Vegas

Here’s a happy life update: I’m moving to Las Vegas. My last day in New Jersey will be July 12th.

Jersey was never my dream. In fact, living in this state is one of the many things I can attribute to privileging the needs of others over my own. Throughout college, I dated a man originally from India who was working on his PhD. After five years together, we got married – but for different reasons. At the time, I had wanted to start a life with someone, and felt marriage was a requirement as part of that. My husband never wanted to marry, but his job search would go more smoothly with a spousal visa. In fact, he was offered a position with Montclair State, contingent on the university not having to fund a work visa.

We were not aligned, and still I went ahead with a paltry ceremony at the officiant’s home. We moved from Philadelphia to New Jersey. While I welcomed a change of pace (we lived in a very rundown part of the city), residing in the New Jersey suburbs without a car was difficult. Finding employment wasn’t easy, either. Degree and all, I was working as an apprentice dog trainer at a retail pet store. Whether it was ninety degrees or freezing cold, I’d walk two miles to my place of employment, and then at 10pm, walk two miles home.

I wasn’t happy. I was young and didn’t know how to work through the feelings I had about my post-college life. While my husband was able to turn his intentions into reality after our time at Temple, he wasn’t especially sympathetic to how our circumstances left little space for me to self-actualize. But I also had no clue what I wanted, outside of a stable relationship.

We didn’t last. And I was stuck in New Jersey. I didn’t help myself when I entered a relationship with Scott, the abusive sex addict I lived with for over three years. (Because while I had no clue what I wanted, the one goal I had in my life was a stable relationship – something to fill the hole left by my estranged family.) Meanwhile, my ex-husband has since moved to New York. No ill will towards him, but it’s funny that he got to end up in a city, and I got stuck in this state.

Life has since been a lot of ups and downs. New Jersey hasn’t been all that kind to me; anyone that reads my blog understands what I mean. It hasn’t all been for nothing, though. While I’m never going to be that person who offers platitudes such as, “everything happens for a reason,” my experiences have proven my resilience. I’m alive, and I’m here, and I like the person I am for the first time in my life because holy fuck, I’m really fucking strong.

I used to feel that being a survivor was a negative. What’s the point of trying to exist in this often shitty world with a massive amount of baggage playing interference? After I left Scott, my life didn’t stop being a rollercoaster, offering proof that it wasn’t enough to simply leave an abuser. That didn’t fix my life. And some of the relationships I formed since, however brief, hurt me more in some ways than he ever did: I couldn’t understand why people would play me, or be unkind, when I was so upfront about my past with abuse and bulimia and overcoming living out of my car and so many other crazy things. All of this after enduring a childhood with a schizophrenic and seriously abusive father. I disclosed this information (perhaps too) freely – why add to my pain?

More than ever, I understand that I’m overly sympathetic to people, especially men, who share the same experiences that I do. They’ve been abused as children, dated cheaters, deal with abandonment issues, externalize their fears of not being good enough in destructive ways. The people I’ve dated that I care about most (because I am crazy enough to still want the best for them) and will always remember are also the ones who hurt me in extremely callous ways (see: Javier), largely because they have something in common with me that most people don’t: they know what it is to feel broken. Unfortunately, they took that out on me.

Javier would often tell me he’s “just this way.” My former rock climbing friend that I genuinely loved echoed similar sentiments. Both broke my heart. There was a time when I thought that of myself, that I am this way and people can take it or leave it – but if I had kept that mindset, I’d still be puking in toilets.

It’s funny that seeking a stable relationship was always the first item on my life checklist, but that it’s going to be the last thing I figure out. Everything else in my life has come together beautifully. I’m no longer a retail dog trainer and am relocating because my well known employer asked me to take a huge opportunity in Las Vegas. My struggle with depression and bulimia is finally coming to a close, it feels like. And I know myself. I know what I like and what I want. I am not the person I was when I was with Scott, living my life around his needs. I’m not the girl who broke down in public at the rock gym when thinking about how my climbing friend would never love me, how I had no idea who I was outside of my pursuit of someone that cared about me as much I cared for them.

I’m the woman who survived. The person that will not allow pain to be a reason to hurt others. I’ve had my ups and downs, and dealt with experiences that would tank anyone. But I made it through it all. It’s a testament to my intelligence, my will, and my innate resilience.

This is the right time for me to move in so many ways. I can start fresh while mentally positioned to make the most of it. For the first time in my life, I will be moving as part of advancing within my career. Not because of a man. I’m successful. Despite everything I’ve gone through, all those times I thought I would not get back up again – I’ve won.

Happy

As personal as my writing on this blog tends to be, I typically maintain a creative distance between myself and whatever morose subject I’m covering. This is not a diary (for the most part), but rather an expression of thoughts and connections branching from my personal experiences. Much of the content here is, well, negative: Girl With a Tale has been a way for me to navigate painful emotions and cope with traumatic events.

Not my original intention, of course. At first, I wanted to simply host the scraps I’d normally delete somewhere so I could go back to them at my leisure. With the blog, I didn’t need to worry about losing ideas to computers I had to leave behind or backing up musings that had potential to grow. My intentions led to achieving my writing goals. Ideas started here gained momentum and shape elsewhere, becoming poems and prose that I shopped around, including a short story on having my heart broken and an abortion in the same month. In all the despair I host here, I’ve created things, sad as some of them are, that I hope ultimately resonate with others.

I want to change gears with my writing, at least eventually. My tale isn’t grief. At least, that’s not the entire story. Life is not pain and suffering; as I wrote back in March, to live, you often need to let go. So here’s a start in creating something different in this space: I will to put my happiness in plain view, since I’ve often failed to explore my joy and progress.

The week I turned 30, I found out news regarding my job that I still can’t share, but there’s a huge opportunity potentially coming my way that will change my life. I also saw Javier, my ex, as we crossed paths at Exchange Place that same day. It was fitting to see the man that broke my heart and cheated on me within hours of finding out the good news. Javier, who ceased to respond to any of my messages begging for clarity or answers, looked the same as he always did – beard and sunglasses masking the width of his large face, a brown trucker hat, the kind with mesh sides, covering his thinning black hair, brown and green clothing hiding a paunch while simultaneously putting in plain view his inability to disconnect himself from the “military man” identity he held onto post-discharge.

He was someone I had decided to attribute my previous successes to: I regained control of many coping mechanisms I abused while we were dating, and made significant progress both with my career and fitness. But he wasn’t there for me, as supportive as I had thought he was. Yeah, I could text him about hitting a new PR at the gym, but I saw him once a week, and very rarely on the weekends. Looking back, I realize how silly I was to think I was doing well specifically because of a man who treated me like I was last on his list of priorities. Work, family, friends, the doctor that lives in Neptune (impressive find, as he doesn’t have a car), the girls in Brooklyn he crashes with instead of going home, and then finally Amber, the girlfriend. Or a girlfriend. I honestly don’t know. Because once confronted, he refused to say.

Seeing him left me with a variety of feelings to sort through. I primarily felt empowered, though, since I stood my ground as he walked past me, smiling widely and waving. He offered an awkward pause as he decided upon which action to take, until finally weakly waving in return. The moment didn’t send me into a negative spiral. Instead, I smiled on my way home to Harrison, probably looking like an idiot to others on the PATH when I audibly laughed to myself in joy. I’m strong, I thought. And for once, not just physically.

Later that week, on my birthday, he texted me. “You probably still hate my guts but I wanted to wish you a happy birthday regardless,” Javier wrote.

I responded, “I don’t hate you. Thank you.”

A conversation began from this, where he suggested we meet up so I could get the closure I had wanted months ago. Initially I agreed, but the day after, I wrote back to him letting him know that I had made peace with the fact that I never received the answers I wanted. That I didn’t think I’d get anything out of seeing him one last time except for an unnecessary helping of grief.

“I know that it’s hard to be a decent person when you’ve been through a lot in your life,” I wrote. “And you have. I get you, and that’s probably the reason I can never hate you. I loved you and I still care about you, but unless you wanted to make a real attempt to be friends (which means being honest and also treating me like one) – don’t respond. This chapter is otherwise closed. Good luck in your life.”

He hasn’t responded. I wish things had ended at Exchange Place with me grinning all the way home, prideful and confident. The brief back and forth didn’t result in me coming undone, but it reminded me of how hard it is to set boundaries with others -and especially men. I agreed to meet him at a time and date of his choosing initially, instead of demanding convenience for myself. And it was hard to turn him down, as I desperately still want to see him.

I’m not manically happy to have told him I’ve made peace without him providing closure – it’s not like the triumph I felt when he had to respond to me at Exchange Place, giving me a briefly lived power over his emotional and physical response to me. But still, it’s a quiet joy. It’s progress. If I don’t want to repeat my mistakes, then it’s time to not allow men to use me as a means to an end – whatever that end is. Love is not one-sided sacrifice. And as trite as it is to say, love does start with me – specifically with respecting myself and my needs.

Javier had two months to tell me the truth or to give me the closure I wanted. Instead he spent that weekend with another woman, at his home that I was not allowed to see. (How absurd, I realize, to feel the way I do about someone that made me sit in a ShopRite parking lot by the apartment he shared with his mother – for forty minutes – instead of letting me inside.)

I owe him nothing, whereas I owe myself the world. I’ve already spent so much of my life being a victim. I was little better off than an abused dog, cowering and afraid and unable to enjoy the act of living. But going into thirty, I can finally say that I’m happy. Not because of a man. Not because of another person’s intervention. I’m happy because I worked for it.

Two years ago I was living out of my car, having given up everything to escape an abusive relationship that led me down the path of an eating disorder. A year after, I was unemployed while dealing with a rock bottom I had to some degree brought upon myself. Last spring, I seriously considered that I wouldn’t recover from how severely I had regressed in my ability to cope, resorting heavily to binging, purging, and drinking to deal with sexual assault and unwanted pregnancy. The gym became a distant thought, and despite the weight I gained, I figured exercise no longer mattered: as far as I was concerned, the brief period of my life where I felt empowered after leaving Scott was a mistake, and that this was real.

Since my 29th birthday, however, I’ve been promoted twice at a job I love. When I think of Scott criticizing me for working as a veterinary technician or for not making enough to be suitable for marriage, I get to have a good laugh, my career putting me on track to make significantly more than a teacher. The gym is again a place of relaxation, focus, and progress for me. (In fact, I just hit a one rep max for 165lbs on bench press, among other recent feats.) I drink socially without embarrassing myself or losing my keys, purse. Most impressively, my eating disorder is quiet. To say it’s “gone” would be perhaps too optimistic, but I haven’t binged or purged for months, and I’m not terrified to be flexible in how I eat. I let myself enjoy food the way I used to envy in others. I never imagined I’d get here, to be honest.

I made the decision to work on myself, which wasn’t natural to me, or the least bit easy. When Javier and I were dating, I told him that I know how to survive, but to actually live is beyond my ability. Without conflict, it’s difficult to know what to do with myself. He understood me. “It’s about who gets you the most,” he once said. And I still agree, which is why it will be hard to let go of the love I had for him. People who will hurt me always get me the most, because what we so often have in common is pain. Unfortunately, many don’t turn their lives around. They don’t stop hurting themselves or others. Their interest in survival means that they will never know what it is to live. And if I don’t want to be the girl that repeats the same dating patterns over and over again, the next thing to add onto my list of successes is, “I stopped falling in love with the suffering of men who don’t want to change.”

For now, though, I’ll enjoy my progress. I will focus on the good I made out of the difficulties I’ve experienced throughout my life. Every day that I live with pride in my accomplishments is a testament to my strength and resilience. “It’s about who gets you the most,” Javier said. Well, I realized if that person is me, that’s just fine.

Bowflex

He texts me, Update: I’m trying to figure out how to do sled pulls on the Bowflex. There’s so much wrong packed into this statement that I don’t know what to say to him, so I decide on silence instead.

Nothing obliterates my interest more quickly than men trying to relate to me through a common interest in the gym – mostly because it’s powerlifting that I’m actually focused on, versus being able to claim that I “hit the gym” however many times a week. I actively avoid the strange, ineffective bodybuilding routines that I see men performing; bad programming is just something I don’t tolerate or respect. To that end, I absolutely would not be caught dead on a Bowflex. (Although up until his text, I forgot those were even a thing. For the rest of the year, and perhaps for the rest of my life, I’m going to be perplexed by the fact that someone tried to woo me via their experience with equipment advertised on TV at 3am, following demonstrations of OxyClean and Nad’s.)

Also, no one can do sled drags on a Bowflex. That’s just a solid case of what the fuck.

He texts me a day later, Change of heart?

I say, I’m just really busy. I can’t really do a lot of back and forth texting. I’m sorry.

I block his number. I guess I’m one of those girls.

 

“I think I love you,” he says, rubbing his bristly, balding head against my arm.

For the past several hours, I’ve spent the night hearing about his job and his friends. When I mentioned that I like video games and played World of Warcraft in high school, he added very one sided conversations about his experiences as a gamer to the long list of topics he went on about. Things haven’t improved, and instead of engaging with anything I say in response, so far he’s just smiled dreamily at me before rolling into whatever subject next came to his mind.

The “I think I love you” statement catches me by surprise, though. We’re a few drinks deep into a long night, and if he’s already drunk, I’m embarrassed for him. We’re not exactly connecting and yet he seems to think there’s a vibe; I briefly wonder if I’ve been in his current position without realizing it on first dates. Before I can tell myself the thought isn’t worth my energy, he kisses my hand several times, sloppy and with sound, bringing my mind to a decision tree where the first fork is a choice between pulling away and letting him do his thing. I’m not here to make him feel bad, so I just deal with this overt public display of affection from a man I do not know all that well before interjecting with, “It’s getting late. The trains aren’t running as frequently past midnight. I should make a move.”

“I’ll walk you back to the PATH,” he says.

Oh, goodie.

We leave the small West Village bar and walk in a silence that is more uncomfortable for me than it is for him. I’m already thinking about how I’ll tell him tomorrow that I just wasn’t feeling it, or that it’s too much trouble for me to go into the city with my current routine. He, on the other hand, is humming, rubbing his thumb against the palm of my hand. He’s happy. Because of me, or because he thinks this is a very successful date.

When we reach the PATH, he leans in to kiss me. I reciprocate because it’s the easiest thing I can do at this stage. I don’t want to deal with his disappointment. I want to avoid a confrontation.

He’s attractive enough. Still, his self-importance leaves a bad taste in my mouth.

 

Alone on a Sunday, I find my thoughts drawn to the men I did love. I’m not unhappy to be relaxing by myself at home. I don’t miss them. Relationships, I’m coming to realize, are probably the worst thing to happen to me. It’s in this area that my self-esteem is worn thin, damaged by long history of abuse, and still recovering. (I wonder if my usual detachment to dating is only interrupted by the men who will break my heart because that’s my conditioning. Love is pain, sacrifice without gain.) I’m afraid that most people are too good for me. Give me a man without a car, who doesn’t know where he’s going in life, and I’m in love.

Perhaps I find silly reasons to write off successful people. Maybe I should give the man trying to impress me with the Bowflex a chance or see if Mr. Self Important is better at having a conversation after a couple more dates. On the other hand, maybe it’s time for me to be alone, to not use dating as a crutch. In some ways, I feel like all I’m doing is conducting a search for the next fuck that will make me miserable, but who I will nonetheless be devoted to as part of my pathological inability to form, or even want, healthy relationships.

Want

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I am tarred to sounds created between tongue and teeth – fixed mid-motion, waiting for your voice to break the silence. I’ve been here before. (Perhaps you’re not so special after all, given that I can say this is a pattern. In thinking you are the one, however, I can deny my fault in this.)

My thoughts are monologues from me to you: with time, I’ve come to understand that you and the men I wait for will not bring to life the fiction I imagine, the words I yearn to hear. I want you.

Cope

March begins with a broken heart. For a moment, I fear that this year will be the same as the last: my capacity for love will become a fire that turns my world to ash. But I’ve since learned that life is not grief or pain.

Life is how you cope with loss. To live, you let go.

Summer Boys

We made it a summer habit to walk along slick stone, to fumble across (often) or gracefully traverse (seldom) the cliffs that reached over the ocean’s edge. Some nights, I felt brave: I didn’t know how to swim and was afraid of heights. If I looked out and down towards the horizon, I would feel the nauseating tension that accompanied being near an identified risk, my nervous system calculating all undesirable outcomes with every near slip. So I did not look, or at least not often enough that I’d falter. And even then, my sight would only rest on where the sky and the ocean met so that I could see that my life, however meaningless, existed within a world as beautiful as it was dangerous.

I never knew if you could swim, and I guess I’ll never find out now. I didn’t know if you, like I, were afraid of heights. And looking back at that time, it’s almost certain I didn’t care about more than your presence beside me.  Mine, mine, mine. Young love is selfish, isn’t it?

Oh Baby, or: The First Half of 2018

I’m not sorry that I remember in words. Whether or not our past takes shape through language, these are facts –

One: I was raped in my apartment by a man with more hair on his back than on his balding head, who wore the Star of David around his neck. He reminded me of an Italian wise guy, the kind you see in movies that get fat on wine and veal. Two: For a long time, the only person I told about my night with a rapist was my fuck buddy, a pretentious and confusing shit I understood to be a legitimate friend, especially after he encouraged me to move in with one of his pals from film school. I wouldn’t say he left me since he was never really quite there to begin with, but I was still devastated to find him drawing away from me emotionally, less than a month after the rape. When it became clear that his actions were part of launching into a relationship (”I’m just not ready,” he told me, but he supposedly had feelings for me too) with a mutual friend six years our junior, instead of being irritated or angry, I was pathetic and desperate for us to still remain friends. I got no credit for remaining friendly with her, although I never understood being anything less than civil with another woman just because a man fucked you and then fucked you over. Three: I had a medical abortion that became an incomplete abortion that became vacuum aspiration and while I was reasonably certain my resilient little fetus was not the result of being raped, the alternative explanation was worse. I was alone by choice because I didn’t want to be alone by necessity, terrified he’d deny his role in fertilizing the parasite growing inside my stomach. Four: At the point I lost my job, I had already fast tracked myself to earn the title “alcoholic” and quite frankly didn’t care. I was dirty, desperate, dumb. Pregnant, because this was before the abortion, and somehow I found myself depressed that I lost any choice to keep a baby I didn’t want anyway due to my excessive drinking. This thing will come out looking like a fucking elf, I told myself at one point. I was probably drunk.

Bullies

My once friend passes her eyes along the bruised length of my neck, the discoloration left by his teeth extending under my jaw. Sarah Jane’s judgment brings a cold light to the typically unreadable expression she wears. At this point, my co-worker is finding any reason to be unhappy with me (she reminds me uncannily of my father, with her simmering rage over the most mundane things), but I’ve finally given her ammunition.

SJ will be fired in a few weeks, but I don’t yet know that. (I won’t, up until the hour she’s escorted from the office.) I have less to worry about than I realize, but the panic weighs on my stomach like a boulder. Limitless is the word I’d use to describe my embarrassment, but I didn’t ask for a man to bite me in so many visible places. I wish I could say that, explain how while I had consented to sex, I had not consented to wearing imprints of his teeth around my neck and across my shoulders for the days to come.

“I bet you were sick yesterday,” she says. Her words, more like a hiss than human speech, react to the cold November air: clouds form in front of her painted orange lips and drift off into nothingness. (And while the air so quickly forgets the shape of her words, I will remember for weeks, perhaps maybe months.) “Good thing you’re back.”

“I was just run down,” I say, meek as a mouse.

“It makes me uncomfortable to stand so close to you,” she says, apropos of nothing. She’s looking down on me – literally, as she’s got almost a foot on my own small stature – her fire engine red hair hanging past her face like two long drapes. There’s something that approaches malice in her eyes. Maybe I’m just reading into it; perhaps she’s not a bully, and I in fact deserve her quiet rage.

“It’s like I’m some giant,” she mumbles, turning heel before slithering back towards our office.

 

Such a private man, this distraction that’s wound tight as a garrote around my heart. He will tell stories to his friends in front of me, where I am not a character despite the memory belonging to us both. He will not take a picture with me, or create an association between us that is anything more than convenience for himself. But he will leave his mark in all the public places that I occupy alone. (I feel acute embarrassment, a humiliation that is severe but not as disastrously consuming as what will come later.) And still I throw myself at him, desperate for someone to love, accepting he may never care for me because I’m closer to thirty than I want to be but still incredibly and sadly so fucking unfamiliar with the concept of self-respect.

My whole life, survival has meant keeping others happy. If I bury my own wants and needs, I will not be kicked or abandoned. When I tell him I took the day off work because I couldn’t figure out how to cover up the marks he left behind, he just laughs – and I find myself where I often have in the past, afraid of my own anger, more terrified he’ll leave if I express my unhappiness than I am over his callous disregard.

I told you to stop. I told you not there. I told you and you continued anyway. But I swallow air instead.