My OperaSomething Has Got to Give
Monday, September 19, 2011 3:47:12 PM
Woke up laying on my stomach with my left arm beneath me - totally numb. The moment my eyes opened, I began to sob. Apparently the sobbing was loud enough to wake Lonnie up. He rolled over and asked me if I was okay. I told him that I was - another nightmare. "Do you want to talk about it?" he asked. "No, but thank you, Daddy" I replied.
I cannot take these nightmares and night terrors anymore. They happen far more than anyone realizes. Even more than Lonnie realizes. I've become pretty good at hiding them over the years. Nearly ten years of this stuff is beginning to take a major toll on me, though. I feel like I must vent some of it, or things will just continue to get worse and worse.
I'm sitting in the living room right now...in the recliner next to the fireplace. I've got my trusty tumbler of coffee next to me and the fireplace is on low. Thank God for gas fireplaces. Really. One flip of a switch and fire. Ahhhh. I'm wrapped in my quilt, which is made of squares of different types and colors or corduroy which have been sewn together to form one big, comfy quilt. I have my black PJ pants on and a white t-shirt that I got for free in the mail. Yet another one of my free finds thanks to the Internet.
I'm stalling. Talking about the topic of my nightmares is difficult for me. Especially in this type of forum where I know other people will be reading it. The thing is, though, I think I actually need other people to read it. There's this itching feeling deep inside of me that is pushing me to compose this blog entry. Not only will it help some people understand me and some of my quirks and ways of thinking a bit better, but most of all, it gives me the opportunity to vent some of this stuff that bogs me down to the point of night terrors.
Enough stalling...
On December 8th, it will be ten years since my late fiancé, Marc, decided to take his life. Not one day has gone by since that ill-fated day that I've not thought of him. Marc didn't just take his life quietly in another room or away from home. For whatever reason, he chose to do it right in front of me. [WARNING: Graphic details to come.] He laid down on our bed...his side, slid his beloved Smith & Wesson .357 Magnum into his mouth and pulled the trigger before I could say or do anything to stop him. It all happened so fast. It was somewhat premeditated. Why do I say this? He'd removed his tongue piercing and placed it on his desk which was located to the left of the bed. Not only that, but he took the time to grab the Pearlcorder and leave me a message in which he stated what a piece of shit I am (in greater detail) and also stated that what he'd done was my fault. I allegedly pushed him to take his own life. So, yeah - I guess you could say it was premeditated. Though the removal of his piercing and the recording took less than five minutes, in my mind, that constitutes premeditation.
Regardless of whether it was planned ahead of time or not, it happened. I was left standing there...looking at what used to be the man I was deeply in love with. I'd not wish that sight on my worst enemy. Not fun. The smell of gunpowder filled the air and my nostrils. To this day, I will be going about my daily business when I'm overcome with the strong odor of gun powder. When something this traumatic happens to a person, it sticks with them in some of the most odd and unexpected ways. Sometimes I will hear a car backfire or something fall from a shelf and immediately freeze in my tracks. While I know logically that it's a car or an item falling, my brain seems to think it's hearing that gunshot all over again. I can no longer watch the types of movies that I used to love to watch - mobster movies. Too many head shots...and even seeing a head shot on television can screw with my brain for days. I'm obsessive about keeping the carpet clean. Not only because I have OCD, but also because after Marc died, I was finding his teeth and brain matter in the carpet for many, many days. Now...nearly ten years later, if I see something on the carpet that is in any way tooth or brainy colored, my screwed up mind automatically believes it's a tooth or chunk of brain. In order to avoid this happening, I've become obsessive about keeping the carpet completely free of ANY debris. No crumbs, no fuzz, no nothin'.
I'm not even certain what my nightmare entailed a little while ago. Thank God. All I remember right now is waking up, scared shitless, and feeling like I needed to jump up and run. I finally got my bearings, heard Lonnie's voice, and was able to lay down and cry rather than jump up and flee.
The thing that upsets me most about all of this is the fact that I feel as though I'm still a slave to Marc. When he was alive, he was abusive to the point of being cruel. Actually, "cruel" is too friendly of a term to describe his behavior. I'd not treat a dog...I'd not treat ANYTHING or ANYONE the way he treated me. I was his possession, and he did with me what he pleased. I didn't dare stand up to him and let him know that I'd prefer he not do so. I tried that once. I was thrown against a closet door with his forearm against my throat. He pushed and pushed on my throat until I was literally a moment away from passing out. He finally let go...I fell to the floor and sobbed. He gave me a good kick (for crying, I suppose) and left the room. It took me two full weeks after that until I was able to eat solid food again. Two weeks of Ramen and soup. I cannot eat Ramen to this day. This is just one small example of daily life with Marc. I've noticed that when telling my story to the few people I've told, I tend to resort to this exact situation. I think it's because the majority of other situations are something that I consider to be too much for the average person to wrap their head around.
I understand how difficult it is to believe that a person with any intelligence at all would stay in a situation like the one I was in for years. Let me say this much: Prior to Marc, I was the one saying, "Why doesn't she just leave him?" "Can't she see what he's doing to her?" "I would NEVER allow a man to treat me in such a way!" The lesson to be learned? Until you have personally lived it, you simply cannot say how you would handle it. You have no idea how you'd react as you've not been through it. It's simple and seems to be logical to think these types of things...realistic? No. Not even close.
I actually did leave Marc one time. I was gone for about two months. I moved back to the town where my Mom lived and stayed with her. Even from 220 miles away, Marc controlled every move I made. One day he called me and said, "You're coming back home and you will be here within 24 hours. If you do not comply, not only will I kill you, but I will kill your kids, your Mom, and also your Dad." I did not and still do no doubt that he'd have done just that. Two hours after receiving that phone call, my car was loaded and I was on my way back to him. I'd called both of my parents to let them know I was going back. Both of them begged, pleaded, got angry - you name it. NOTHING they could have said or done would have stopped me from going back. Not only was I deeply in love with Marc (whether I should have been or not), but I was not about to let him murder my entire family due to my failure to return to him.
....
Here I am...ten years later. I'm in a very healthy and happy relationship with a man whom I adore. A decade is quite a long time. I would have thought it'd have been enough time to fully move on and no longer have to deal with these nightmares and daily feelings of guilt and sadness. I ask myself at least once a week, "What the Hell is wrong with you, Karen?" I still miss Marc. WHY?! Why would I possibly miss a person who did such a thing to me? Why would I miss a person who not only took his life, but did it in such a cold and heartless way? Being honest with you - I hate myself for it. I hate myself for holding onto him. I so badly want to get to a point where EVERY fiber of my being wants to let him go. I owe it to myself and I owe it to my current relationship with Lonnie and every other relationship in my life. Why can I not do it, though? The mere thought of letting him go all the way generates feelings of fear and panic within me. That doesn't even make sense. He left ME, damn it.
There's another aspect of this "story" that haunts me all the time. Marc was a huge Alice In Chains fan. He owned every CD they ever made and knew every word to every song. Not only that, but he'd sing along with the songs and his voice was eerily similar to Layne Staley's voice. I often said that hearing Marc sing was like having Layne sitting in the room with me. I always equated Marc with Layne Staley for some reason. I guess I possessed a bit more foresight than I realized at the time. A few months after Marc died, I was on my computer dinking around. I came across something that said, "Rest In Peace, Layne." I immediately flipped out. "It can't be the same Layne...gotta be someone else." I Googled it. Yep. Layne Staley died on April 5, 2002. Three days short of three months after Marc died. This was not like hearing of any other celebrity dying to me. No; it was much, much more. I felt as though I lost Marc all over again. I fell to the floor and cried inconsolably for what seemed like hours. Denial became my best friend. "Nope. It wasn't him. It's a hoax." "There is no way he's gone"...etc. As we all know, it was him.
To this day, I cannot hear ANY Alice In Chains song without hearing Marc singing it to me. I suppose an easy solution to this issue would be to refrain from listening to Alice In Chains. That simply will not ever happen.
Anyway...
All this time I thought I was doing pretty well. I thought I've been getting over everything pretty gracefully. Then a night like last night happens, and I'm suddenly reminded that I'm not even close to being healed. What the hell am I to do? Live like this for the rest of my life? Please, PLEASE tell me that's not my option. I've been to a plethora of Psychiatrists, Psychologists, medical doctors, and counselors. None have really helped. I don't want to be a 50 year old woman who is still suffering from night terrors and flashbacks. I understand that Post Traumatic Stress Disorder isn't something that you can just wish away, but there has to be some answer. There's got to be a way that I can put all of this where it belongs...in the past. Meh.
I'm going to wrap this up now. I know this isn't my usual happy-go-lucky type of post. I apologize if I've brought anyone down. This is my attempt to work through things. I've written in private journals before and they did NO good at all. I figured that perhaps going the opposite direction and writing more publicly about it might help. I hope so. I certainly don't want to wake up the way I woke up today...ever again.
I cannot take these nightmares and night terrors anymore. They happen far more than anyone realizes. Even more than Lonnie realizes. I've become pretty good at hiding them over the years. Nearly ten years of this stuff is beginning to take a major toll on me, though. I feel like I must vent some of it, or things will just continue to get worse and worse.
I'm sitting in the living room right now...in the recliner next to the fireplace. I've got my trusty tumbler of coffee next to me and the fireplace is on low. Thank God for gas fireplaces. Really. One flip of a switch and fire. Ahhhh. I'm wrapped in my quilt, which is made of squares of different types and colors or corduroy which have been sewn together to form one big, comfy quilt. I have my black PJ pants on and a white t-shirt that I got for free in the mail. Yet another one of my free finds thanks to the Internet.
I'm stalling. Talking about the topic of my nightmares is difficult for me. Especially in this type of forum where I know other people will be reading it. The thing is, though, I think I actually need other people to read it. There's this itching feeling deep inside of me that is pushing me to compose this blog entry. Not only will it help some people understand me and some of my quirks and ways of thinking a bit better, but most of all, it gives me the opportunity to vent some of this stuff that bogs me down to the point of night terrors.
Enough stalling...
On December 8th, it will be ten years since my late fiancé, Marc, decided to take his life. Not one day has gone by since that ill-fated day that I've not thought of him. Marc didn't just take his life quietly in another room or away from home. For whatever reason, he chose to do it right in front of me. [WARNING: Graphic details to come.] He laid down on our bed...his side, slid his beloved Smith & Wesson .357 Magnum into his mouth and pulled the trigger before I could say or do anything to stop him. It all happened so fast. It was somewhat premeditated. Why do I say this? He'd removed his tongue piercing and placed it on his desk which was located to the left of the bed. Not only that, but he took the time to grab the Pearlcorder and leave me a message in which he stated what a piece of shit I am (in greater detail) and also stated that what he'd done was my fault. I allegedly pushed him to take his own life. So, yeah - I guess you could say it was premeditated. Though the removal of his piercing and the recording took less than five minutes, in my mind, that constitutes premeditation.
Regardless of whether it was planned ahead of time or not, it happened. I was left standing there...looking at what used to be the man I was deeply in love with. I'd not wish that sight on my worst enemy. Not fun. The smell of gunpowder filled the air and my nostrils. To this day, I will be going about my daily business when I'm overcome with the strong odor of gun powder. When something this traumatic happens to a person, it sticks with them in some of the most odd and unexpected ways. Sometimes I will hear a car backfire or something fall from a shelf and immediately freeze in my tracks. While I know logically that it's a car or an item falling, my brain seems to think it's hearing that gunshot all over again. I can no longer watch the types of movies that I used to love to watch - mobster movies. Too many head shots...and even seeing a head shot on television can screw with my brain for days. I'm obsessive about keeping the carpet clean. Not only because I have OCD, but also because after Marc died, I was finding his teeth and brain matter in the carpet for many, many days. Now...nearly ten years later, if I see something on the carpet that is in any way tooth or brainy colored, my screwed up mind automatically believes it's a tooth or chunk of brain. In order to avoid this happening, I've become obsessive about keeping the carpet completely free of ANY debris. No crumbs, no fuzz, no nothin'.
I'm not even certain what my nightmare entailed a little while ago. Thank God. All I remember right now is waking up, scared shitless, and feeling like I needed to jump up and run. I finally got my bearings, heard Lonnie's voice, and was able to lay down and cry rather than jump up and flee.
The thing that upsets me most about all of this is the fact that I feel as though I'm still a slave to Marc. When he was alive, he was abusive to the point of being cruel. Actually, "cruel" is too friendly of a term to describe his behavior. I'd not treat a dog...I'd not treat ANYTHING or ANYONE the way he treated me. I was his possession, and he did with me what he pleased. I didn't dare stand up to him and let him know that I'd prefer he not do so. I tried that once. I was thrown against a closet door with his forearm against my throat. He pushed and pushed on my throat until I was literally a moment away from passing out. He finally let go...I fell to the floor and sobbed. He gave me a good kick (for crying, I suppose) and left the room. It took me two full weeks after that until I was able to eat solid food again. Two weeks of Ramen and soup. I cannot eat Ramen to this day. This is just one small example of daily life with Marc. I've noticed that when telling my story to the few people I've told, I tend to resort to this exact situation. I think it's because the majority of other situations are something that I consider to be too much for the average person to wrap their head around.
I understand how difficult it is to believe that a person with any intelligence at all would stay in a situation like the one I was in for years. Let me say this much: Prior to Marc, I was the one saying, "Why doesn't she just leave him?" "Can't she see what he's doing to her?" "I would NEVER allow a man to treat me in such a way!" The lesson to be learned? Until you have personally lived it, you simply cannot say how you would handle it. You have no idea how you'd react as you've not been through it. It's simple and seems to be logical to think these types of things...realistic? No. Not even close.
I actually did leave Marc one time. I was gone for about two months. I moved back to the town where my Mom lived and stayed with her. Even from 220 miles away, Marc controlled every move I made. One day he called me and said, "You're coming back home and you will be here within 24 hours. If you do not comply, not only will I kill you, but I will kill your kids, your Mom, and also your Dad." I did not and still do no doubt that he'd have done just that. Two hours after receiving that phone call, my car was loaded and I was on my way back to him. I'd called both of my parents to let them know I was going back. Both of them begged, pleaded, got angry - you name it. NOTHING they could have said or done would have stopped me from going back. Not only was I deeply in love with Marc (whether I should have been or not), but I was not about to let him murder my entire family due to my failure to return to him.
....
Here I am...ten years later. I'm in a very healthy and happy relationship with a man whom I adore. A decade is quite a long time. I would have thought it'd have been enough time to fully move on and no longer have to deal with these nightmares and daily feelings of guilt and sadness. I ask myself at least once a week, "What the Hell is wrong with you, Karen?" I still miss Marc. WHY?! Why would I possibly miss a person who did such a thing to me? Why would I miss a person who not only took his life, but did it in such a cold and heartless way? Being honest with you - I hate myself for it. I hate myself for holding onto him. I so badly want to get to a point where EVERY fiber of my being wants to let him go. I owe it to myself and I owe it to my current relationship with Lonnie and every other relationship in my life. Why can I not do it, though? The mere thought of letting him go all the way generates feelings of fear and panic within me. That doesn't even make sense. He left ME, damn it.
There's another aspect of this "story" that haunts me all the time. Marc was a huge Alice In Chains fan. He owned every CD they ever made and knew every word to every song. Not only that, but he'd sing along with the songs and his voice was eerily similar to Layne Staley's voice. I often said that hearing Marc sing was like having Layne sitting in the room with me. I always equated Marc with Layne Staley for some reason. I guess I possessed a bit more foresight than I realized at the time. A few months after Marc died, I was on my computer dinking around. I came across something that said, "Rest In Peace, Layne." I immediately flipped out. "It can't be the same Layne...gotta be someone else." I Googled it. Yep. Layne Staley died on April 5, 2002. Three days short of three months after Marc died. This was not like hearing of any other celebrity dying to me. No; it was much, much more. I felt as though I lost Marc all over again. I fell to the floor and cried inconsolably for what seemed like hours. Denial became my best friend. "Nope. It wasn't him. It's a hoax." "There is no way he's gone"...etc. As we all know, it was him.
To this day, I cannot hear ANY Alice In Chains song without hearing Marc singing it to me. I suppose an easy solution to this issue would be to refrain from listening to Alice In Chains. That simply will not ever happen.
Anyway...
All this time I thought I was doing pretty well. I thought I've been getting over everything pretty gracefully. Then a night like last night happens, and I'm suddenly reminded that I'm not even close to being healed. What the hell am I to do? Live like this for the rest of my life? Please, PLEASE tell me that's not my option. I've been to a plethora of Psychiatrists, Psychologists, medical doctors, and counselors. None have really helped. I don't want to be a 50 year old woman who is still suffering from night terrors and flashbacks. I understand that Post Traumatic Stress Disorder isn't something that you can just wish away, but there has to be some answer. There's got to be a way that I can put all of this where it belongs...in the past. Meh.
I'm going to wrap this up now. I know this isn't my usual happy-go-lucky type of post. I apologize if I've brought anyone down. This is my attempt to work through things. I've written in private journals before and they did NO good at all. I figured that perhaps going the opposite direction and writing more publicly about it might help. I hope so. I certainly don't want to wake up the way I woke up today...ever again.
Rest in peace, Irvin...you've certainly earned it. 
(35%)
