I got an email tonight (Read: Last night when I began this post and abandoned it at 3am) from the ex in the last post. It would appear that he continues (or has up to this point) to read my blog. And so we are left with the ever present issue of censorship. But here, tonight, I will not be made to feel small. I refuse to be a pawn, refuse to be played, manipulated. I refuse. So these are my truths. Read them or don't because they are excruciatingly real and raw and honest. They may be painful for you. But me? I am not ashamed, and I refuse, refuse to be told how to feel. I am who I am. I am what I am. I'm just me. Just me.
My name is Jessica. Those who know me well call me Jess. Growing up, my parents often called me Jessie. I answer to any number of things, but in reality I am Jess. That is the person at my core. So, I grew up. I grew up in a physically and verbally abusive household, raised by my mother, and with my older brother. I learned to fight/hide/steal. I developed odd coping mechanisms, including a need to count: my steps, syllables in a word, syllables in a conversation...until it took over my young life and I UNlearned them. My mother was in excruciating pain all the time from a bad back and after the surgeries became addicted to percocets and morphine, along with alcohol. These are not excuses. These are nothing really; these are HER truths. School was my escape from reality. But despite how well I did, it was never enough for me. I got a dog and became obsessed with nature. We would wander for hours; I would make up stories of an alternate life in which I was brave enough to leave, to fight. In which I could fix everything. A perfect, hard existence. And no one would notice my long absences. It was okay; I liked it best that way. I learned to become the mediator in my family. I could mellow physical/verbal disputes between my brother and mother. I learned to care and to nurture. I wanted to help. I wanted to FIX it. That was my mission. I never fully comprehended that it was impossible to fix...in fact that it was beyond impossible. My last year of high school, my mom was diagnosed with breast cancer. I took it really really hard until it finally dawned on me that I actually hated my mother for everything that had transpired. I had never in my life ever hated anyone...but I hated her. And so I went about getting closure for myself...forgiving her. And in time, I did. And, later that year I would leave a sick woman and head off to college. There, studying environmental science, I did extremely well (the ever perfectionist) and was made valedictorian. But I never felt good enough. 98% could have been 100%; I was a failure with anything less than perfect. This was a world of my own making. A world based on false perceptions. A hard, hard world. I would often make myself physically ill from the stress I was creating for myself. I travelled occasionally back and forth to visit a sick (dying) mother. I did not go often enough. Especially following the strokes. I was 18. I was far from home, and I was glad. I put up boundaries between my mom and I. Calls only once a week to check in. That was it, no more. Somehow I survived the stress of my own making.
And then college was done, and I was out in the wide world. I got myself a job. I worked hard, really hard. I worked harder than I ever had (and I'd been working since I was 8 years old). I didn't notice anything. I couldn't have then it was early days. But when the job ended I was in my first full blown manic episode. I packed up my car with All of my belongings, and in mid November I drove. I drove for days without end until I crashed on a slick highway in the freezing rain at 4am. I would end up there on the side of the road for hours with a broken jaw and a write off of a car. I did not hurt anyone else. There was no one else to hurt, for this I was grateful. I then booked a hotel room, spent the night packing all of my stuff to send on the bus and early the next morning sent my stuff on ahead, and bought myself a ticket. I would lie to my mother all the way to my fathers so that she did not worry. At my fathers I would proceed to nosedive into full on depression. I would stop eating, stop sleeping entirely. I would refuse to talk about it and would be tactful with words like "fine" and "okay" and "good". I would lose 30 pounds and no one would notice because I had been so successful at becoming invisible. I would become obsessed with the thought of drowning myself in the lake on a cold January morning. I would wait until the last possible moment to mention anything to my father, and then I would accompany him to the doctors where I would be put on medication. When the medication severely increased the suicidal thoughts I would say nothing. I would instead, make up a plan, say my goodbyes, and begin to walk out the door. My friend would be on the doorstep. She would walk me through nature and then drive me to the hospital where I would be locked up for 2 months. When I was released I would be released manic. I would be succumbed by energy that I couldn't tame. I would convince my dad and step mom to get their nipple pierced and I would get my lip pierced. I would also get my ears pierced. I would long for a tattoo. I would in the long run return to Ontario, end up with not one, but two tattoos (one a completely manic thing), and two more piercings. I would buy a dog (Kodiak). I would (metaphorically) beat my head against the wall continually as I would cycle higher, then low, then higher. Rinse repeat, continue. I would take medication. I would stop taking medication. Rinse repeat continue. I would finish the job and end up in Ottawa. I would find an amazing job working overnights in a care facility. I would care too much. My heart would break in two there. At home, I would be sucked into the parenting role of the kids. I would choose to be the one to fix it (I learned young, you'll remember), whether it was kids, parents, or other. There was a task that needed doing and I did it. And then some. I allowed myself to be taken advantage of, and only after months and months would I finally see it for what it was. I would say goodbye to the kids, feel as though I was abandoning them, and have what was left of my heart break. And then I would leave.
Back in St. Catherines, I would take on my old job. It was familiar, I convinced myself, something I could handle. Only I couldn't. I did a terrible job. A horrible job. And I was sick through the whole thing. One day, when I was exhausted beyond belief and just...sick, I would sit down in front of an oncoming train. And then I would be hospitalized for 2 weeks. Enter: medication, exit hospital. I would somehow finish the job. And then, then I would pick up the man I had never met in real life, but had only talked to. I would ignore all of the warnings passed my way by mutual friends, by his former lovers. My mind would be a one track motion. Manic? Yes, definitely manic, but also, I loved him. Fifteen days, a cross Canada journey, and one arrest later, we would be married in the living room of a justice of the peace. I would convince my older brother to be one of, and acquire another witness, by threatening to just pay someone off the street. Then I would wave goodbye to my new husband and not see him for months. I would, in the interim carry his child, until I didn't. I would buy a puppy to replace the little one I'd lost. I would couch surf, then live in my car until I finally found an apartment to call home. I would watch a man die and almost acquire Hepatitis C. I would have stressor after stressor until I would invariably crash.
He would arrive again, altering our carefully laid out plans. I would then switch the plans yet again. We were doomed from the start. He was ill, I was ill. I tried in vain to hold together two broken halves, and the china around my fingertips only crumbled faster. I would be hospitalized for 4 months. I would leave him, a man with borderline personality disorder alone with nothing but 2 dogs for company, in a strange country, with no money, no job, no anything. And no access to healthcare. I would contribute to his downfall. He would be emotionally manipulative, cruel, and at times unkind. He would toy with me. He would abuse me. And he would have no clue at the time that he was doing so. It was a part of his illness. Not an excuse, only HIS truths. And I allowed it to happen. I woke every day and allowed it to happen, because? I loved him. And I wanted to fix us. And I wanted to believe. And I tried, oh how I tried. Until there was nothing. He'd gone home at the urging of MY doctors, and our plan of trying again once we were both well crumbled to dust before my very eyes. And that is when I stopped being abused. That is when I decided I had had enough, and I was through. And now? Now I will not allow it to happen again.
My name is Jess. I have scar tissue on the knuckles of both my pinky fingers from hitting things. The left is from a wall that I hit over and over again until I felt something pop while in a manic rage. The right is from a wall I hit while in hospital, followed by a tree later on. I have NEVER hit a person, or living thing, and I never ever will. My left leg is covered in scars that I self inflicted as a means to make the suicidal thoughts in my head give me a moments reprieve. I don't often swim in pools because I get tired of people staring, but I am not ashamed, and you can bet I'll be wearing shorts come summer. On my left wrist there is a tattoo done in white which says the word breathe. It neatly covers the scars left behind by a piece of shale that I used the very first time I ever cut myself, 4 years ago when I was first hospitalized for severe suicidal depression. I have learned so many ways in which to cope positively, and the negative ways, well they still rear their ugly heads occasionally, but I do my best to ignore them/cope in other ways. Sometimes I am not successful, but I have also learned to let this go as opposed to hanging onto the shame of it and making it worse. Until I was 20, I did not have a single piercing or a tattoo, and was adamant that I never would. I could never see myself in the body I am now, riddled with scars. Before I got sick I could never have fathomed myself now. I used to believe, despite everything, that the world was full of magic. I have a diagnosis of Bipolar I with rapid cycling. I am not my diagnosis. I am just me. Just me.
My name is Jess. I have 2 wonderful dogs. I adore nature: camping, hiking, swimming...trees, rocks, the ocean, lakes, rivers, waterfalls. I love kids, they amaze me. I love music, and am always listening to it/on the lookout for new stuff...in fact it is playing right now. I play the drums, currently learning new hand drum rhythms. I am lucky enough to own an authentic didgeridoo, but I have not yet mastered the circular breathing needed. I am still trying to teach myself the guitar. One day I am going to go hang gliding, and own a kayak. I get lonely sometimes, and I still long for a family, but I am willing to wait. I have friends and family that care about me. I live in an amazing, beautiful space perfect for exploring. When I close my eyes, in the middle of nowhere, and listen to the world, I can still see a glimmer of that magic.
My name is Jess. And these are my truths.
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