A Streetcar Named...

I ended it with T. I kicked to the curb the excuse that I wanted to end our relationship or whatever-the-fuck it was in person because I was better than that.

I told him he broke my heart. “Explain,” he said.

It’s really over now. The man who caused so much blinding happiness for a short shooting star’s time and the man who caused so much sorrow. I cut the balloon string and I’m floating away. No—that’s how I felt when I first admitted he as an alcoholic and he went to rehab. I felt like an untethered children’s balloon. I cut the last of the tentacles holding me back from starting my new life.

Act II

He didn’t seem sorry. “I figured,” he said. How? How can you go from love to indifference that quickly? I wanted him to FUCKING CARE. Maybe he never loved me—maybe the man who loved me drowned in my sister’s whiskey bottle.

Can you love someone and simultaneously threaten to kill her: kill and/or hurt her cat; smash her teeth in; go for the jugular, using the soft-spots as targets: and call her every name including a CUNT? Can you love someone and treat her that way?

There was so much that I wanted to say to him—hurtful things. But I didn’t.

Love is having the ability to hurt someone and choosing not to. Love is knowing the worst thing about someone and it being okay.

“Deliberate cruelty is not forgivable.” Tennessee Williams. Blanche DuBois. Streetcar Named Desire.

When I met T. I got on my own streetcar—a streetcar that I thought would take me away from the frightening, incomprehensible world I knew. That streetcar would take me to a safe, warm, loving place. I believed the lies. I had to. I wanted to. He was the only reason I didn’t try to kill myself again after my first OD.

But let’s be totally fucking honest—yes, my OD was inevitable. But, I OD’ed THAT night because of him. I took 150 pills chased by a beer because he scared the shit out of me. He thought I was cheating on him (three weeks in—I wasn’t). He brought out a shotgun. I didn’t know it wasn’t loaded. He ordered me to stand in front of him and yelled at just like my ex-husband had.

I was too tired to get off the streetcar and drive home, so I jumped.

“I can’t do crazy again.” My inner voice was so clear and calm. “Just take the pills.”

He was so kind and loving—he was there at the hospital and the nut-house. Drunk but there.

I chose to take the pills and I feel like I would have OD’ed anyway. I had to. But that night was because of his actions and my PTSD. Am I passing the buck? I don’t give a fuck. (Rhyme unintended)

I rode that streetcar until it crashed head-on into an ICU and shitty rehab. He admitted, no big deal, he drank as soon as he left rehab. Probably the day I picked him up and told him the deal breaker: any more drinking or verbal abuse and I’m gone. “Yeah, well, stuff gets said,” he told me tonight.  I don’t know. I have never threatened to kill anyone or smash their fucking teeth in.

Being out of rehab was so overwhelming; he had to drink.

I survived the streetcar crash and unlike Blanche I did not retreat into a delusional world—although that might be nicer. Maybe all of this is a nut-house delusion and I’ll come out of it, to Beverly Hills shrinks saying that I had a psychotic break, but that I am better now. My movie-star husband is waiting for me and the girls on Rodeo miss me a lot. No, unlike Blanche I don’t have to rely on the kindness of strangers. I am banged up more than a little, but I survived the streetcar crash.

After my OD I KNEW—I told my shrinks and therapists that I would kill myself if he left me. He was the only reason I was living that December. I knew it wasn’t psychologically healthy. But whatever kept me “above ground” I guess.

While I was ending it with T. today and after, I didn’t once consider the Nuclear Option. You can’t opt for the Nuclear Option in the Holy City, Illinois.

And my aunt and G-Pa love me. My parents and sister love me. I am blessed.

Smoke ‘em if ya’ got ‘em. God Bless

In the name of The Father, Son, and Holy Spirit; Mother Mary, Saint Brigid; Saint Jude; Saint Therese Lisieux; Archangel Michael, and my Guardian Angel.

PS-I will be working three days straight this week, so I may not blog for a bit. I am still getting used to working again. I should be—should, not am—proud of myself. I am on SSD. I could choose to not work and just give in. But I am going to keep walking in my Nancy Sinatra cowboy boots. I am giving up streetcars for a while.

PPS: Thank you God for allowing my Kindle to work just one more day!