Sadly, my situation with Seamus is still the same: flatlined.

Contrarily, my feelings for Seamus are wildly different: fibrillation.

Needless to say, I’m still very unhappy. The day to day exercise of life is very fatiguing without someone there who adds a spark. It all seems rather dull and meaningless. It’s been one year, three months, 15 days, 8 hours, and 16 minutes since Seamus and I parted company, and I miss him just as keenly now, if not more so. So many things have happened that I would like to have shared with him, both good and bad things. Things that even he may have been proud of.  Things like….I’m trying to buy a house, and I finally have enough money saved to do it (thanks to his urging); I got elected to my union’s Board of Trustees; I’m going to be vice-President of my professional organization; I got to go to Louisville for a conference and see my horsey favorites; I was reunited with my high school best friend; I went to the Breeders Cup; these are all things I wished I could share with him.

Of course, he’d probably have something of his own to share back: rancor, anger, hatred, deceit, bitterness, cruelty, hurt, and despair.

Someone tell me again, who came up with the saying, “Can’t live with ‘em, can’t live without ‘em,” because truer words were never spoken.

I haven’t come to terms with seeing a psychiatrist, and there are those who believe I need to, because they believe that I was abused (emotionally and verbally) badly enough that it’s like being physically abused. And maybe they’re right. Because the real injury from physical abuse (assuming you survive) is the emotional scar, for the injuries to the flesh seem to heal better than those to the heart and mind. 

Instead, I continue to abuse drugs, mainly marijuana, to take the edge off my anxiety and insomnia. Sometimes, when I’m really bad, I’ll throw some Soma into the mix because, in the final analysis, I just want to go to sleep and stay asleep, especially when I dream of him.

There’s no relief in sight, no sign that he’ll relent and return to me for a third time. And there’s no one new that even sparks my interest. Mr. Picamosca has turned out to be very similar to Seamus, very narcissistic, and his personality doesn’t compel me like Seamus’ did. And, let’s face it: being 41, fat, and female doesn’t help. Women in this society are supposed to look young and perfect. I look neither.

So, I’m still kicking, and I’m not dead yet, although sometimes I wish I were. It’s somewhat of a nightmare, this weird limbo I’m stuck in, like an animal stuck in a tar pit, working it’s way deeper and deeper into the mire by its very attempts to escape. But I’m not quite ready to pull the plug yet. Perhaps I hope in vain, but I remain somewhat hopeful.

Yes, I’ve lost a drunken, verbally abusive jerk.

I’ve also lost my soulmate. I simply find no reason to live now. I keep engaging in self destructive behavior. I don’t care what happens to me anymore. And my behavior grows more and more risky. I pay no attention to my health despite high blood pressure and borderline diabetes.

It’s like I’m daring death to take me, and it’s because Seamus doesn’t want me, or love me, or even care about me as a friend. The torture is unbearable. If there is any such thing as God, much less a merciful God, he’ll end my suffering very soon. I can’t go on living like this.

Seamus, I love you. And I hate it my life without you. Please come back to me.

Apparently so.

My last post, back in January, was when I was in the middle of an upswing. The pendulum has moved to the other side now, and I’m in the midst of a crushing depression. I mean crushing, as in hopeless, despairing, painful, and…well…depressing.

Now, I’m going to head off any possible alarm at the pass. I feel very certain that I will not kill myself. I repeat, I feel very certain that I will NOT kill myself. So there’s no need to alert the authorities that I’m an immediate suicide risk.

The honest truth is, though, that I think about suicide a lot. I mean a lot. I wonder what it would be like to actually go through with it. What would it be like to overdose on pills and booze? What would it be like to jump to my death? What would it be like to put a gun to my head and pull the trigger? I even emulated that little act using my fingers as a gun, and trying to believe with all my heart that it really was a loaded gun I was holding, putting my fingers to my head and trying to imagine that being my last moment on earth.

Yet I’m sure I wouldn’t do it. Somewhere in me is that little glimmer of hope that things will get better, that one day I’ll feel better, and that I’ll be glad I never killed myself. Besides, I’m passively killing myself with drugs and alcohol, and a complete disregard for how I eat, or weight gain and it’s associated dangers. I won’t go to the doctor even though I know my blood pressure is up, and that something has gone awry with my reproductive system. And obviously, I won’t go to the doctor about my depression or my substance abuse.

What does this make me? Am I being melodramatic? But then, I don’t air these thoughts to the people I know, so is this just a cry for help? Is my posting these thoughts on my blog a cry for help?

I’m so unbelievably miserable, and even more so because of Seamus. He occupies my every thought, especially the part about our relationship really being over. I can’t come to terms with this. I can’t bear to live my life without him in it. Despite the emotional and verbal abuse, I’m so miserable without him. And I know that there’s something deeply dysfunctional about feeling that way for someone who’s treated me as he has.

It’s just sheer torture, and I don’t know how much longer I can take it. But don’t worry…I won’t kill myself.

I’m learning to crawl right now. I’m trying to move on with my life without Seamus.

It’s now been 5 months since the night I beat the crap out of Seamus in the middle of a crowded restaurant when I couldn’t take any more verbal abuse from him. In that 5 months, I’ve experienced agonizing despair, suicidal thoughts, righteously indignant anger, and a whole lot of tears. Seamus “appeared” to me everywhere. I’d catch a glimpse of similar looking people and thought it was him for a split second. I’d “see” him everywhere. Most social situations I found myself in would remind me of our time together. Driving at night, I’d remember places we’d stopped at. Going out with friends, I’d remember being out with Seamus and sharing a laugh. Walking by his empty cubicle, I’d visualize him slouched in his chair, beckoning me over. He wasn’t dead, but he may as well have been dead to me, and his “ghost” haunts me everywhere.

This past month or so, though, a little has changed. I’ve had a few good days now. I don’t automatically cry as soon as I hear a song that’s meaningful to either us as a couple or meaningful to me personally. The really painful yearning seems like it’s subsiding a little bit. I haven’t cried for him at night for several weeks. And there are some days that I only think about him once or twice.

Don’t get me wrong. It still hurts. It hurts even more because I still have very powerful feelings for him, despite his abusiveness, and it kills me that someone I love hates me so much. I keep trying to figure out a way back into his good graces, then I remember that I’m not sure I really want to do that.

His “ghost” haunts me in not-so-pleasant ways, too. When I’m with someone who happens to be white, I think “He’d so hate this person that I like so much, he’d give me grief if he knew.” Or, “he’d hate this kind of music”, or “he’d never have agreed to come to this show with me, he’d hate every second”, or “he’d tear the mickey out of me if he knew I was talking to one of his ‘enemies’”.  I wouldn’t be able to travel to places I enjoyed because first, he’s cheap, and second, everyplace is filled with the same “vile human beings” you’d find elsewhere. I wouldn’t be able to hang out with just anyone, or I’d risk being called a racist and a bigot, or a sports-addled cretin who only cares about cars and glossy fashion magazine. I wouldn’t be able to play the video games I like so much because I’d be branded a mindless tw*t who’s devoted herself to games and not reading scores of books on esoteric subjects. My taste in music would be criticized, my purchases would be criticized, my friends and family would be criticized, and I would be criticized. And badgered. And insulted. And humiliated.

What a strange tug of war, between missing someone so much, and knowing that they are the worst thing to ever happen to you. Seamus is the worst possible thing that could have happened to me, plain and simple. The beautiful aspects of his intelligence and humor sucked me in, and his abuse just kept me subjugated. My time spent with him has destroyed the deepest foundations of my being. I’m not sure who I am or what my purpose is, and if I’m not really as horrible as he says.

He flipped me off in the parking lot yesterday. At first I thought he was just playing in that stupid, sophmoric way he does. He’s flipped me off “in jest” (or so I thought) on several occasions. I was waiting for him to laugh as he did it, but he didn’t. He turned and walked away.

What was worse is that he was holding a file folder when he did it, and he pulled the folder up in front of his hand in such a way that it shielded his gesture from others, but made sure I could see it. I realized that he meant it maliciously. It hurt. And it made me angry. Very angry.

You mean to tell me that after everything Seamus and I have been through, I’m back to being considered an enemy? Despite forgiving Seamus over and over again for the horrible things he’s said and done, from the cruel names and insults to kicking out my car’s windshield from the inside while I was driving…he feels hatred and contempt for me? After putting up with all of his crap, catering to his every whim, being as kind and understanding as I could possibly be, he’s going to start this antagonistic attack on me the same way he has with others in the office that he’s taken a spite to?

So filled with hurt and anger was I, that I went to his cubicle to confront him. I told him, “I saw you.” He looked nonplussed, so I repeated myself. “I saw you,” I said, and not waiting for a response, I continued, “Tell me, was it as satisfying doing this behind a folder [making the middle-finger gesture behind the shelter of my hand] as it would have been if you’d had the balls to do it out in the open?”

“You’re delusional, you really are,” he retorted. “I’m trying to work here.”

I pressed on. “Whatever, don’t do it again.” And I walked away.

And I cried.

Later, when I was able to make myself public again, I talked to my supervisor. He asked me if I thought Seamus was acting strange. I told him what had happened and how I handled it. My boss told me that Seamus had been in his office complaining that Mr. Picamosca was “mad-dogging” him. He said he told the office head that Seamus was apparently having an episode, and the office head talked to Mr. Picamosca, instructing him to steer clear of Seamus. My boss also told me that Seamus had been acting unusually angry and agitated over the past couple of weeks, but he’d never made any comments to my boss about me.

The odd thing is, I thought that perhaps Seamus was getting wound up to come talk to me, because he kept walking by my cubicle and looking in as he passed. My back was to the cubicle door, but I have a mirror on the wall so I can see what’s going on behind me. I didn’t want to turn and encourage Seamus, but I figured he’d make his move when the time was right.

I think what probably ruined it, although I didn’t realize what was going on at the time, was Mr. Picamosca’s visit to my cubicle. Mr. Picamosca came by to talk about the “Santa” massacre that had taken place in Southern California, asking why the guy had to take out not only his ex-wife, but her family, too. I told him that with personalities like that, it’s merely guilt by association. You’re either with him or against him, no inbetweens. And I told him that I had so cruelly become aware of this concept due to Seamus’ increased hositlity toward me once Mr. Picamosca, his sworn enemy, had come to the office and befriended me. As I said that, Mr. Picamosca said, “Well, I think you’re about to be in trouble again then,” looking down the hallway. I assumed he saw Seamus coming from the lunchroom, and I told him “No, there’s no longer any trouble to be gotten into, that’s done.” To which he replied, “Good.”

No doubt, Seamus saw him hanging in my cubicle, laughing and socializing with me. No doubt that’s where the accusation of Mr. Picamosca “mad-dogging” him came from. And no doubt, it tipped the balance as to whether Seamus would speak to me, or decide to despise me. He chose the latter.

It’s just so hard to believe. Despite all my efforts and best intentions, I’ve failed. I’ve failed to keep Seamus even as a casual friend. I don’t even know where it went wrong. All I know is that I never could escape his delusions of persecution, his paranoia, and his inherent mistrust of me. No matter how good I was to him, I could never prove myself. I was never good enough, and I never had the right answer. I’m not sure if there ever was a right answer.

So, now what? What do I do now? The emptiness and depression are still pervasive. It helps that my best friend is back in my life. But that’s only momentary. One moment I’ll feel hopeful, and another minute I feel like I almost wish Seamus would come in here and blow me away.

It was hard enough when he ignored me. But knowing that he hates me when I love him so….that’s a hurt that’s hard to handle.

I had mentioned in a previous post a quote from the HBO series, Oz. The episode (“Cuts Like a Knife, Season 4, Episode 12), if you’re familiar with the series, involves Keller (Christopher Meloni) being transferred and saying goodbye to his boyfriend, Toby (Lee Tergesen). As the episode fades out, there’s a little soliloquy from Harold Perrineau’s character, Augustus Hill, that goes like this:

“The worst stab wound is the one to the heart. Sure, most people survive it, but the heart is never quite the same. There’s always a scar which, I guess, is meant to remind you that, even for a little while, someone made your heart beat faster. And that’s a scar you can live with, proudly, all the days of your life.”

I hope I can find the strength to bear that scar with pride. But first, my heart has to heal. Right now, it’s bleeding uncontrollably from a seemingly mortal wound. What will save me? Or am I beyond all help and all hope?

I “see” Seamus everywhere. A glimpse of someone wearing Seamus’ “uniform” of plain white shirt and jeans is enough to make me do a double-take, even if it’s in an airport several states away. A man sitting in front of me on the plane had hair very similar to Seamus. I found myself staring at his hair with longing, feeling disappointment every time I saw his face and remembered that it wasn’t really Seamus.

I’m going through the seven stages of grief, I think. There’s no reason to believe that you can grieve only for the dead. You can be just as bereft of the living when they’ve left you and refused to contact you again. I know I’ve felt anger, denial, bargaining, etc. The stages I need to find now are acceptance and hope.

Hope springs eternal…I think I’ve said that before.

Seems like there’s not much reason to post. Seamus continues to ignore me. Other than some suspicious calls from a “blocked” number, there’s no reason to suspect that he has any interest in speaking to me.

Speaking of interest, I have none in anything or anyone. Even slutty ol’ me, I’m not interested in sex in the least. There’s someone who’s interested in me that I’ve never had any interest in; his attentions seem more repulsive now. That supervisor, Mr. Picamosca, sometimes seems interested, sometimes doesn’t, and I’m too shell shocked to even contemplate pushing the envelope a little to see where he stands. He told me the other day, when talking about women, that he doubted he could be in a relationship with someone he didn’t find physically attractive. Now, he didn’t say I fell into that category, but given Seamus’ constant berating about how fat and ugly I am, I feel certain that I must not be of any real interest to Mr. Picamosca or he would have struck by now.

Of course, I shouldn’t be looking around work again. However, one thing seems crystalline clear when I look back over my relationship with Seamus, and how it’s changed my perspective on what I want out of relationships in general. Apparently, I feel as if I can’t form an attraction to anyone without getting to know them first. I need whatever good part of Seamus’ personality to be part of who I’m with. I don’t want to date, I don’t think anyone is cute, I need the personality and intellect to be fulfilling before I can proceed. Tell me, where else am I going to keep running into the same guys, over and over again, until I get to know them enough to want to date them? Frankly, I can’t think of anyplace else BUT work. And I’m not e-dating, thank you very much.

On a brighter note, I’m going to visit a friend in Denver this weekend. This is my best friend from high school, and this is the first time we will have seen each other in almost two decades. I’m looking forward to the trip, but more importantly, I’m looking forward to restoring a deeper connection, someone I can talk to who won’t judge me and who understands my background and how I feel. Strangely, she has mentioned that she feels as if the same need will be fulfilled for her, as her mother and her father have both passed on, and despite being married a few years ago, she still feels so very alone.  Perhaps we’ll save each other.

I need saving. There are times that I’ve contemplated cruising the online pharmacies to get some sedatives so I can wash ‘em down with a fifth of vodka. Other times, as I’m hurtling down the freeway, I think about whether or not I could crank the wheel and send the car into the wall. Sometimes, I really feel like I can’t bear to go on without Seamus for the rest of my life. I miss him so terribly. I don’t see him very often anymore, even at work, but when I do I’m a shaking mess. The longing is so very painful, I don’t know how much longer I can go on fooling myself that things will eventually be okay, that one day I’ll feel better. We’re at 4 months post-break-up of an almost two-year verbally/emotionally abusive relationship. I don’t know what to expect as far as recovery and relapse.

If my friends and family only knew how black and dangerous my thoughts were, and how lucky it is that I’m so depressed I don’t feel like putting the effort into active suicide…I hope you can’t be institutionalized for fantasizing about killing yourself. I figure I’ll probably do it in a passive agressive way, like not going to the doctor, eating my weight in junk food, smoking, and drinking excessively, and should disease pop up, make no effort to cure it.

Just like the song “Rusted Wheel”  from the Silversun Pickups, I’m like a rusted wheel, standing still, can’t move on.

Well, we’ll see how I’m feeling after the holidays and after my visit with my friend. Perhaps I can find some glimmer of hope to cling to so that I can pull myself out of this deep, dark hole.

Yeah, I know…waaaah, waaaah , waaaah.

He’s probably all alone today, and probably is upset because it is his birthday, he’s another year older and still the same: single and angry and getting old.

I left another sneaky voicemail for him. I told him “Happy Birthday”, that I assumed he got my message from last week and wasn’t inclined to “forgive” me for girly-punching him, and that if he ever wanted to talk he knows where to find me. And I suggested he do something nice for himself today.

Now, if that isn’t the complete opposite of what I should be doing and saying, I don’t know what is. What is it that makes the abused want to come back to the abuser? Fear of being alone? Stockholm Syndrome? What?

I’ve gotten a referral to see a psychiatrist. Now I just need to call and make an appointment, but I balk at this already. I can’t imagine what it’s going to be like to sit down and bare my soul to someone face-to-face. I’m so used to internalizing things. And I’m used to being dishonest about my feelings when pressed to express them. Sometimes I say what I think the person wants to hear, sometimes I say what I think sounds “normal,” and sometimes I say what sounds like it’ll cause me the least trouble down the road. I don’t consciously try to do it…it just happens, and then later I end up asking myself why I said that.

My god, I miss Seamus so much, it’s just so painful. And so stupid. I’ve totally shifted the entire situation around now where I’m almost believing this is my fault, that I’m the one who needs to beg for forgiveness. That just isn’t true. Seamus, illness or no, has been unforgivably cruel to me for so long. Is it any wonder I snapped and lashed out at him? I mean, maybe that’s not the moral high ground, but isn’t it understandable? Or am I wrong, and Seamus is right about me being crazy and out of control?

This all seemed so clear to me before, and now I’m confused and doubting myself again. Perhaps it’s time for me to go back and read some of my own posts to remind myself what has happened between Seamus and myself, and how no normal person could put up with what Seamus has done and said. I need to find my anger again: anger at being humiliated, insulted, ridiculed, disrespected, used, and frightened of physical harm for the past 18 months or so. I mean, this isn’t quite Farrah Fawcett in “The Burning Bed,” but it’s the same general idea, right?

Maybe I’d just better summon the courage to go see that shrink…

So, as you may have already guessed, Seamus hasn’t called. There’s been no response to the voicemail I left him yesterday. I wonder…was it that easy to read, how manipulative I was being? Trying to lure him in with talk about one of his favorite topics, the stock market, then throwing in an apology that even he might admit was unnecessary in light of his own behavior, and adding that I was ashamed so I could seem even more pathetic and deserving of pity and forgiveness. That doesn’t mean that my feelings for him are insincere, but I’m willing to say or do just about anything to be able to talk to him again.

Not that it has worked. And I feel all the more stupid and filled with self-hatred for having lost my dignity to a failed attempt.

I went to the mall today for a little retail therapy. Money’s tight, but I figured I could spend a little bit. As I was trying on clothes, it amazed me how disgusting my body looks. My belly jiggled, my boobs were saggy-looking, my thighs were dimply, my calves were huge, my ankles were swollen…I’m a soft, squelchy, bloated, nauseating cow. I think I’m past the point of no-return now. Even if I finally got my act together, started eating right and exercising, I’ll still never have a body that will be attractive. My youth is behind me, and it’s all downhill from here, literally. I will always be too fat and too ugly, and the clothes I put on won’t hide how hideous I look. I didn’t buy that much, because it just seemed like there was no point in even trying to look good. I’m too fat to make looking good remotely possible.

Bad thoughts are becoming more pervasive in my mind. You know the ones…the “why am I bothering?” ones. The ones that say “Why diet and exercise, maybe it’s better to die before you’re old and ugly and alone and without prospects.” The ones that say “Why give up booze and weed and partying, maybe it’s better that you burn out quickly and just get it over with.” I think I’m too much of a coward, or lack the courage of my convictions, to actively pursue suicide. I just entertain the notion. Perhaps I’m too melodramatic. I really need to see a doctor. I need someone to help me, to stop me from feeling this way.

If nothing else, I need someone to prescribe me some meds. Meds might make me feel better again, and if not (and I get the right meds), maybe they can help solve the problem permanently with a few extra doses.

So, I called, mentioned how I had been thinking about him during all the stock market turmoil (he loves that kind of thing), and then I did the unthinkable: I apologized to him for hitting him. I told him I still couldn’t believe I did that (true), and that I had been too ashamed to try to clear the air between us in person (not true).  I told him I was truly sorry if I had hurt him (even I’m not sure if this is that’s true).

I used that sneaky service to leave the message about an hour ago.  I have heard nothing since. I think I was expecting him to stampede the phone, and I’m already a bit hurt that he hasn’t. Stupid, stupid, stupid!

I knew this would happen. I knew he’d reject me. I shouldn’t have tried. I hate myself for being so weak. He doesn’t deserve an apology, he should apologize to me for what he’s done to me. But I miss him so much. How is this possible?

I have felt down before, and I know my depression is reaching a dangerous level. My thoughts keep lingering on the fact that I don’t want to be an old lady anyway. And the thought of leading a life as empty as the one I’m leading now, especially without someone who I felt I could connect to at times (when he wasn’t being abusive)…I just don’t know how much longer I can go on.

Not that I’d actively try to harm myself (I don’t think…yet), but I continue to entertain notions of truly self-destructive behavior with an air of “f*ck-it all!” bravado.

I need to see a doctor before something bad happens, but I’m so down that I doubt I’ll even try to do so. I hate myself.