July 17, 2022 Blog Post
July 17 — today would have been my 17th wedding anniversary. My dad is still dying and my boyfriend is drinking again. What more could a girl ask for?
Under my emotions I sit. Reflecting on what I have lost and I thought I’d get it out. The bullshit still haunts me, and my heart is so broken over my family my eyes are having trouble focusing when I drive my car. You know the car I couldn’t possibly afford to fix on the same income I was bringing in 17 years ago? Just like the Infiniti he gave me? Just like the punch in the face the last 3 yrs feel like. Can’t be denied that I stayed again. Which time does it resemble most? Doesn’t even matter anymore.
What does is the fact that I’m still here. I am still me. The me inside the reflection in the pond, the pictures indelible and undeniably etched inside my soul. Not a scourge anymore, but maybe like tattoos with indelible ink, you know the ones that you wish you never had — they’ve faded like the dancing Betty Boop or the foot flower just isn’t quite as bright.
People may not call me crazy anymore, but I sure can produce a snicker or a shock wave now and then from a loved one or a stranger — doesn’t seem to matter. Though my trauma still surprises me as it eludes me too at times — I’m still H E R. My story doesn’t trigger days of pain any longer — you know the kind that sabotages your future and erodes your bones? The kind of trauma that kills you, quite literally — slowly.
Not to be dramatic, but just to stay in the very moment I am in as I write — when you feel there is no way out? That no one could possibly help? The kind that brings you to the precipices of your life where even God doesn’t exist. Experts call that borderline personality, others call it bi polar or unipolar. I look at it through my own experiential lens. Unique just to me. The trauma. The drama. The sorts of ‘feels’ you fall into that rock you to the core. When you wake in another reality. Your own sci fi altered state. Winding you up in the sunbeam — and hooked to an IV. You’re all up in your head. And there’s no escape there. Not in that space and time anyway. I’m talking about S U I C I D E — or suicidal ideation.
Not many people know this about me, not many would believe me unless they “knew me then”. Rather unfortunately, I have woken in that state on several occasions. My own family are the only ones who know. Yet they are the only people on the planet that never call. Never write. Never facetime or ask anything about it. I come from a sturdy stock of Scandinavian denial. I’m not bitter, I’m better! Quite better actually.
I’ve come a long way from that little girl in the pink dress. I wouldn’t say I live inside my body yet. I am not my completed authentic self. Yet I know, I don’t live all up in those ‘feels’ any more. And have no one to thank for that but M E. Yes, I said it. God and Jesus didn’t save me — I saved me. Saved me from myself. My self loathing has been dialed down a lot. I’m not only still a daddy’s girl, but an over inflated former version of my insecure 14 year old self. At 51, I’ve just now come to the point of acceptance. Acceptance of the unforgivable things about me that no one knows — but me.
I am a modern day Virginia Woolf or maybe a frightened likeness of a healthier Emily Dickenson. Not really a writer, maybe a modern day blogger inside my head. The running dialogue of my parts. The IFS (Internal Family System Theory of thought) dialogue that runs around in my head most days — like a blog post just for myself. So I write. And it’s about damn time.
Like what you’ve read? Read me, read my stories! Respond on: Facebook — Twitter or Instagram Joy Blaylock (Brandon) msb.joyblaylock@gmail.com
