Background- A Mess of Words

Previous post apology.  Did I mention I fell into a vat of crazy five years ago?  I keep thinking that maybe that's the best explanation as to why I suddenly melted down into gooey, sensitive me. 

Here's the thing.  Five years ago, I met my husband- for the second time- during my end of college.  Three years ago, I got my first job in a building doing big-girl stuff that I got my big-girl degree for, with a big-girl salary and a big-girl benefit package, a big-girl apartment with gorgeous windows that faced the south and west and lit up my whole bedroom with sunlight every morning...I dealt with my fiancee's big-boy deployment to big-boy danger zone, I micromanaged teenagers, and I functioned on a little less than 4 hours sleep a night.  For two years.  In my second year at said big-girl job, a new boss came in.  And his job was to rip big-girl to teeny, tiny shreds.  And he did it overwhelmingly well.  The only victory I got out of sticking around was the ability to claim unemployment...because I was loudly informed that, if I quit, they'd make sure I didn't see a dime.  So I stuck it out and faced the abuse until, legally, it had to end- about a year ago.  The phone would ring off the hook- whether it was debt collectors looking for payments that I couldn't make any more or angry community members continuing their witch hunt. 

In any case, I still get nightmares about it.  I sense that those nightmares- and the flashbacks- may not go away until I get my next full-time job.  And I have to tell you, that is the most awful feeling in the world.  Today was a bad day for those flashbacks.  And nightmares.  I had two of each.  One while I was writing in this blog.  So now I feel compelled to explain it.  But I don't want to write about it- so I'll let one of my old saved files on my computer do it for me.  The excerpt reads as follows below.

About a month ago, I was seeing my bridal therapist...which is a story in and of itself, mainly because she was the second NON-crazy therapist I've ever talked to...but in the process of that, said therapist informed me that the path to happiness is paved with...well, telling your story before it eats you alive.  This was my reaction.
She tells me to write my story, to tell it out loud so everyone can see.  And I think to myself, why would anyone want to listen to a laundry list of situations where I've been victimized?  She tells me it's not about the victimization, but about the "gold nuggets within the shit".  That a lot of bad shit has happened, but there are little gold pieces in those piles of shit, and that those are what I need to dig out and polish- no matter how small.

I stayed when they wanted me to run.  When they egged me on to quit, I stayed.  I stayed because I wanted to collect unemployment, because I wanted to keep my apartment in the quiet rural town for as long as I could, because I needed my health insurance, and because I wouldn't be labeled a quitter.  I ran concerts, rehearsals, everything.  I doublechecked my paperwork, became hypervigilant, stayed up long, late hours loyally busting hump just to meet expectations.

It was out of my control- I probably knew it was too- and I did it anyway.  I was loyal to a fault.  I still am.  I still cheer for those students that make it through the program without me.  It isn't their fault that the town dropped a political nuclear bomb on me.  It isn't their fault that their parents ran me out of town, either.  It's not personal from them.  It's probably not even personal from staff, save for one.  They needed a place to put their aggression and they found it in me.  I'm sad for those students trapped in that political bombshell.  I'm sad for the program trapped in the same.  And I am still hurting from everything that happened.  But I was always loyal. 

I was always passionate.  I remained passionate to the day they showed me the door, walking out exclaiming, "You can't do this.  They have a spring concert.  You're choosing to hurt your students.  This isn't fair to them." 

I have an amazing sense of fairness.  If I'm wrong, I absolutely want to fix things- I tried very hard.  You can't fix issues that no one shows you, though.  And you can't fix the old "I just don't like you" bid either.  You can't change who you are.  I won't change who I am any more.  I may not know who I am really, but I do know that if I make a mistake, I make it loudly enough to encourage someone to show me where I went wrong. 

And I care.  A LOT.  About my mistakes.

But I'm done letting my mistakes define me.  To hell with perfection.  To hell with imperfection.  To hell with all of it.  I just am what I am.  You don't like it?  YOU can walk out that door from now on.  I've survived a teen pseudo-cult, a sexual assault, several narcissistic, self-serving therapists, 5 years of conservatory study in a sexist profession, a boss and job from hell, a major interstate move, two and a half decades of parents who will never be satisfied with my achievements, 2 international separations from the man I love, the demise of a nonprofit I put blood, sweat, and tears into, and an impressive amount of emotional abuse and manipulation from people I misguidedly placed my trust in.  A month from now, I'm getting married to a man who has stuck it out WITH me through 90% of those things I list up there.

I could care less if it's "happily ever after".  I'm completely fine with just "HAPPILY".

It turns into "ever after" once you realize that the first word is the only thing you need focus on.
Plus, take a look at that rap sheet.  If we can handle all that- we can handle being married.
And those of you that want to place doubt anyway- get lost. 


Yeah...that. 
So, for the record...PTSD isn't just for combat victims any more, I guess.

Today was a bad day.  Tomorrow will be a better one.  How do I know?
I don't.  At all, really.  But my husband just kissed my thigh, handed me the remote, and asked me if I wanted to lose myself in some music, or a cheesy movie. 


Sounds like "happily" to me.