Broken Bella Donna











{March 30, 2015}  

Oh boy. I was in a world of hurt last night. The same drama following the same pattern. I reach out, I get nothing but cold contact. We’re “fine”. We’re always “fine” after we catch up. Which is to say… we’re never fine. I get upset. It’s predictable and yet I seem incapable of controlling it. Good news for me tho was that in between crying sessions after I went to bed, I hauled out my trusty tablet and managed to get some thoughts down on paper (or not as the case may be) which helped me to sort some shit out in my head. Not enough shit, apparently, as my stomach still rolls every time I think about him. And not in a good way. In the sort of way that makes me think my brain is starting to reach the end of this… that we aren’t too many bouts of insanity from me actually walking away. Not because I want to. Not because I have to. But because… what? My mental health. The highs are so very, very high, they’re beautiful and wonderful and everything I want, and they make me everything I want to be. But the lows are so tragic, and wrenching, and at the very worst of it I fear for my safety.The only way I can see this working for me is if I can actually stop taking it personally – if I can enjoy the highs and then when they stop… just back off and wait for him to find his peace. Stop putting my happiness into others hands.

So… from the comfort of my bed and the depths of my broken, rotting soul I bring you this. To put into context, for the first part I was trying to convince myself that this is not my drama, but a drama of someone elses that I have been caught up in. The pain and confusion he must feel that drives him to behave the way he does towards me is  not ABOUT me, it is not a REFLECTION of me. It is his story and his story only. And no matter how badly I want to solve his problems, I cannot. So… onwards.

This is a war he has to fight on his own; I cannot stand in his trenches, I cannot have his back. I cannot assist him in any way. I need to learn to let go, to stop making it about me, stop trying to fix him. He isn’t mine to fix and even if he was… He needs to walk his own path. This is his journey. It hurts me that I can’t walk it with him, it cuts me very deep inside. I want to be able to do this for him so very badly, so badly it physically hurts me too. He needs to find his place in his relationships. I need to find my place in this one too. This is so toxic. I know I should walk but feel like I can’t. My mental health… I will be worse off without him but can’t deal with him in my life.

And then I waffled back into my favourite fallback… flowery language and imagery.

You live in your castle like the insecure male version of Rapunzel, but without the hair. And you keep your drawbridge so very high. You surround yourself with your snapping bloodthirsty piranhas and that’s where you live – by yourself – nursing your regret and fear like a colicky newborn. Occasionally, for reasons I’m yet to comprehend you lower the drawbridge and let me in. And I get to dine in the castle with you, and see your paintings of war, your victory pennants on the wall. You show me around and I get a little insight into your house, your home, your mind. You throw open the curtains and invite me to look around, but you keep a few doors shut and all I hear is faint music from behind those doors. And occasionally, sobbing.  I love these visits and they stay with me for a long time after. I don’t notice the dust that’s settled from negligence, I don’t notice the frayed carpets from pacing feet. I don’t notice the tarnished brass or the cracked mirrors with the smeared imprints of your palms. I just notice you, in your resplendent glory as you allow yourself to have a few hours of happiness, contentment, trust and hope. I gorge myself on these moments and kid myself that you may like me as a regular visitor. You  may enjoy my company, you may throw  your doors open to me when I come a’knocking. You don’t. You punt me out in double time and I feel as popular as a fart in a space suit. You throw me to the piranhas, you slam the drawbridge and you leave me out in the cold with a sore arse and a sorer heart. And no explanation. You let me in as a Princess and throw me out as a maid. You treat me like a queen and reject me like a whore. I’m expected to brush myself off and wait until next time you lower the bridge and hope I’m there’s to see it. And in the meantime I sit there, tossing pebbles at your shutters with increasing force and fervor, trying to see if you’ll lower the bridge tonight? If I’m truly unlucky sometimes  I’ll get a frosty, cold glance of the window to let me know that yes, you’re there, yes you heard, and no. Go back to your hovel. Not tonight. You’re not interested in my company. You don’t want to share your space,  your breath, your thoughts. Sometimes the shutters stay firmly closed. Sometimes they stay closed for months and months and the air grows stagnant in your castle, the seasons change, the plants die, unwatered. The birds don’t even fly over anymore.

But you’re still my knight in shining armor. Problem is, your armor is in dire need of a polish and it squeaks to let me know you’re coming. Your faithful steed is dead from lack of attention. The only army you have left to fight for you is in your head and I fear it’s fighting the wrong battles. I fear it’s fighting against you and it’s poisoning the way you think. And it’s turning you against me. Your army wants to burn me at the cross – right after it burns you. I have my own army. But  my army fights for me. My army is bruised easily but never cut. But it’s no match for yours.

You joke you’re bipolar… It seems like more than a joke some days. Remember you’re hurting more than yourself. And don’t you dare use that as an excuse to run away.

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