Dreaming of Wherever…

It has to be a city, or even just a big town. A college town. Not for youth, but for Community Ed, and… feel.

Just the other day, Boise occurred to me. It would be really easy, not far at all. I’ve been a little overwhelmed by the drive alone, with those old lady cats of mine. I never considered Boise, because of the trauma I experienced there.

I swear to God! What is that?!

I look at patterns. If it keeps happening to ME, then I’m the common denominator. It’s on me to figure out what I’m doing to attract, create, permit, or aggravate… whatever. But I had nothing to do with a random Boise State housing assignment to a coed apartment inhabited by, among others, a madman who tried to kill me!

The fuck? How does this keep happening to me?

I’ve accepted that the chaos of my childhood has kept me glued to chaos as a kind of touchstone. I simply don’t understand it if it doesn’t hurt. It’s my job to divorce myself from that connection. If I don’t, I won’t stop repeating it. But I had nothing to do with meeting Roger T. Black, or with putting him in prison. He did that.

I’m also not responsible for a sexist institution that dismissed me and ignored reasonable complaints of alarming, disturbing behavior. “Histrionics of a woman” is an unbearable insult. (The word itself! Hyster  – Greek – “Of the womb.” I’m on fire, I’m so mad right now.) “Oh, go on now, you silly, dramatic girl,” Boise State “said” to me, practically patting my pretty little head. That mentality pisses OFF! Fuck you.

I don’t think about it often. Almost never. When I do, I’m mad all over again that my parents didn’t direct me to sue that fucking school. Boise State endangered me, for REAL. I cannot believe I took out student loans for the privilege! Then I flunked out! I’m an A student, if you hadn’t guessed. If I’m doing it, I’m doing it well.

Fuck Boise State! I should have been compensated for the crime BSU committed against me, not just that of Roger T. Black, a gangrenous diabetic who probably died in prison. (Actually, he probably got better care in the hoosegow than what he was providing for himself. And he only got 3 years!)

How did he even get near campus? It was clear he was a sexual predator, using his GI Bill – still – to “go to school,” where there’s a constant display of victims. Hell, housing will serve them to you, right across the hall. Boise State didn’t skip due diligence; they didn’t do ANY! Then they humored me when I brought abuse and peril to their attention, until Roger T. Black nearly killed me! No. Actually almost killed me.

I could have sued BSU for millions, and I should have. I will never not be pissed about that. Fuck not being litigious as a sort of religious moral stance. I’m your daughter!

That said, Boise’s lovely. 🙂

The weather is similar to Salt Lake without the inversion. There’s a huge Burner community, so I can find like-minded artistic weirdos, and I’m still close enough to attend Utah events. Huge belly dance community. Several troupes commute here twice a year to perform in Salt Lake’s biannual festivals. Huge African Drum & Dance Corp. They come to our annual camp every year and invite us to their events. And Boise is probably Idaho’s only southern town not completely right-wing zombified. At least no more than I’m used to.

Boise is an hour plus from mom (and my darling toddler nephews). There are some former-Mormon high school friends in Boise to hang out with. I can visit Marko for blank drums and didgeridoo fests and general laughs. Hell, I’ll see all my Salt Lake friends more often if a visit is an occasion. It always works out that way.

Boise??? Wow! Why not!?

Spokane? Pueblo, Colorado, popped up. (?) New Mexico? (Close to Texas.)

Speaking of Texas, flights were too expensive to visit my bestie during Christmas, so I’m headed down there for a week on Jan. 10. I’m so excited to see that baby!!! She’ll be 4-and-a-half months then. She belly laughs and chatters, and holds such enchanting attention. Her 4-yr-old sister is in love with her, and interprets her coos.

I was laughing yesterday, because I sent all of my childhood Strawberry Shortcake dolls to my best friend’s daughter for Christmas. It was a little hard to do. I’ve saved them for almost 40 years! They were intended for my kids, but even when it became clear that I wasn’t having any of those… oh, my dolls! I’ve had them my whole life! The care that went into that collection! They’re pristine. They are loved, still.

Yesterday, I Googled “vintage Strawberry Shortcake coloring books,” because the 4-yr-old doesn’t even know their names. (Shame on my best friend!) This was another reason I struggled with what had already been a difficult decision to part with those ever-loving dolls. I knew my bestie, who played with them just as I did in the 80s, wouldn’t remember anything about them (much less everything). I know her little daughter has far too many toys for one child (or 10) and my dolls have already been lost in the mix. They are not being valued properly! I loved them! But I had them in a box, in a box. Packed away in my cedar chest for decades, bringing no one even a moment’s joy. They are more valuable being played with by a 4-yr-old I love, even when they’re forgotten by her tomorrow.

So, I thought she and I could have all sorts of fun with a naming ceremony, and meet all the other friends that aren’t in my collection, by coloring together. What I found instead were sales of nearly $40 on dolls in worse shape than the ones I passed down. I had to laugh. A play date with a little girl in Texas has more value than a dollar sign. (Taurus)

I’ll keep telling myself that until it’s true, haha!

Merry Xmas! Love, Xie

I’m looking forward to 2018. I didn’t think it was possible for anything to suck harder than 2016, after his election (God, that hurt!), but a whole year of that man is too terrible to imagine. I mean it when I describe his presidency as an exercise in imagination. Doesn’t it feel that way to you? Like a bleak dystopian novel that can’t be real? We’ve all had to go numb just to get up in the morning! It does scare me a little to inure myself so completely. I mean, that’s how the apocryphal “it” happens. But, worst case scenario, Dump is out in 3 years. (I still describe that election cycle as identical to an abusive relationship. And it’s the new normal!)

I gotta say, I never dreamed I’d be the old lady who said, “The world was too terrible a place to bring a child into,” but I feel it. Not just environmental catastrophe, disregard for human rights, indifference to rape, and near-daily mass shootings. How do we explain the dissonance between the way we ask our children to behave and the cruelty and deceit of our own nation’s leaders? Not even those horrifying things. Parenting in the cyber age is beyond my emotional endurance. That alone. You cannot undo what gets online. The bullying there transcends my ability to understand. I wouldn’t want to face sexting with my pre-teen. And every modern parent will. I’m out! Gratefully so.

That’s not to say to fighting against the final slamming shut of that window didn’t hurt like hell. It was hell to finally learn the plot to that story. I’m nobody’s mother. Ouch.

2017 had Jax and Carrie, too, and that nearly killed me. I mean, dead. Oh. my. gawd. I haven’t been that close to suicide since my 20s. I wouldn’t have survived them then.

Thank god for Guys & Dolls! Thank god for my courage and tenacity. And talent. And beauty. I really like about me that I can find worth and beauty in damn near everything. So I keep finding it.

Damn, I’m tough. 2018 is a true new beginning. Everything I look at and touch will be new. I’m terrified, and so excited. 2018 is the year I trust my strength, stop testing it [in unhealthy ways], and enjoy my fucking awesome life. Goddammit. 🙂

Happy New Year. It’s a good one this year. I hope yours is, too.

****

Oh! I forgot a photo of my most recent drum, and a whole new direction that I love!
drum
12″ on wood frame with mallet
details

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Quiet Hush

I’m sharing a video posted to my friend’s Facebook page. I expect that it won’t be as touching and lovely to Anonymous as it is to me. Playmill Theatre is staple entertainment in the tourist-but-untouched town that is West Yellowstone, MT.

Nostalgia does that, but this is beautiful. Take a moment to enjoy a quiet hush: Lullaby

That curved stage shaped my entire childhood. I spent every summer in the audience. The thing I loved best was riding alone in an old pick-up truck with Grandma and Grandpa, on the way to the cabin in Idaho, singing all the rounds there are: “Horsey, Horsey,” “Three Little Fishies,” “One Bottle o’ Pop,” and all of “Fiddler on the Roof.”

I danced and sang in those lights just one year before this 90s clip was captured.

Lisa Burton Carter, her husband Jeff, and their friend, Linda, have proven themselves to be 3 of the most solid, decent people I know. I called them out by name in my Home Page Novella, “How I Got Here.” They appeared at the razor’s edge of youth and adulthood, onto which I walked with little more than trauma, pain, anger, and grit.

At just the time when there were officially more holes in the dike than I had fingers, Linda and Lisa loved me, and Jeff wanted to paint my portrait.

I wanted to die. I wanted to kill them. It was 1993.

I needed this quiet hush today. I needed a reminder of good people and love in my life. More importantly, I needed a reminder of their example. If you can’t take your eyes off of the mother and daughter in this beautiful melody, it’s because what you see is authentic and deeply good. By choice, by act, by very conscious effort. (Also, ripping hilarious and talented as hell, that family, the whole lot of ’em!)

****

I still have trauma and grit. Today, the angels have sent another reminder that the time has come at last to get my kit together. I have the awareness and maturity to see what I lack, appreciate how I survived as long as I did, and alter it – just the tiniest, albeit significant tweak – to finally achieve the peace and success I long for and deserve.

photoshoot 1993

courtesy Jeff Carter, 1993 (I refused to “sit” for the artist, but after an entire summer he finally talked me into a photo shoot, from which he painted a portrait I’ve still never seen.) (That’s an authentic Native dress! ~ Aho Mitakuye Oasin ~ For us capitalists, that’s a value of $100,000!)

174_01

The portrait I did sit for, in 1984, was for an important artist and teacher, Sergei Bongart. As with Jeff (and that incredible Native dress), it was later that I came to understand the enormous honor. Sergei fell in love with my hometown and summered there until his death in 1985. In southeast Idaho, he found “magpies and wild lilacs,” as in the Ukraine of his childhood.

sergei bongart

Sergei Bongart as a young man

And Then The Weekend Happened, Part 2

I’m so tired. I can’t even come home starving from rehearsal and hope to feed myself without a curse-laden verbal assault.

The whole family was home again. The adults had thrown away Jax’s remaining food and cleaned the fridge. His dishes were washed and draining (rancid, molding, refrigerated leftovers for over a month), and they had moved on to laundry.

My food was still out sitting on the table. Why?

I opened the fridge. It was clean and turned all the way down to zero. Warm. Empty. Carrie hurriedly began to put my food back in the fridge. Jax was right behind her.

I asked him how long my food – milk and dairy – had been left out. An hour.

“An hour?”

Knock it the blank off, just a blanking hour, get the blank over it, get the blank out of here, we’re cleaning the blanking house, for blank sake, leave us the blank alone. And on and on and on until I left the kitchen.

I’d had a bowl of cereal 6 hours earlier, and danced for 4 hours. I’d forgotten my rehearsal snacks. I was shaking, I was so hungry. And he just launched into me, screaming and swearing. It’s illegal for a landlord to bar me free movement about the home I occupy, but the roommate loophole permits him to do anything. So he is.

I said simply, “It is not unreasonable for me to feel like you are wantonly destroying my property, because you are,” and went to my room.

They’re taking as much pleasure from warming perishable food as they are from freezing me out. (Why hadn’t she put it away and how long had the fridge been clean before I got home?) It’s been 59 degrees in the house for 3 days, until last night, when it dropped to 58. They finally turned the heat on today, for themselves, but she was bundled in blankets and sheets the other day when they were all here, yet again. Why didn’t he turn it on then? I think they came over that time just to see how cold the drastic seasonal shift had left the house for me. They weren’t here long, to my relief.

Jax came home twice after that, alone, just in-and-out stops, to drop off/ pick up whatever. He knew how cold it was. He wouldn’t turn the heat on for me. Or for his fish, for whom he used to heat the house during the day while we were both at work, to keep their water temp stable. He’s willing to torture his own animals to make me pay.

For what? His inability to remove me legally? He chose my departure date! I secured my new home according to his plans. I didn’t do this by myself. Any of it. Trust a friend, risk my health, wait ’til October to leave a once-loving home. I do not understand.

He completely changed personalities once the marriage was official, and he’s completely taken the reins, and great pleasure in it. I think he’s evil.

He followed me to my room, and barked mocking intentions through the door to replace my food, demanding a list of it. Look in the fridge, if your intent is anything other than bringing hate and fear to my one remaining safe place. It’s empty, except for the food I had perfectly planned to last one week. I told him to drop it and leave me alone, shielding myself from him with my bedroom door, as I opened the front door and left.

I ordered drive-through junk food and ate in the car, sobbing. I have nowhere to go! My friends all moved, and everyone else in my “urban family” is old and unavailable.

I’m so tired.

Only one more weekend. I won’t be alone. They won’t harass me in front of my movers.

I don’t understand. I just don’t understand. I was sick and abandoned when I was mad at him, and he has officially surpassed the length of time that I spent yelling at him for something he shared and abdicated responsibility for. I do not understand. I’ve done nothing to these people.

I’ve done everything I could to stay out of their way, and they’ve done their best to brutalize me all month. I can’t stop crying today. It hurts.

Shouldn’t he be happily newly wed? Why is he so obsessed with attacking me? Shouldn’t being in love and un-alone make it more bearable to tolerate space with a woman you hate? And why, if you’re so miserable around me? If not merely to aim for my suffering, for some form of bizarre vengeance, and otherwise for the pleasure of pure cruelty? She has an apartment! I hadn’t seen him for weeks until they decided to tag-team me in this gross campaign to – what? – kill me?

What a sick, petty, small, ugly, mean man. What are they here for? Torture! What else? They’ve cleaned cupboards and a fridge, just a couple of hours work that could easily wait until my lease is through. He knows how clean I am. He knows I’m not leaving this place a mess. It’s not a bit about prepping their home. It’s about making me uncomfortable while I’m in it.

They’re calculating, horrible people, and they actually have themselves convinced they’re victims of an unreasonable woman. You chose my departure date! How do you figure I have any control over this? My apartment is occupied until Sept. 30.

They’re here every weekend to party. WHY? I hadn’t seen Jax for a month, except for brief stop-ins. What’s changed? Only their first decision as a married couple, to torture a vulnerable woman – not yet stable on her meds – as a “family.”

I’m so tired. I’m worn down, depressed, and tired.

****

I came home from my binge, in a running car for over an hour, and Jax had, in fact, replaced the milk and mayo (not yogurt, sour cream, or eggs). Why do it, if you’re just going to save face after? They didn’t think they’d get caught, I imagine. He wouldn’t have done a thing if I hadn’t taken a picture of it (ridiculed, of course). I came home with fresh veggies for a big, yummy hash with eggs that I’d been looking forward to for hours, so I grabbed my phone from my purse before hiding in my room.
fridgeThey left me alone after I got home the second time. But then, I didn’t leave my room.

One week. One week.

And Then The Weekend Happened

AGAIN!

What the fuck is wrong with these people!?!!

I’m not kidding. It would be amusing if it weren’t so fucking disturbing! I’m not kidding! THEY FRIGHTEN ME.

What kind of sick people are so married to punishing a woman that they elect to spend their honeymooning time sleeping under the same roof with his ex-girlfriend?

And the boy! He literally hid from me when they were outside wasted. We startled each other in passing, and a sweet, traumatized 10-year old jumped and hid from the scary woman mommy hates! I went in my room and started bawling. What do I do?

I can’t do this. I might be able to forget him over time, but … Come on, who am I kidding? I’m complicit in the trauma of a young person and I’m sick about it.

Jax and Carrie got drunk and trashed the kitchen. I will never believe that spaghetti was unintentional. Biggest impact for mess. They used my dishes, which I had to clean to make breakfast the next morning. I woke an angry, hungover Jax, who growled a demand to stop slamming the fucking cupboards, waking the boy who’d slept on a couch mere feet outside the scary woman’s door.

“One of my cupboards closes hard. You know that.” I answered calmly. “I’m not trying to bother you.” The boy ran through the kitchen into the bedroom with mom.

When I got home from rehearsal, I resumed packing and realized the last box I’d stacked the night before was gone. I’d wondered what they were doing in the wee hours snickering outside my bedroom. I almost opened the door to find out, but I didn’t want a confrontation. I know what they’re capable of sober!

And all the while, the boy was asleep on the couch. I don’t want to scare him anymore!

They’d gone away soon enough, laughing and howling outside in a wild thunderstorm. I honestly think I know the moment they lifted that stupid box.

I’m organized. (Plus, I know what I’m up against.) I have every box numbered according to room, and I know exactly what’s in each. Furthermore, I know where each box is in the house. I have to know. In addition, most everything is in bankers boxes, for neat stacking. (Except for these people, this has been my best move EVER.) (Like, I love it.) (I call this high Organasm, and my friends tell me to give my company that name and make money getting unnatural thrills off of organizing people’s chaotic spaces.)

I had placed a light box on the tippy-top of a pile that reaches over my head, behind a chair that divides the shared living space into 2 separate areas, which has also served to neatly divide us. Almost.

They took it. I heard them taking it. They deny it. I called the cops just to document it, but I had been lulled into a false sense of security with their absence during the work week and thrown off by their party, and failed to take pictures before I left for rehearsal. I don’t suppose it would have mattered then. They took it Friday night. Congratulations, you got me. Without evidence of it being there before they left, and gone afterwards, I had no proof that they’re now actually breaking the law.

The “fun” had begun elsewhere within walking distance. They left sober, I assumed for dinner. The neighbor girlfriend’s? The fair? Whatever. The car was still in the driveway, but they were out. Great.

But when they got home near midnight – tanked, 10 yr-old in tow – and started making dinner, I realized they’d just been out partying. For the next several hours, they left me the de facto babysitter of a sleeping child. I have no obligation to this boy, but obviously if he’d been injured in any way, they were too blotto to even be aware of him, let alone able to care for him.

But I’m so irrational, they have to be on property to “protect” it.

Under any other circumstance, box theft might be a harmless prank, but nothing about these people is harmless. THEY MEAN ME HARM, and they mean for me to know it.

God, I want out.

Jax was making merry the next morning about their exploits of the night before. “Did we eat spaghetti last night?!” har har.

“Oh, yes! Darling! Don’t you remember?” haha! *hair toss

Later in the day, I went to feed his cat and noticed something. There was spaghetti sauce all over the bed. They might deny they took that box and threw it outside somewhere in the rain. They don’t fucking remember! That’s how drunk they get in the company of an innocent child that deserves at least one coherent guardian.

Well, he had me. Poor kid.

Just 2 more weeks.

Also, I’m hoping against hope to catch Jax in another bluff. He tried to blame me for having to cancel his trip to Europe. God, I hope he got on that plane today.

I hope that boy is safe, loved, and happy after this unnecessary, protracted battle ends. I know he loves baseball. He told me all about the Dodgers. I’ve seen Jax toss ball with him. He has a cat named Sparkles, 10 years old, like he is. I know his mother wants him to have music lessons, because I almost loaned him my piano. I just send my love and energy to a good, calm, joyful family for him.

I don’t know this boy. After 2 weeks, I won’t think of him much. But I’ll never forget the look in his eyes when faced unexpectedly with a woman who frightens him that he was alone with, and hid from.

I know, too, that he’s seen more pain and trauma in his young life than any adult should have to bear, much less an earnest, smart, curious child. I hope I’m part of the last of such sorrow for him. My heart hurts.

I was 10 when my mom got remarried, too. I’d never known a father before then, and that period of my life is burned on my brain. I’d just been molested, and my new step-father moved us to a new neighborhood and stopped all that. (I realize now that I stopped it, for my sister, too. I told. Still, they echo, “Shut up, Christie. Shut up.”) And, unfortunately, abuse that had been set in motion long before my shiny new stepdad entered the scene never ended, but I remember that time and age like it was yesterday.

I’m so sorry to be mixed up in this. Wrong is wrong. Wrong is worse when it hurts a kid.

And, no, I won’t shut up about it. I’m fed up with this. I’m saying so. I will always so.

THIS IS WRONG.

*deeeep breath*

Two weeks. Hang on, Christie. Breathe, pack, rehearse. Two weeks.

Red Flags in the Rear View

I “processed” but didn’t publish Hard Day when I wrote it, but after events of the previous weekend, my first impression of Jax’s wife is relevant now. I was unimpressed with machinations meant to tell me me who’s “got him now.” (Honey, this ex don’t care.) It wasn’t easy, but have at it. I honestly wished them well. I felt empathy and compassion for her, and I loved Jax once. I wanted him to be happy with a nice girl.

My co-worker had warned me to be mentally prepared: This new girl might want me out of the way sooner than Jax promised.

“Oh, he wouldn’t do that.” I answered.

I did pause, though, considered it, and thanked her. Sadly, my co-worker was right.

Jax is the author of his own behavior, but, boy, did I get a taste of his wife! I know exactly who’s fueling this push out the door. That woman scares me! Disingenuous, manipulative, gratuitous. I don’t care, so far as she doesn’t affect my life after Oct. 1, but she has affected me greatly, now.

Those people terrorized me. Carrie is just getting what she wants how she always has. I don’t care after I’m no longer in the way of what she wants. That doesn’t mean she didn’t scare me, scar me, even, but I don’t care… soon.

As for Jax, I’m surprised at the depth of his cruelty. There’s a place in him that feels like he has rights he hasn’t. I’m really trying not posit myself above him. I got dirty in that relationship, and I’ve learned enough to know, “There but for the grace of god go I.”

We are each capable of anything. All of it. There but for the grace of god…

However, I am seeing the red flags in his history. They seemed innocuous. They belonged to youth and arrogance, and Lord knows I’m about the most egotistical person I’ve met. It’s one of my primary life works, to balance the pull of superior/inferiority of an unhealthy ego. Certainly, too, my youth is nothing but “Error, error.” That’s youth!

But in the part of our relationship where we regaled one another with the adventures and follies of coming up in the world, there’s one story, in particular, that didn’t sit right with me. (There’s another that involves company theft that goes beyond the crimes we all commit of stealing time or office supplies, but I chalked it up to getting caught up in young, group foolishness and self-importance. Now it serves to remind me to be impeccable with my character and not feel “owed,” ever. You know how we all become a bit complacent and annoyed on the job. I can get a little more entitled than that.)

Jax didn’t like his friend’s girlfriend. One day like any other, the group was hanging out, and she was reading. Jax asked about her book. After she talked about it a bit, he asked to look at it and she told him to be careful with it. (I should have paid close attention to what he did, because I would ask that. She was probably a Taurus.)

And because she gave him orders, he took the book and ripped it in half.

I took issue at the time, and more than once in our ugly departure shamed him for it, but I should have listened then to what he was telling me. He bragged again in Florida when we were in line somewhere with his brother, who also found it unsettling and said so. Never once did Jax express chagrin. With me, he defended it. With his brother, he allowed the difference of opinion.

And what was his defense? I hadn’t heard the way she talked to him, he said. It wasn’t because the book was brand new, or even important. It was just to tell him what’s what, bossing him around, because she was in charge of everyone and everything.

You don’t get to impose intention on her boundaries. It mattered to her.

Nope, he argued. She was a bitch.

Even if she was brat about it, it was her property!

How dare she assert herself? was the attitude. Woman, know your place.
And it was his right to put her there.

Christie! It was always there!

In fact! Our first fight! Like me, Jax has a very powerful voice, and we both yell. I’m comfortable with that, honestly. I don’t want it. I want to learn together how to disagree better than that, but I hate it when I’m the yeller and my partner is just beaten down by my volume and veracity. Jax held his own. I needed that.

We did improve. We found ways to get heated, with raised voices but not yelling, necessarily, by our standards. There was progress in our relationship that made me feel like this was a partner who could not be bullied by me, but was amenable to taking responsibility – he did sometimes, when I pointed out misapplied blame – and strong enough to make me accountable when necessary. We were good for awhile.

Our first fight, however, was a shock to each of us, I think. Neither of us had met someone who could win just by being loudest. He matched energy, and fed it, too. We went fast from pissed to shocked to rage to fury.

Finally, his screaming shocked me silent, and I paused. “Whoa, Jax!” He continued. So did I. “Jax! Stop! Jax! Let’s reset! JAX!”

I really thought we could. I had never been able to settle myself in that headspace. If I could, so could he. WE COULD. He didn’t stop screaming and finally out-shouted me, a feeling I know perfectly. He’s the first to out-yell me! And now that he had, he was getting it said. I finally screamed at the top of my lungs, “STOP YELLING AT ME!”

His response? “You made me.”

“I’m not responsible for you!” I screamed. “I’m yelling because I’m yelling! I can’t make you yell! Fuck you!” I stormed off and slammed my bedroom the door.

(Blerg. “Fuck off” is NOT OKAY. I also called him an asshole all the time. I did try. On better days, I just called him a jerk. Sometimes I didn’t do any of my old behaviors! But I hate that I still haven’t figured out how to disagree with a boyfriend without disrespecting him. No, it’s the fights. It’s when I’m triggered. There’s something more I can apply there to HALT. Name-calling is a step up the ladder to abuse! It’s called dehumanizing, and I do not want to participate! Blerg.)

That day, I called my best friend in a panic, “Oh my god, is he misogynist? Does he really think I made him do it? That’s what abusers say! Is he just a child? That’s bad enough! I am not responsible for you!!!” I was alarmed and ready to call it off.

I didn’t and still don’t think that’s what he meant, and he did later acknowledge that it wasn’t up to me how he behaves. I still believe him. We were speaking in anger. And we all blame. It’s what we do. God knows I do! Impassioned, we are all the child. Patterns and beliefs come up that aren’t true. We own our mistakes, move on, and work together.

I saw that in him, the working together. It is in him. Not with me, but he’s not one-dimensional. After this weekend, though, wow. I’m more humbled and alarmed the more reflection I give it. Especially now that the threat to my belongings and babies is lifted, and the couple is back to their normal not-coming-around. I can “relax,” and the underbelly is surfacing of a 5-day terror campaign that worked.

She deserved it.

Jax was privy to the pain of the trauma with my sister’s husband 6 years ago, and before that with my family, from childhood to this very moment. I talked about it from the beginning of our intimate relationship, when fears and sorrows and confessions come out. He was there when I went through the heartbreak of “losing” my father and brother, who echoed the sentiment, She deserved it.

He held me when I cried. He knew I was suicidal. I did go to the ER for 2 crisis visits.

Right now, it feels like he didn’t comfort me because he cared, but because he was stuck in a situation where he risked a girl getting sick and she did. I imagine the whole time he wished he could go to Carrie, but she was with her ex-boyfriend. I thought I had a friend who cared that our choice was so painfully costly for me, but now he just feels like a guy who was trapped and long gone in his heart. Now I wonder if he was resentful of me already. He was partly responsible, so… “Guess I’ll suffer the bitch.” ?

What he did this weekend was worst thing anyone’s ever done to me. I’ve been back on my meds for a month now. I’m still depressed, but I have been experiencing pleasure and progress on set and at work. I’m functioning and moving forward toward optimum.

That was all derailed last weekend. I was panicked. I thought I might have to check myself in. I avoided it all summer, no matter how overwhelming the pain became, but I was ready to quit the show. I felt I could never catch up, and the fear and guilt of making myself available to a show that I cannot emotionally or physically honor right now swallowed me up. But quitting meant quitting. And my cats! Don’t get me started.

I was scared.

And that’s not looking underneath! How does one even begin? My whole life has been a sham, a joke. I’ve been so blind, careless, STUPID. I’m too old to change this. I give up! I was curled in a ball in my closet, scream crying. My cats were so scared. I couldn’t handle their panicked faces and efforts to climb up and comfort me, so I hid in the closet and shut the door. I could see their little feet pacing, and it made me cry harder. Sometimes I apologized through the wailing, and I could hear their desperate mews.

And on it went. I was in danger this weekend. I felt brutalized.

He knew. He knew what his behavior could do to to me. He’s seen it. He’s held me, contained me, comforted me, and the whole time he just wanted to get away.

Fair enough. This shit ain’t easy. But he endangered me this weekend, with malice and purpose. And she deserved it.

BLUFF!

He texted before my alarm went off. Naturally, I was jumpy all night and woke to every unusual sound. When I heard the ping, I went faint in my bed. I’m still shaking.

“Your cats will be fine. When will you be out?”

I was prepped for attack and misunderstood. “No. You have no grounds to remove me. The eviction remains unlawful.” Then, “Ah, misread that. Jax,” I continued. “You know when I’ll be out.”

“Just stop. When will you be out?”

“WE’ve said it a million times.” I’d be damned if I’d play into his fantasy that I’m holding some arbitrary date over their head when I have no option to leave before Oct. 1. We’ve discussed this so many times, initially in an effort to best meet both of our needs.

This was planned a month-and-a-half in advance, and he chose the date. I wasn’t being arbitrarily obstinate. I consider these conversations evidence now, and an answer might imply that I’m manipulating the situation somehow. I’m not willing to risk Lost In Translation in a court setting. He knows my move out date. He chose it, and it’s been confirmed innumerable times via text.

I’m not playing into ridiculous behavior, both as a matter of principle and to protect myself. I won’t risk inadvertently supporting their story. It’s a lie.

“I’m probably canceling my Europe trip,” he continued, “largely thx to you being unreasonable and unpredictable,” adding, “So thx.”

“You gave me the date to begin with. You are the unreasonable ones. You are the author of your own behavior. I’m not responsible for anything you’ve done this weekend or for the rest of my tenancy.” “And your trip has nothing to do with me, but thank you for thinking so highly of my sway and influence.” (Come on, I couldn’t help it.)

“I can’t even have my family over for dinner without you making theatrics.”

“That’s not what you did. You terrorized me and ruined your own night.” (And they hadn’t stopped by for dinner. He left to get the groceries only after they didn’t get what they wanted from the police, and decided to torture me the whole night by staying.) “Take responsibility for yourself. For all my fuck ups, I always did.”

“Anyhow, no reason to discuss with you anymore other than to say give us our space on the rare occasion we stop by.” HAHAHAHA! Stop when you’re beat, more like. BLUFF.

I’ve never done different! I begged – literally cried, screamed, and begged for space from them. The only alteration to this has been their egregious behavior.

I had been rapid-writing and didn’t even read that until after the volley was finished. I continued with the thread above. “You know damn well an illness is not theatrics. You know who I am and you know exactly what you did.”

I HAVE NEVER MISREPRESENTED MYSELF AND I ALWAYS TAKE RESPONSIBILITY, even when I hate myself utterly for having to, repeatedly.

He’s willing to ruin his own joy to cling to their ridiculous narrative that I’m responsible for the weekend’s shameful events. I did everything I could to avoid it. I feel no guilt or ownership. I also feel absolutely no care or compassion for either of them, and no need to anymore. I don’t feel anything much more than shock and pity. You know how that’s thrown around derisively. “I feel sorry for…” whomever. I really do.

For god’s sake, take a trip! Nothing has changed but you. Take a load off and breathe.

I blocked him then, seeing that I would soon be unable to remain, in fact, reasonable in an emotional situation that has scared the holy fucking shit out of me. I survived it.

Oh my god. I can hardly stand today. It is ALL spent, the whole reserve. I’m tapped.

Fight-or-flight is still right under the surface. Tears, too. Passion and hatred have to hover close beneath, as well, but I just don’t feel the ugly burden of that dark prison right now. Maybe I will after the adrenaline fades, or when I safely land in my new home. I don’t know. This is brand new for me. Usually, it’s all I feel, immediately, to the exclusion of all else. It takes a looong time to process the protections of rage and hate before I can go, in Truth, and heal the wound underneath. Right now, I feel FREE. Almost.

What a gross man. He found a wife to suit him perfectly. I can’t begrudge a good fit.
And I don’t care about it.

Text of Desperation

My Last Hope:

“Before you act on this unlawful self-help remedy, please consider very carefully that we could be rid of each other for good in 2 1/2 wks. If you choose instead to take my belongings to the dump, displace my cats, and/or lock me out, know that that decision will propel us into a costly, protracted battle for… months? Years? I don’t know. Be reasonable. Be wise. Let me go. Above all, PLEASE don’t cast my babies out. If you choose to break the law in spite of the disastrous consequences that will invite, just text me to pick up the girls, please! After this weekend, you’re a stranger to me and I don’t know what you’re capable of. I have to imagine the worst case scenario possible and suppose you’ll do it. Please don’t hurt Penny and Cricket. They’re all I have. I’ve been good to Ollie, loved him with my whole self. Do the right thing, even if you choose wrong tomorrow. It didn’t have to come to this. The cops told you exactly what a legal eviction would take, and I’ll be gone before you could even see a judge for that signature. Which you wouldn’t get. You ARE wrong in this instance, Jax. Stop.”

All I have left beyond that is prayer. I can’t skip work, and I have about an hour at home before I leave for rehearsal. I’m scared, but calm somehow. For now. Who knows what tomorrow’s nerves will look like? Oh, god. It’s going to be a long day.

This is the hardest thing I’ve been through as an adult. It’s hard to say that, but it’s been constant and unremitting for 2 solid months – a grief, panic, anger, and heartache combo like no other – and building to the most ludicrous, horrifying, painful frightening weekend and subsequent 3 days, ever. This is ridiculous, but not dismissable. If only it could be so easy. I’m terrified.

I hold a spot of hope in my heart that they were bluffing, or that the intervening days have given them the chance to review their options, their odds – since doubtless they actually think they can prove their ridiculous claims – and realize the risk they run of keeping me glued to them for the foreseeable future. “There were 3 of us in this marriage” won’t belong to Princess Diana alone if they don’t stop their pursuit. They’re wrong. They’ll lose. And it will take forever. Bless your beautiful union – Darlings –  and shed the ex-girlfriend at the start. Your chances aren’t good, just based on the haste of it all, but add the stress of what we’ll go through together, and it’ll ruin you.

I won’t. Our legal entanglement will. And I won’t care.

Seriously. Don’t be this stupid! Are you really this stupid?!! Just leave me alone, you assholes. Fuck my ex-boyfriend. I’m not even sorry that his hateful wife will eat his heart out someday. He earned it. He deserves it. He chose her. Just leave me out of it.

And someday soon, I won’t need those thoughts anymore. It will all be gone. He really did me a favor, if I can just get through tomorrow first, and the coming weeks next.

Hang on, Christie. You’ll know by days’ end tomorrow.

****

Oh my god! I was home for 2 1/2 hours before I found this.
ripped

I printed it Thursday, when Jax first threatened moving up my move-out date before the end of our verbal agreement. (The subsequent text conversation made it a written agreement.) (Which isn’t even required for evidence. Verbal counts.) I didn’t put it on his desk for days, hoping he’d come to his senses or calm down. It was so out of character for him, I kept saying. Of course, I see, instead, that it’s who he is now.

It’s been sitting there ignored since then. I highlighted the info cops reiterated over the weekend before I left for work yesterday, and it remained, as ever, untouched, until today. Is it an indication of the path they’ve already chosen, regardless of what I say? Is this happening? Am I losing everything tomorrow?

Oddly enough, scared as I am, I laughed out loud. And they call me ridiculous. WOW.
to the landlord
to law enforcement