Bad news: you win

May I preface this post? Of course this post is a follow-up, the 'second half,' as it were, of my previous diatribe, and, of course, I have no choice in the matter of writing this. I simply must write this, even though it does no good.

You see, this post, despite my preamble, has nothing to do with me: this post is about you. And, if you think the last one hurt, well, gf, you've got another thing coming, because the last post was all about me. This one? It's all about you, through my eyes.

This is gonna hurt you. A lot.

So, you know: standard caveat. Get the hell out if you want sugary goodness, and don't come crying to me if my words hurt you. There's only one way they can hurt, and that is: if they apply. So bitch and moan to the mirror.

I fucking warned you.

And what good will it do? None, probably. You are you. You are still being you, even after what happened. You are so you, as I see every day when I interact with you. And I love you. And I want the best for you.

And so this post.

I feel so like an angel right now. Do you know angels have no choice in the matter? In eternity, they made their choice: follow God, emptying themselves completely, or follow themselves, and what they think is right, filling themselves with the nothing they actually are without God.

Once that choice was made, Angels are forever fixed. Choice? They've already chosen, they simply must do what they must do.

I feel so like an angel. But angels are eternally happy: they made their choice, and now they choose, eternally to be happy with that choice, so I must write this, yes? But perhaps I can choose to be happy writing this.

So, you, being you, must read this, no matter how painful it is to you. So, you can now choose, too.

"God, this hurts. God, it's so true!"

And what do you choose? To deny this? To hate me, the messenger, forever?

Yes, you can choose this.

Do you choose to read this, and, in reading it, to see what's in there that you can take on for yourself and your life?

You know, people have an advantage over angels (besides being able to enjoy gnocchi): angels cannot change, but people can change.

You can change. You can be yourself, and you can change, and still be yourself. You can, you know: you can.

And I really, really don't know if I'm actually a person. Isn't that insane? But I can cop out and say that I'm a selkie and that once I find my skin, I will return to the sea, and this human life I've been faking and have been so sad living, I'll just forget it all, forget you, forget my loves and my sadnesses and swim away to be home again with my sisters.

I can say that. I can cop out. Just like you can cop out, and say, "But I can't change because of ..." because of whatever millstone you are hanging onto so desperately, calling the millstone your unalterable self, when really it's you being drug down by the millstone, and all you have to do is to let it go.

I am so looking into the mirror right now as I write these words, okay?

So, this post.

So, you've taken on me, unsalvageable me. And you put your heart into it, and you've sacrificed everything, your career, your educational prospects, your art, everything, to save me.

And you've watched me. You've watched me start to pull myself out of it, that pit I'm in, and you’ve been so proud and pleased with the progress you’ve seen in me. You know I’ve been pulling myself out, but, even if you refuse to admit it, even especially to yourself, you know you've had a hand in it, and if you looked at the past year objectively, you know you've had more than a hand in it, that you actually caused this to happen. That, really, if you weren't there, I would have been dead. Several times. By my own hand through suicide directly or through an accidental death from alcohol or drugs or just plain self-absorption as I'm crossing the street and *WHAMMO* truck and no more 'phfina.

How do I know this? Oh, come on, you know this, and I know it, too.

So, but now we're at this point, and I've started to come out of it, and I'm starting to express joy again and starting to write again and starting to relate to the world as the world and not this big scary place that I have to hide from.

And there's just so much to do, right? You have so much in me you see that if I just come out of myself just a little bit more, I can start to breathe again and to enjoy life, not fight it or be afraid of it, and you've got things planned, right? Like going on a hike on a mountain trail, even though I've never been outside, but you know it'll do me good. Or a trip to the mall to buy some mentionable and unmentionable clothes, 'cause you know that clothes make the girl and you know I would just see me in a whole new way if I tried on this kind of dress or, hell, a black pants-suit that you've seen executive vice presidents wear.

And so you're making our morning coffee, just so pleased at how far I've come, and just so excited about what is to come for me, for my life, and for us.

And then I drop the bomb.

I get up, and I look at you, and suddenly the firm foundation you had been laying is gone, because you hear the words I'm saying as I say them.

"We're done. We're through. I can't take this any more. I'm gone."

And that's it. I get up. I leave. I'm gone. Forever.

What the hell just happened?

Shocking, isn't it, when that happens. Totally out of the blue. And WHY?

I mean, like really: why.

Here's some 'why's for you, sweetheart. And I'll ask you to read them, just read them, to survive them, and then hate me. Forever. But see if any of them apply to you (they all do, honey), then see what you are willing to do about them.

Then read the second part. I mean really read it. I mean, like, recover what I've said to you, killing you with my every word, then come back here, and see what's really going on. You might miss it, but I'll ask you not to. I'm asking you to read this next part, take responsibility for it, then read the next part, and ... take responsibility for it (my irresponsibility), as well.

You are either everything here, as you've always been, or you're copping out.

Which one can you live with?

Part one: it's all your fault

So, really, you are as blind as a bat, you know that? Selfish and cruel.

I mean, not seeing this moment coming from a mile away?

What did you think? You think you owned me? We may have signed a piece of paper stating that, but did you really think that you own me?

Yes, you do. You think you're entitled to my heart, soul and body. Sure, you've given up your life for me, so as to save me.

What rights does that confer onto you?

Not a fucking thing. Not one single thing from me can you assume to have or to own.

Listen, sweetie, I'm a human being. I'm not your cat. I'm not your dog. I'm not your human slave.

And, sure, I'm not scrubbing your floors and providing my tongue for whenever your pussy has a tingle that needs tending to ...

... but.

But, look, I can wipe my cheek when I have food there, you don't need to reach across the table to do that. In a fucking public restaurant!

But, look, you don't have to present me in group as 'Well, she has some issues that we're working through, and she can't afford the full payment right now, but we'll find some way to get her into this session because it will really help her with her problems.' (Somebody actually said that. While I was standing right fucking there. As if I didn't exist, or had any feelings about what was being said. Just like what you write to me about me in your PMs.)

But, look, I know what I need to do when I have a headache. I know that ibuprofen exists, I know where the glasses are and how to fill them with water. I know where the bed is and how to turn down the sheets.

But, look, I know what opinions to have about my mother, your mother, that girl over there giving me the more-than-once over, my dad, current political views, what I should be doing for work or for getting my next chapter out, what I shouldn't be doing to get those things done.

But, look, I know what to say about myself and I know what not to say.

Do you know that?

No, you sure don't, not judging from the past year in how you've treated me like a baby, not judging from your PMs where you say, oh:

1. Are you a 40-year-old man who's a sexual deviant?
2. Are you really who you write? ...
... or more insidiously, 'if you're really who you write, then I care about you.'
3. People can't be trusted on the 'net, and oh, by the way, my gf asked me to ask you if you only wear white socks?

And then after all that hate wrapped up in mistrust comes at me from you ...

Look I'm on a roll, but I have to stop right here and let you know one little detail.

You fucking came to me. I didn't know you, any of you, at all! You read me; you felt something for me, then you reached out to me, and you have the gall to write that you don't trust me?

Here's a piece of advice for you. It's free, too. Go back and play with all your other god-damn friends if you don't trust me.

Oh, wait. You don't have any other friends? And I'm not talking acquaintances, I'm talking friends who know you and love you for you, who you actually are?

Wonder why.

Wonder if it's because you don't just mistrust me, you mistrust everybody, and you choose to lash out at me because I'm this weak, little, vulnerable baby girl who puts her heart on the line with every line she writes and you have the gall to say 'well, if you are who you say you are, then ...'

Just get present to that. Just get present to the fact that you came to me, and then you shit all over me with your mistrust and your advice as to how to live my live when I've done that for 22 years already, thank you.

Just get present to what a fucking cunt you are. Really.

Are you present to it?

No.

Because you also come to me on the other side of mistrust.

"Tell me more about you." "There's so much you don't say" "I really wish I knew you." "You don't open up all all."

Oh, really?

Pop quiz.

You know what my favorite food to make is.

What is your mother's favorite food?

You know where I've come from and where I'm now living.

What other fan-fiction author(ess) do you know this about?

You know what job I'm working at. You know how I interact with customers. You know how my day starts and ends.

Who else do you know this about? Do you even know this about your roommates?

You know I go to group. You know my triumphs and tragedies there.

What are the extra-curricular activities of someone you know ITRW? What are their triumphs and tribulations in those activities?

You know the names of the string of my prior girlfriends.

Name the names of the girlfriends of your girlfriends. Name the names of your prior girlfriends. Hard, isn't it, going over those memories. Who have you told? Anybody?

You know that I'm a lesbian, and I'm out to my immediate family, and out to you, but not to my extended family, coworkers (there are some who suspect) and customers.

Who are you out to? Who are your friends out to?

You know, reading my stories, PMs and entries, what I struggle with, every day: me. Me-me-me. And happiness. And joy. And despair. And fear. And self-loathing so great it makes you flinch, right?

What are you struggling with? What is your boss struggling with? What is your mom struggling with? What is that girl you hate so much struggling with?

You know how old I am. You know my family relations, and how I relate to them.

ANY other fan fiction writer, or book writer, or anybody you can say that about?

Bonus question: Why do you say that I withhold, when I've told you more about myself than you've told anybody else in your life? And when I've told you more than you know than from anybody else in your life? Why do you keep needing more from me, after I've given my all ... and more ... what does that say about you, this mistrust coupled with this neediness?

I dare you to ask yourself these questions, and to answer them fully before you get on another kick about needing to know more about me, and I'm not giving it to you (the fucking nerve!) and since I'm not, I'm not trustworthy?!?!

Excuse me, have you read one of my stories, or PMs, or entries?

Thanks for that.

Fuck you, too.

...

I'm gone

So, back on topic. So you're clueless as to why I would say 'I'm gone,' with all that mistrust of me that you've poured all over me.

AND.

And then you go into telling me what I should say or what I shouldn't. Who I should have as a gf and who I shouldn't. Who I can see at a restaurant for dinner and who I shouldn't. What I should do while I'm feeling sick and what I shouldn't. Who I should live with (you) and who I shouldn't, and why, and how you will be so much more awesome than people I picked to be with, that, by the way, honey, includes you.

And, oh, after all these diatribes, why am I not writing anymore, and I must be so unhappy.

Yeah, thanks for that.

So, you really didn't see this coming. You really didn't see me cringe when you wipe my cheek from across the table. You really didn't see me check out when you started into your 'Well, 'phfina, it's nice that your mother ...' or 'Well, 'phfina, I really think you shouldn't ...' that last for, God!, 27 minutes, and please can you just finish, I already said, you're right, so why are you going on about this?

You know why you didn't see this coming?

Because you forgot.

You forgot I'm a human being, not a doormat to walk over or a leaky faucet to fix or a baby that needs her diapers changed and your mommies to suck on for sustenance.

And you had the right. You had the right to me, and to the rest of my life and yours. I'm yours forever, and you've planned your whole life around that: me and you, and you and me, and you forgot to consult me about that future.

Don't believe me? I can fucking send your PMs back to you and highlight the parts where you did this, whether my name's 'phfina, Violet, Melissa, B_ or F_.

You treat me as if the only reason I exist is for your happiness.

And then I go and leave you.

So, wait a minute. Let's review here, and add more salt to the wound.

What are you for? I mean: why do you exist?

Didn't you set out to set me free from my addictions and my self-hatred?

Didn't you see me improve? And I mean 'improve' as is improve so much that I started going back to school, that I started writing again, that I started painting or I got a job that I love and hate but I'm doing and that I'm fulfilled in, that I started texting and calling friends and family again?

Didn't you see this?

And so, when I said, 'we're through' ... well, isn't the appropriate response: YAY! LET'S HAVE A PARTY!

A coming out or a coming back party for me, because I made it, I finally made it?

Isn't that the appropriate response?

Let me tell you your response. You told me it already, haven't you?

Your response?

"This is so unfair! I gave my life/career for you! You can't do this! After all I've done, I deserve a little (like for the rest of my life) gratitude!"

So, instead of us coming to completion, both of us happy that we both did something: we saved a life: mine. Instead of that, you turn cold, or you kick and scream and break plates and grab hold of my ankles as I'm walking out the door.

Or you throw me out of the house.

"Get the hell out of here! I hate you! I never want to see you again! You are a selfish, needy bitch who has no appreciation or has no idea what friendship is, you ungrateful bitch! I'm done with you! Don't you ever come back to me again! You get hooked in your addictions again, and I hope you die! I'll come to your funeral and laugh! No, I won't come to your funeral and you'll be sorry then!"

This is you. This is what it's like to be living with you. And this is what it's like to leave you.

This is you.

"But I'm not domineering! I'm not draconian!" (I've actually been told that.)

Okay, so what are you then? Are you a person who actually loves? who actually listens? who actually hears the words she's saying to me, because she looks, hard, into the mirror as she says them, and know these words are loving and caring and empowering?

Newsflash: if you see yourself that way ... well: you are so fucking blind, okay?

So you have to own this. I left you. Or I never accepted your offer for help. And it's your own damn fault.

And that's the good news.

Do you understand me? If you own that that's the way you are ... and you choose to be that way ... then you can own that you can choose to be any other way that you so choose. "I'm draconian, AND I choose not to shit all over 'phfina in what I say or how I control her, instead I choose to love, to listen, and to let her be her and to stand for her being her is the best, brightest, most beautiful person I will ever know in the whole world."

Do you know how hard I am crying as I write this?

And if you choose to own that, then you can choose to celebrate it when I say, 'You know, what you just said to me is so rude.'

Instead of saying, 'I'm not rude; you're just sensitive ... (and then you whisper to yourself) and (more than a little) imbalanced.' You would say, 'Wow! Wow, yeah: if somebody said what I just said to you, so thoughtlessly, I would just go off on them or hold a pity-party for weeks! I'm sorry, honey, forgive me, okay? You are really X, that's how I see you, and please catch me when I start talking meanly like that.'

AND YES, I'm a sensitive, more than a little imbalanced girl who can't take care of herself. AND you said those things to me how? Thoughtfully? With love? So that I would be empowered?

So, yes, it's hard, for a human being (you) to talk with a human being (me).

And you have, for the past year, so utterly failed in even grasping at trying to see how hard it is. You've just made your pronouncements at me, like I'm a microphone, and nothing else, and expected that there's no other way than your way. What views do I have? Have you asked me?

"Oh, 'phfina, I mistrust you because you're obviously not who you say you are, who could be that brutally honest, so there, and who writes stuff that so drew me to you, and I don't trust myself, nor you, so I have a test for you: do you only wear white socks, and depending on how you answer that will be the measure of my trust for you, so what do you think about me shitting all over you so thoughtlessly?"

Read that. Read that out loud, and hear the utter absurdity in what you're saying.

Now, go back to your PMs and read what you've written to me, your pronouncements about me, about yourself ('I'm not a writer like you' 'My reviews are repetitive and suck' 'I'll never be able to open up about things like you'), about the world, about time, about anything, about your gf, about your gf's bf ... about your ability to help a person in need, about your mother, about how your mother raised you.

Just go back and review what you said to me. Just go back and review what you say to anybody.

And you wonder why I say, after you've coddled, controlled, and criticized me, that 'We're through.'

You are so fucking blind.

Do you know there are people who have never done that: judged me nor mistrusted me? There're really smart, too, just like you, so you can't use the 'I'm smart so I'm critical' excuse that I'm so comfortable using.

They chose just to believe me and to believe in me, and not put me through tests nor demand my trust, not to require things from me but to ask for them and to be okay with my sometimes no?

Newsflash: you didn't get a PM from me saying ... fuck it: I'll tell you them now.

Saga. Julia. massrié.

And then some of you have the temerity to judge Saga, for example, to envy her, to compare yourselves favorably to her, when she's never done to me what you have done, or written those mistrustful, needy words you've written? Or to give up on massrié or to distance yourselves from her? Or to say, 'oh, I so know how to fix you 'cause the last girl I fixed left me and I curse her name forever!'

Nice.

And: look in the fucking mirror.

Now, don't take away from this that you are bad, wrong, less than or not loved.

I love you.

AND you are doing these things that are off-putting and that actually push people away. Me, and your exes.

You choose to continue to do this? Well, you'll keep getting the same results you've been getting.

I know.

So this entry isn't for them, unless they choose to make it be for them. This entry is for you.

This entry is especially for you, and why? Because I love you with my whole heart, and mind, and strength, and spirit, and soul.

Don't you see that?

Don't you see that I love you?

...

So, have you hung in there? Survived this onslaught?

Good, 'cause now it gets much worse.

Brace yourself.

Part II: You absolve yourself from 'it's all my fault'

SO NOW you say, when I'm going:

"Oh, okay, well ... have a nice life."

Okay. Wait a minute. Wait just a fucking minute. Weren't you the one to see that I'm in the shit? And that everything I'm doing is only digging myself deeper into the cesspool?

And I say 'I can't take this anymore'? And you're like, 'Okay'?

Sell out. Wuss.

And haven't I said this, in one way or another, every single day we've been together? 'This is too hard' 'I can't do this' 'You can't do this to me.' 'I hate this.' 'I hate life.' 'I hate myself.' 'I HATE YOU!'

And the whole time, you were like, 'Yes, dear, it's okay, it's gonna be okay,' as you held me through my panic attack or drug withdrawal or whatever.

Don't you remember you? That strong person who could take anything thrown her way from me, from the insurance companies, from the police, from neighbors?

Remember?

No, you don't. Because before, you were like, 'she's just saying that, she's out of control, she doesn't mean that meanly, I'm strong enough to carry her and to carry me through this attack.'

Now, it's personal.

Why?

What shifted?

Honey, nothing did. Not on my side.

I just said, 'We're done. We're through. I can't stand this/you anymore.'

But this time you chose to believe the words I'm saying.

Don't you see these are insane words from an insane person?

Do you know: I've really said this. I mean, haven't you read 'Rosalie and Me'? Remember what I told Julia?

I do.

Like it was yesterday.

I also remember what I was doing when I told her these words.

I was begging.

I was begging silently.

'Please-o-please-o-please-o-please don't believe me. Please don't let me leave you. Please try one more time to break through to me. Please don't try, please actually do stop me at the door. Please.

Please.'

And she let me go out that door, me being so cool, trying to hold it all together until I could get to my little red corola and then where I would bawl my eyes out as I'm driving on the most dangerous highway in the U.S.A. to get home to my mom's?

And you're letting me go because I'm a selfish, stuck-up, needy little bitch who just said those words?

Newsflash: I've always been a selfish, stuck-up, needy little bitch and you, before, chose to see the good in me that was there. And you brought it out of me.

And you're letting me go back out into the world, knowing I'm those things, knowing I have my addictions that you helped me to recover from, and now with you not in the picture anymore what am I going to go right back to?

But I say I'm cured now and I'm done with you.

And you are so done with me.

You are so done with me, that when I come back, crawling on my hands and knees, or my mother calls you and says I have fallen deeper into depression.

You say, 'Tough cookies' and throw a party with your friends to delight in my misery, and you start scanning the obituary pages, with glee to find my name there.

And you know.

You know that you caused my coming back to myself.

And you know.

You know that you sold out on me, but, more importantly, you sold out on yourself. You know this.

How do I know you know this?

"Oh, 'phfina, I am so over you."

Yeah? Why do I keep coming up in conversations with any and everybody you meet? Why do you keep going over all the things you've done for me? And my ingratitude? Why did you wallow for upwards of a year after I left you, then the rest of your life is spent explaining and justifying why you are in the right and I am just a thoughtless little cunt that you committed to rescuing (hm, you committed to rescuing me because why? Because I'm a cunt? Or because you saw that there was something and somebody to rescue?)

You not only believed me, and were so fucking blind to everything in you that drove me away, no, you took it one step further and then believed that you have no say in the matter, that you did nothing to effect my salvation so my leaving you will hopefully cause me to die so you can throw a party that there's one less bitch in the world you have to deal with, and serves me right.

You've won.

That's the bad news: you sold out on me, and you've sold out on yourself. I'm 'cured' now, and I'm gone, so you get to win.

I'm 'all better now.' And I may or may not be, but you've accomplished what you've set out to do.

Yay. You win.

AND you get to say, 'well, it's not my fault: she's so needy and greedy, she deserves everything coming to her. I hope they have extra gasoline in hell for her reception.'

Yay. It's not your fault. You win.

Isn't the victory so sweet?

Yeah? So keep living like you're living, you'll keep winning like you've been winning. Even if you change jobs, or change gfs, or change people to fix, you'll keep repeating those wonderful results that has you PMing me with what you're going through right now, which is the fallout of what you choose to ignore and choose to refuse to take responsibility for.

That's all I got for you, sweetie. All I got is this.

Bad news: you win.

And the choice was and is totally yours to make.

p.s. I love you.