I’d never get him back.

I still miss how he loved me.

It took a long time for me to understand there was something wrong. I was still madly in love. I didn’t understand at all.

I’m an extremely independent person. I like being alone. I quite prefer it. I help people, I am told to a far greater extent than others, but I never had any internal drive to save anyone or change anyone. Still, on the subject aspie’s lacking empathy, sheer poppycock! I loved immensely and showed it. I wore my heart on my sleeve. When it came to my intense emotions I had a habit of not being able to seal my lips. The balance held true for the opposite end. If someone was a jackass I’d confront them. If they were unapologetic and the behavior continued I walked away and never looked back.

I have had my share of bumps, bad “friends”, bad relationships. I knew to stay away from destructive people once they revealed themselves. I don’t mean someone having a bad day or going through a hardship, no. True darkness. I’ve been raped. I’ve been stalked. I’ve been hit. I’ve been held at gun point. I’ve been homeless.

I came through stronger every time. I still trusted. I never lumped anyone into a group created of generalized hate. I still believed in honesty and love. At least, I did. Now not so much.

I was adopted by a mildly abusive upper middle class family and, unusually, I never thought I was bad nor did I blame myself for all the terrible things they did. Most abused children blame themselves. I knew it was them mistreating a child. I was verbally and physically abused and at one point I thought that was how parents were. Just terribly irrational, selfish, idiotic, and mean as all hell. I thought it was normal, and in a way though they treated me poorly and quite wrong, they were mostly normal. Normal, as in a lot of parents treated their kids pretty damn awful, more or less.
I have known hundreds of people in my lifetime, and rarely did I ever hear someone say they were treated fairly, that their parents were wonderful, supportive, loving. Of course it is all subjective. Getting spanked once and denied sugar may have been one persons idea of a traumatizing childhood.
I questioned it through the eyes of a child, “fairness”, but time and time again, temper tantrums and hormone inflicted mood swings aside, being beaten (for example) because your younger brother drew a box on the wall in blue crayon, was wrong.
I was hit, choked, smacked, my head went into walls, lamps (allowing for days of picking glass from my thick hair), anything was fair game to my father. My mother remained a watching statue.
Never provoked. Never a smart mouth when I was young. I “breathed wrong”, I washed the dishes wrong. I was there, asking for nothing, clearly a burden, in their eyes. No exaggeration, I never dared ask for a thing.
I never got tucked in. I was never kissed goodnight. Not read to. I taught myself how to read by the time I was 4 mainly from a collection of fairytales. I read Poe’s Nevermore obsessively. Years later when I learned he was adopted too, the natural draw made sense somehow.

As soon as I was able, I cared for myself. I dressed myself, washed myself, my school uniforms were pressed and hung every day since Kindergarten, as if house elves had snuck into my room at night using magic. My parents tried not to touch me and interact as much as possible. They succeeded.

Their son, who was born shortly before I turned 3, was spoiled rotten. Somehow I felt pity for him, up until recently where I learned he complained we were treated unfairly, and that I got more.  I may be mad but I am often the sanest one here.

My mother told me I was always crying when I was an infant so she just left me alone in my crib, every day, for hours. She suggested I do the same to my children. Of course I absolutely did not.

I have so many stories yet so many huge gaps where I remember nothing. Perhaps that’s perfectly normal. Though …I’ve never blacked out. I’ve been utterly piss-your-pants drunk and am completely aware of not only acting and speaking like an uncontrollable buffoon but I remember it afterwards. I remember dreams as if they were events in my waking life. I’ve had 4 mild concussions that I was present through, one caused by my 17 year old head going through the windshield of my car that I learned much later fractured my jaw. How can I not remember my childhood other than a handful of moments? I suspect I blocked it out for a reason.

One summer night, at the age of 22, I was preparing to go out and meet friends at a local coffeehouse. At the time I had recently moved back home, preparing to return to college. My friends and I often began our nights that way and floated to bars, danced and drank, then scrambled somewhere high on life and spirits for greasy food. I was making up for a recent 1 1/2 year relationship that ended horribly followed immediately by a couple of shorter spanned ones that were bland.  I was about to go out the door to a good ole’ fashioned night of shenanigans and tomfoolery. It was then, as I walked through the house toward the door, that my mother pointed out my dress was torn and she asked me to wait. I paused, curious, and watched her go to a cabinet and remove a needle, thread and scissors. It was so surreal. She knelt down at my side and began stitching, and as she did she jokingly called me “Cinderella”. Then after a thick silence she began rambling and told me some time ago there was a baby, and this baby was sick, so a group of people got together and broke into a church, turned the crucifixes upside down, placed the baby on the alter and held a black mass.

I couldn’t move.
I felt as if I turned to stone. My lips parted and a voice I recognized as my own asked her if I knew this baby. She stared hard at me and nodded her head, uttering a deep and hideous “Yes”, behind pink eyes.

Sometimes I’m so very glad I don’t remember my youth.

Oddly enough that was also the first night I saw him.

The attraction was, on my part, like lightening striking. It was an utter cliche in every way, complete with being across a crowded smoke filled room.

I was taught what to avoid. I was taught how not to be. Abuse was the last damn thing I wanted.

Totally Konfused

16 years and 3 months. That is how much time I wasted. Maybe. It all depends on how you look at it. Right now in this moment, unfortunately, I am leaning toward that view.

I feel like my suffering has ruined several lives now. Well, ruined is such a strong word. More like scarred. Many hideous scars have been carved into our souls, from this.

I really didn’t know. I was so madly in love that 6 months later when our shared dream of having a baby was beginning and everything else ended I was completely dumbfounded. I was young, alone, without advice. My natural instinct was to fix it. That’s always been my immediate response… “Oh, did that break? Well let’s see if it can be fixed”. If not, then I re-use it, and if not that then into the bin. However this, this was my life. There was a baby coming, eventually, it was all so precious, so the cold distance that had risen from seemingly nowhere was mind-numbingly shocking.

Who was this new person? Where did my lover go? What the HELL was going on?/ It must be a fluke. He’s worried. He’s frightened. He’s tired. He cannot have changed so quickly. It isn’t possible. /I must be doing something wrong.

I didn’t blame him. I still don’t blame him, not entirely, which is probably madness to some. I didn’t blame myself much either, minus the leaving. I do blame myself for not leaving. I asked him to stop. I asked him to leave. I begged. I wept. I screamed. I offered help. I baked from scratch (shameful attempt at humor in a non-humorous situation but I did indeed try everything, mind you I liked cooking from scratch so that wasn’t for his benefit, though he reaped the rewards). I ignored. I surrendered. I tried everything but leaving because I had nowhere to go to by the time I realized how bad it was. No shelter. No friends to run to. No family. Just me and my children. I wasn’t helpless though. I fought back. I stood up for myself. If anyone was the monster it was me. I became a monster through all the lies, betrayals, cruelty. I turned into the worst version of myself, and it is fantastically ugly. I used to wake up happy every day because happiness was inside me, now I can’t remember what that felt like. I question that it must have been a dream.

I no longer feel. I spent the last year not feeling. It didn’t happen overnight. It was a slow process, which I’ll save that story for another time. Now I am scared without feeling scared. I just know something within me is wrong. I’ve gone empty, yet at the same time I have a soft, cozy void filled up with some type of invisible emotion-absorbent white cotton. My emptiness isn’t hollow. Still, I do not know joy or excitement. I do not know passion or love. Me, the now ex-bleeding heart. I no longer feel and I am trying to figure out how to get it back.

This blog is about my personal story of having a husband who happens to be Borderline. This is my journey. Me. Who happens to have Asperger’s. This is not a “Borderlines are evil” thing-a-ma-stuff. Everyone is different. Everyone deserves love, in my tiny little barefoot, (ex)bleeding heart, opinion. This is my mess, that I am openly sharing so that hopefully you can take something helpful from it. Maybe I can, too.