How I Almost Quit With Just 500 Words to Go

I did it.

But I almost didn't do it.

And I only had 500 words to go.

Why would I fold with that few words left?

Let's just say that I had a bit of a nervous breakdown on the home stretch.

My novel did not start out smoothly. I really had no idea what I wanted to write about.

I decided to write about the lunar aspect of H.P. Lovecraft's dreamlands after being cued by Bon Scott to think about the title to one of my favorite AC/DC songs, "What's Next To the Moon."

Really, I did. I don't care if you believe me or not. I'm telling the tale as it happened. If you choose to believe that this is merely my own perception or delusion, fine. I refuse to debate it. I can't prove that it happened. Conversely, no-one else can prove that it didn't.

Let's move on.

The story seemed very "piecey" at first. It seemed more like a bunch of short stories than a cohesive novel. It didn't start to gel until about halfway through the month. 

It also started to get really personal towards the end. Particularly on the last day. There was a convergence of sorts, and it opened some old wounds.

I had been turned on to the series "The Vampire Diaries" by my writing sister Tempest LeTrope and Mister Sister Adam Everhard. It becomes obvious that uncontrolled vampirism (the "Ripper" mode) is a metaphor for drug abuse. There are parts of the third season that are really hard to watch. Not because of the violence or "horror" aspect, but because certain of the character Stefan's behaviors reminded me of what I went through with my husband.

In the last segment that I watched, Elena (Stefan's girlfriend) says to Damon (Stefan's brother) that they may have to let Stefan go.

That is what I had to do with my husband. 

It isn't just the aspect of watching someone you love destroy themselves. Not every addict is abusive, but with the inhibitions blurred by consciousness-altering substances, anyone has greater potential to become abusive, either verbally or physically.

My husband mostly became verbally abusive. 

In the seven years that we were married, he got physical with me a total of nine times. He never beat me, and I was never particularly afraid of him. His physical abuses tended to take the form of slaps or pushing.

The verbal abuse was another story.

When my husband was doing heroin (he did cocaine as well, but less often) he became a different person. He thought that he was invincible and thought that he had been blessed with special gifts. He was a talented artist, but his real motivation was his next high.

When I met him way back in junior high, he was one of the cool kids. I wasn't terribly popular, but I garnered at least fake acceptance from the "cool" crowd when he brought me into the circle. He was a good-looking guy with dark hair and dark eyes. He always had a mischievous smile. I thought he was cute, but I was already crushing on someone else.

Our friendship turned to romance in our sophomore year in high school. Everyone thought we'd be the couple to beat the odds.

At that point, he was only smoking pot and drinking at weekend parties. So was everyone else, me included. I didn't see any kind of problem.

He joined the Army right after high school. It was the mid 1980's, a peacetime setting, so I wasn't worried. He wanted to learn a skill, to get some money together for college. It made perfect sense. He did his four years and came home, and we got married. 

At first, everything was great. A little over a year after we married, I was pregnant with our daughter. There started to be signs of trouble. He stayed late after work a lot and came home smashed. Initially I suspected that he might be cheating. I guess I could say that he was, but not with a woman at this point. The women would come later.

When I found out about the heroin, I demanded that he give it up. He did for a time, after our daughter was born. She was eight months old when I got pregnant with our son. Once again he started shooting up. He claimed he was only smoking pot, but I knew better. There was yelling, throwing of dishes, lots of crying on my part. He started calling me names, telling me that I was holding him down, being the "bitchy wife."

We had been married three and a half years and had two kids when he started fooling around with other women.

I tried to hold things together, tried to believe that he could kick the drugs, tried to believe that if I just loved him enough, I'd be able to bring him back from the edge.

In the end, I made the decision to walk away.

I told him that he couldn't see the kids until he got clean and stayed clean. He got mad and called me an evil, fat bitch. He said he didn't know how he could ever have been so desperate as to have sex with me. He said it to hurt me, but it did cause me to lapse into bulimic behavior, which I struggled with on and off for the next six years.

He would stay clean for periods of time but always eventually relapse into his old habits. I never let him have the kids overnight. When he was clean, I trusted him to take them to or pick them up from school.

I dated for a little while after my marriage ended, but always managed to pick guys that were far from ideal to bring around my kids. One turned out to be scary enough that I almost considered getting a restraining order. Luckily, he moved out of state.

I stopped dating fifteen years ago and see no reason to resume, even though my kids are adults now. I hate it when people tell me "not to give up" because the "right guy" could be around the next corner.

He's not.

So, to wrap things up...

The little experiment that started as a frustrating hodge-podge turned into a massive emotional bleed-out at the end, and I almost cashed in my chips.

I've decided that I'm actually going to try and organize the story into something cohesive. It does have potential.

I listened to a lot of HIM while I was writing the story. I also listened to AC/DC, of course. I listened to Morcheeba, and Korn, The Red Hot Chili Peppers, Loreena McKennitt, Enigma...

I want to share the HIM album Love Metal. Because yes, I do. It's gotten me through a lot of really tough times.

Thanks for letting me Bogart the Blog, Sisters and Misters. We will return you to your regularly scheduled insanity tomorrow!

Love,

Sister Helena

(Cross-posted to Undead in the Netherworld)

Cyberbully

I watched the 2011 film "Cyberbully" this morning. The movie had a happy ending, which often real life bullying situations do not. 

I had a hard time getting through this one. I don't know if I would have survived if there had been this additional avenue of bullying when I was a teen. As it was, I was bullied. One guy from another school, whom I had gone on a date with once, spread a rumor that he got me pregnant and I had an abortion. I was only 15. I was still a virgin. I remember him trying to grope me and me saying no. He didn't even get in my pants, let alone get me pregnant. But the rumors that I was a "slut" persisted.

I was a big girl (who turned into a big woman.) At five foot seven, I weighed 180 pounds in a world where any female who weighs over 120 is considered "fat." I had broad shoulders, moderately large breasts, a big butt, and chunky thighs. I didn't have the kind of big breasts that push straight out in front, I had the kind that spread to the side. If I wore a pushup bra, I'd have had cleavage up to my chin. I was modest, however, and tended to wear baggy shirts to hide my breasts. It didn't help much.

I had friends among the stoner crowd. The popular kids picked on me for my less than fashionable attire. My family wasn't rich. I couldn't believe how shallow these morons were, but it hurt anyway.

When I tried to kill myself, I did not get support from my mother. As I lay there in the E.R. with my wrists bandaged, she railed at me about how stupid I was for doing something like that and told me to stop looking for attention. The counselor at school gave me no help when I told her what was going on with me. She basically told me I needed to toughen up. 

I guess I was a lot smarter than I thought I was at the time, because I got through high school with mostly B's even though I was constantly ditching school.

While watching Cyberbully, there were times that I started breathing hard and my chest started to feel tight. I thought I was going to have a panic attack and felt like I might have to stop watching. I'm 45 years old, and all those feelings from those awful years came flooding back to me. In a way it felt like being raped (another thing that I have experienced) only on a psychological level. I remember feeling like trash, like I was worthless, like I deserved what happened to me.

To this day, I still have a lot of trouble believing in myself or my abilities. I still see myself as unattractive. I don't know if any of this will ever change.

I know that the filmmakers were trying to impart the message that violence does not solve anything, but the part of the movie where Lindsay the Bitch Queen and her Chief Bitch Crew are in the bathroom and Taylor (the bullying victim) comes in and they berate her for crying? I would have started swinging my shoulder bag at those cunts. None would have gotten away unscathed. I would have been suspended for school and I would suddenly have been the villain. But that is the way it would have gone down.

Bullying kills. Bullying also hurts many years after the fact. Bullying destroys lives. Isn't it time to put an end to this social evil?