Housecleaning Take Deux, Part Trois: Myself

It’s funny.  I’ve spent the last couple of weeks writing my blogs well before the day they were due to be posted, knowing what I wanted them to say.  This week I procrastinated – partially because I’ve been busy, mostly because things have been changing at a rapid pace and I’m trying desperately to keep up.

Housecleaning is a funny business, especially when you are experiencing a period of transition.  Some things happen because you plan for them to happen.  Some things happen because you realize that something has to be done in order to get things moving.  And yet some other things happen because they have to happen – whether you want them to or not.  And this is the case with the Botboy.  He has effectively made his exit, both physically and virtually, from my life.  I can’t say that this was entirely unanticipated.  I half expected something of this caliber to happen when he came home, picked up his stuff, and became absent.  Physically, he is away for work again.  That much I know because of what he told me.  Virtually, he’s  deleted me from his Gchat list and made no contact before he left, despite his confirmation to the contrary.  As I’ve said, I am not surprised.  And because this began to fall apart in May, I’ve had over a month to deal with the emotional repercussions of most of it.  I’d even thought about deleting him from Gchat myself so that I didn’t have to keep looking at him and tearing myself apart over and over again about what was lost, but I didn’t have the strength to do it.  He did what I could not.  It is funny… even at the end of things, we were still on the same page.  At any rate, I accept that this is what needs to happen, at least for the time being, and I’ve let it go.  It is all I can do, the best I can do, for him and for me.  And so, knowing that, at least when sober, I was able to hold my head up and keep walking.

I walked to Gatsby.  It’s Gatsby that has been keeping me entertained through the majority of this – with the parties, and the dinners, and the silly movies, and the crazy board games and racquetball matches.  Thanks to Gatsby, I started doing the things I’d stopped doing when Botboy was a part of my life – drinking, smoking, staying up until all hours having a good time.  I was eating out more, skimping on the healthy eating habits I’d adopted, too, in order to get myself prepared for Botboy’s arrival.  After all, Botboy wasn’t here.  I missed him, but he wasn’t here.  And Gatsby was FUN.  It was always a party there, always a reason to get drunk, to go swimming, to wander around downtown half conscious.  The alcohol made the voices shut up for awhile so I could just be myself.  And I could forget, at least most of the time, the pain of the last month.

And that’s what it was all about, anyway.  Forgetting.  Forgetting that he’d hurt me, forgetting that he’d made all of these promises and then, in one fell swoop, had broken them all – and continued to break even the new ones.  I could forget that he was ever NOT the selfish asshole he’d become since his return to the States and I could tell myself I’d moved on.  I could tell myself that – but then I’d realize I was lying.  Because in that state, somewhere halfway between sober and drunk, the pain would come and I’d lose myself.  I’d begin to think, to cry, to get angry.  I’d drink more because it was the one thing he didn’t want me to do – I’d drink to lash out at him.  I’d smoke my eCig because I just didn’t care anymore.  I’d go downtown and have a hookah because he’d told me he stopped that too.  I’d do all of these things to spite him.  He wasn’t here… what did it matter anymore?

But then, I guess, the carnival ride stopped.  Gatsby began to remind me, in his drunkenness, why we’d broken up to begin with.  If I cried over Botboy, Gatsby, rather than consoling me, would tell me he was worthless, that I was an idiot for caring, that I should have listened to him to begin with and not gotten involved.  And I’d get angry – angry because I knew what Botboy could be when he wanted to be, angry because Gatsby had no right to talk about someone I cared for that much with that kind of attitude, and mostly because he was being rougher on me than my own father was being.  Where my father was just concerned that I was holding up alright, Gatsby was kicking me when I was down, and I had enough of it.  When hanging out with Gatsby became more drama-filled than fun, and when I began to realize that I was in the same downward spiral that I often got into, I realized that something had to change.

Since the world began to collapse around my ears, I’d wandered Tampa searching for answers.  Talking to my friends, listening to the voices in my head, talking to psychics, counselors, anything to try to get my head back on my shoulders, to find some answers, to make some sense out of what happened to me.  Everyone, it seems, had an opinion and, funnily, it was the counselor that predicted the complete break first.  It happened just a few days later.  The thing is, I also realized that in that month, the voices that were so very loud during this whole ordeal, since the beginning, since December, they’d changed.  When sober they’d tell me things once in awhile but most of what they said was convoluted.  If I was drinking, they’d stop talking altogether.  My dreams became stronger – even on sleeping medicine they would communicate with me.  And in some ways they were more trustworthy – I suppose, perhaps, because they didn’t have my own inclinations to argue with them.  But when drunk, those dreams became nightmares.  Horrible, horrible nightmares that were, by far, the worst I have ever had.

But in some ways, this search was good.  I got some answers.  But, more than that, in that search, I began to figure out a few things about myself.  Namely that I am not as crazy as I thought I was.  Hypnosis sessions with the counselors I’ve seen have yielded visions that are, perhaps, more vivid than many of my dreams and I’m beginning to understand that, whatever has happened, has happened for a reason.  I am here for a reason.  I think I understand what that reason is now, and so I’m beginning to adjust things so that I can meet that purpose.  It’s when I am taking these steps, when I am meeting with these counselors and with others that are like minded, that I am happiest these days.  Meditations bring me peace, they give me this light that I have never seen before, and I am learning to channel it so that it can help others.  Combined with those individuals, there is an energy unlike anything I have ever felt before.  The voices are loud again, but now, in those sessions, they have faces.  And their advice is solid.  My dreams are talking to me again – sometimes telling me what to do, sometimes just giving me pictures that keep me going when things seem to become very, very dark.

I thought, for awhile, that I had failed – especially when the purpose I felt I had seemed to vanish in front of me.  And I wondered… if one is put here for a specific purpose, and one fails to achieve that purpose, then what happens next?  But then, my friend Chuck asked me a question: do you feel like you failed?  The answer is no.  I don’t.  “You’d know it if you had,” he replied.  And he’s right.  The voices said that at the same time that he did.  I have not failed.  Things simply aren’t happening the way that I thought they would happen – because they are not supposed to happen that way.  The time is not right.  Time is a linear thing – it is something that man uses in attempt to harness something he cannot control.  I am not ready to achieve my purpose yet, I do not yet have the technology, but I am learning.  I am growing.  And I am becoming stronger.

I’ve stopped drinking and smoking again, but this time it is for me.  Because I know I cannot do the work I came here to do if I continue to poison myself.  This time I do it for my own benefit.  I felt differently today… like things are beginning again.  I do not know, not entirely anyway, what is coming.  I can’t predict everything because so much of life is left up to free will and the choices that we all make.  But I do know that the housecleaning is done.  I have the epiphany that I sought.  Things are beginning again, the canvas is blank but the paints are brighter than they ever were.  And what I paint on that canvas now is entirely up to me.

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