Jute’s Stories

This morning has been a bit better.  I know that things will heal that it will take time.  It’s just that space in between the devastation and the healed person that’s rough.

What do you do when you have two people who are not really suited for each other but their lives are intertwined?  That’s the problem with the first rush of love and attraction, you miss the warning signs that this will not work later on.  You want it to work and you really believe that love conquers all.  But, you can love someone and not be able to live with them.  It’s a hard thing, but a fact.

I always thought of us as yin and yang, opposites that worked together.  When in reality it seems, we were just opposites.

In the beginning, the only real things we had in common were computers and gaming.  Even when he did game, we never played together, not really.  When we tried it usually ended up badly.  I guess that should have told me something.  But in reality I just never wanted to see it.  I wanted to believe him when he said he would be with me forever.

I guess forever isn’t as long as I had thought.

Even if we weren’t suited, that doesn’t excuse his behavior.  Why do people cheat?  Why do they look their supposed loved ones right in the face and swear they love them when they are skulking behind their back destroying their relationship?

That’s the part that sticks in me the most.  The lies.

I don’t want to live my life alone.  But I don’t want to get into this kind of situation again.  I have no faith in my own judgment, since it seems I always end up in this space.  So I don’t know what to do.

Not that I have to face that yet.  First what I have to face is that time called ‘healing’.  If I can get through the healing to the healed, then life will be good again.

At least I’ve stopped crying so much. Though I still find my face wet with tears when I least expect it.

I know that most people do not mean to hurt the other person when they start the affair. Usually they aren’t thinking about them at all, other than a brief brush of their mind which is quickly turned to how they can meet or see their new love.

He’s not a vindictive man. In fact, he’s actually very kind. For most of the years we were together he was very good to me. But looking back on things I know he’s been unhappy for a long time. He’s never been good at expressing his feelings, that was one of our issues. Perhaps it was the inequality in our relationship…perhaps it’s just his natural reticence.

I saw the signs and even asked about things, but the answers I received were always that things were fine. He was happy.

I wasn’t happy either. We lived very separate lives for the most part. We rarely did anything together, even the occasional joint trip to the grocery store stopped happening.

Thinking about it, I know we really didn’t have much of a chance. Our age difference was too great and I should have known better than to think an 18 year old would really know what he wanted.

You see we met on the Internet, where everyone is only as old as you think they may be. We have an interesting tendency to believe people are the same age as our own selves. I thought he was older. He certainly seemed very mature. I’m sure he thought I was younger. Eventually, our chats led to deeper feelings and somehow the age thing came up.

When I found out he was just this side of legal, I panicked and pulled away, but in his gentle persistent way he told me it didn’t matter. I already had very deep feelings for him at the time, so I wanted to be convinced and I let myself be. Maybe it was because I’d been hurt so much before and he was ‘safe’.

For awhile it was good. I really believe we had happy times. But things changed and now we are here at this place.

I thought a lot about things yesterday and came to the conclusion that even if he wanted to try again, that it wouldn’t work. He wants things out of life I cannot give him and I need things he cannot be.

See, there I go again… the wet face. Logic tells me that it’s good that it’s over, we can both go on our way to a better life apart, but my heart remembers the times in the dark when his body curled against mine; and the tears come.

How do you put your life back together after it shatters into a million pieces? Last night the life I know fell apart like fragile glass landing on a stone floor.

I’d known for some time there was something wrong. He’d been acting different. Little things that gave me clues there might be trouble in paradise. On the way home from work yesterday a horrid feeling of dread overtook me and I found I couldn’t keep the tears from running down my face. I just knew something was terribly terribly wrong.

You see there was this girl who had been pursuing him. He’d insisted she was no more than a good friend, but there were those subtle changes. He started buying wine and drinking regularly when he’d never been a drinker before. He suddenly became very concerned about his appearance, bought new clothes and started wearing cologne. He was gone all the time. The “I love you’s” were less frequent, the making love just a bit less often. He didn’t lean his body against me after waking or touch me as much. And always there was that girl in the background.

During one of our fights about her, he’d said he’d left the chat logs open so I could read them and feel better. I’d never done it, but one day I thought I’d try and I couldn’t find an easy way to access things, he’d changed that too.

But on the way home last night, I just knew I had to try again. Either banish the specter from my mind or confirm my suspicions.

When I tried, initially I couldn’t access anything, but I work with computers for a living and eventually I found a way. With every word I read part of my heart cracked, until finally it lay there smashed. I wondered for a moment how it could still beat.

I called his cell phone and told him to come home now, that I knew what had been going on. At first he tried a feeble denial, but after I read a few choice passages outloud he stopped.

Waiting for him to get home was an eternity. I couldn’t help but search out more and read all I could find, even as it cut me with every new discovery. He’d said he was going to see his father on Saturday after his birthday, but instead, he’d spent the night with her.

My life as I knew it was over.

At least when he got home he didn’t try to lie any more about it, but in his typical fashion he also didn’t do much. I really believe that he wanted to get caught. That would mean he didn’t have to make a choice. It was made for him.

I asked if he loved her, he said he didn’t know. Tha\’s when I said he needed to find someplace else to stay.

I don’t remember all that was said, except one particular place where he said he was sorry he was the way he was. I got a bit angry then. I told him it wasn’t ‘the way he was’ he chose to do what he did. In that moment, he had a choice and he picked the one that would shatter our relationship.

It makes me angry people don’t want to take responsibility for things like that. You made the fucking choice… live with the consequences.

The very last thing he said to me was that he didn’t know if I would take him back if he decided that was what he wanted. I told him that he’d never know if he didn’t ask, but I didn’t know if I would either and if he asked, he better damn well make sure that was what he wanted.

But I’m not counting on that. I have to go on as if he isn’t going to ask. I’m left now trying to pick up the pieces and move forward. That’s all I can do, one step at a time.

He’d said he was going to see his father on Saturday after his birthday, but instead, he’d spent the night with her.

My life as I knew it was over.

I listened to his words with a sort of strange combination of detachment and trepidation.  I knew lately something had not been right.  When I first started taking the thyroid medication it had helped so much it was amazing, but lately I’d been feeling really tired all the time and not very alert.  That caused me some concern.

I knew I was supposed to get regular follow-ups especially in the first part of my treatment since it was very important to get the dosage of the thyroid medication correct.  But I hadn’t received any.

Today I feel particularly bad.  No energy at all and just a general feeling of malaise.  Over the last several days I’ve slid further and further into this and after the visit with the doctor I’m now more worried about what it means.

He said I needed to get the sonogram and needle aspiration redone.  If the sample was contaminated with blood (which it was) they couldn’t get a good reading on it.  It should have been redone.  I’m not sure why it wasn’t, but after he gets the original lab results he will decide what is next.

In the meantime he is fairly sure my medication dose is way too high and that may be creating the problems I now feel.

So, joy of joys the specter of cancer is back along with a little possible problem called dementia.

Now, I don’t know about anyone else but there are few things that strike terror into my heart more than dementia.  Losing my life I can deal with, losing my mind I can’t.  Luckily, dementia caused by thyroid problems is reversible.  I just don’t want to get to a place it has to be reversed.

So, we start the waiting game again… I have tests I have to do and another doctor’s appointment next week.  In the meantime I’ll try not to worry.  I just wish I wasn’t so damn tired all the time.

I had to close the message to keep the tears at bay.  I was at work and crying here would be difficult to explain.

I only knew her through the message board of the game I played.  Her ready wit had made me laugh often.  She played on a different server than I did and so I had little chance to interact with her.  I don’t know exactly when she changed from just a name on the Official Forum to a person to me, but somewhere along the line it happened and now I felt her pain.

How did it happen?  I’m not exactly sure.  Perhaps it was when she reached out to me with a simple message to ask how I was, never mentioning the struggle I’d gone through with my health, just making me laugh and making sure I knew someone cared if I was okay.

She had recently lost a beloved pet to age and cancer.  Reading about it was very hard for me.  I wanted so much to say something to ease the pain, but just thinking about it caused tears to flow.

I have an old dog too.

There are many people who will never understand the bond some of us feel with our pets and how deeply the loss of them cuts into us.  When we take an animal into our homes and hearts we know their short lives will likely end before our own and death is part of the package.  Nothing lives forever, but knowing that does not make it easier when the time comes.

I felt for her because I knew before long I would have to face the same choice she had faced.  I want my dog to be with me as long as he can, but I don’t want to be selfish and keep him with me when his life is no longer worth living.  Unlike a human, a dog cannot tell me when he hurts too much to continue or when release would be welcomed.  I have to hope that I can read the signs and not have him leave before he is ready or leave him too long in pain.

I knew, though it had been hard for her, my message board friend had made the right choice, but now she had to live without her furry friend.

I wanted to reach out and comfort her, but instead my own fear and reluctance to face the consequences of what would inevitably happen to my own pet, left me unable to say anything worthwhile.

Sometimes things hit too close to home.  She had reached out to me when I was hurting and now I felt I had let her down with my own inability to return the favor.

I have known people who said they lived their life with no regrets.  I however, have many.  I know my own failures too well.

He doesn’t read the things I write and it bothers me. I’m not quite sure why his lack of interest cuts me so deeply, but it does.

Perhaps it’s because I feel as if when I write, I peel away the layers of my outside ‘skin’ to expose the core of me. The essence of who I am is found here in my stories. My deepest thoughts and feelings are exposed with the words on the page.

Because in my writing I bare so much of myself and he is my life partner, his interest means more to me than anyone’s. Yet, although I’ve tried to let him know how much it would mean to me for him to read it, he has not. He doesn’t have to like it, or think it’s good; just care enough to actually read the essence of me I’ve poured out in my writing.

I wish I knew why he doesn’t read it. In many ways it feels almost like a rejection of ‘me’. Perhaps he is afraid that it will be something he hates and knowing what it means to me he would not want to hurt me. Thus causing a dilemma for him; if he reads it, I might get hurt and if he doesn’t I do anyway.

Maybe the truth is he just isn’t interested.

Probably it’s somewhere in between.

But still it gnaws at me….

Secretly he believes he’s evil. Somewhere in the dark corners of his mind, those thoughts formed and took hold. Though he never verbalizes them and works to shove the thought away, it is still there driving him on.

Somewhere he decided to give up and revel in what he sees as his wickedness; tempting others to join him in his debauchery as an affirmation of his own immorality, his rakish smile and silken words enticing others to partake of his sin. It whispers to him when he ponders his choices and its siren’s call beckons him to abandon doing what he feels is ‘right’.

But sometimes in the dark of the night when he can no longer push away the thoughts, he sees himself and fears he’s beyond redemption. A lost soul, trapped in a web of his own desires, abandoned by all, even the God he holds dear.

The fear of imperfection, of being less than ideal that has led him to abandon all hope. I wish sometimes I could reach out and wrap my arms around him to let him feel the comfort of another human soul. I’ve heard him cry in anguish at the pain of his friends. I’ve known his encouragement when I personally felt the depths of despair. He has a rare understanding and forgiveness of the imperfections of others, perhaps because he so keenly feels his own. I wish I could show him the goodness in his soul and let him know that the demon form of his visions is not his own, but a construct of his fears.

I knew she was nervous. I could tell by the way her hand shook slightly as she put it to her lips. She bit her cuticles when she was feeling unsure and insecure. The slight unsteadiness of her hand and her resorting to her nervous habit told me something was not right.

I liked her. I never knew how she felt about me and because of the complexity of our relationship I didn’t know if I ever would. In another time and place I would have liked to be her friend, but in this time and place, I was her boss which automatically put a kind of barrier in the way.

One of the reasons I liked her was her complexity. She appeared to the outside world as one tough cookie. She was petite, but she was strong. I knew bits and pieces of her life that I’d gleaned over time. Little scraps that she’d shared or let slip. She had grown up the outsider in a rough area and she knew how to fight. I always had the feeling that she’d learned long ago not to let anyone see a hint of weakness. Her childhood had not been easy or even close to ideal, but she’d survived.

She was beautiful, light red hair, clear alabaster skin. I sometimes thought, however, that she doubted that she was. In a world of enhanced beauty blasted at us constantly by the media, hers was a natural one. She was also smart. She’d only had a high school education and I’d gotten the feeling from pieces she’d let slip at various times, that it wasn’t a stellar one, but she’d pushed herself to return to school after many years and now she found herself competing with younger kids who had more time and a more recent dealing with the educational system. I knew that it was hard for her, but she drove herself on.

I knew she’d gone back to school and was desperately trying to make up for lost time. I didn’t know her age for sure, but I knew she’d seen the back side of her twenties and had begun the slow march to a time when the female ‘biological clock’ stopped its steady ticking. She loved children. It was her compassion for them and understanding that had led her to choose to pursue a career in social work. And sometimes, perhaps wrongly, I thought it bothered her that she may not have any of her own.

I wasn’t sure what caused the nervousness, but sometimes I thought life might be getting a bit much for her to handle. I wanted to help, but I was always afraid to cross that invisible line. The complexity of being her boss and not her friend felt like an invisible wall. I could see her, but could not reach out and really touch her life.

Other hints she’d let slip made me know she was dealing with past problems. Her foray into classes for her Social Work degree had the side effect of bringing up past issues she may have thought long buried.

Her complex mix of strength and fragility made her a fascinating person. I often wondered how much of the fragileness the outside world really saw. She was very good at maintaining an exterior façade. She always had a ready smile and laugh. People thought she was a nice person and she was. But how many ever looked past the smile to see the nervous gnawing of her fingernails? Did they see what she wanted them to see, a strong, tough woman who knew how to handle herself? Or did they see any of what she feared they might see, a scared woman who lived life by forcing herself to keep going when she just wanted to curl up and quit?

Sometimes I thought I glimpsed a reflection of my own insecurities in her. I too had grown up with in a tough childhood where I was always the outsider.

I hoped whatever it was that worried her now would pass. I had confidence that she could handle it. She’d handled so much in life already. But I also knew how lonely that could be.

That was the worst part about the kind of life I’d lived, one that I had a feeling she’d shared; feeling that you always had to be strong. If you weren’t, something bad would happen. No one could be relied on to carry you, so you had to carry yourself.

It kept you safe, but it also was very lonely.

I watched her covertly from behind that invisible wall and wished she knew someone else understood.

The dismay from the rest of the passengers was palpable. The pilot’s voice droned on telling us that it would be another two hours here on the ground waiting. Apparently Chicago was having some awful weather and that would mean we couldn’t land and instead of having us fly around and around waiting, we sat here on the runway waiting.

I for one appreciated the fact we wouldn’t be circling the airport. See, I hate flying. Not just a little, but so much so that I don’t want to even consider doing it unless forced into a situation where I have no other alternative. I was making this trip for my job and I had no choice.
People often think I’m afraid to fly and that’s why I’m reluctant. I don’t fear flying any more than I fear driving. My problem with flying lies in something else.

It makes me sick. Quite literally.

All my life I’ve been plagued with motion sickness. A simple car ride as a child would be unpleasant and riding the bus to school every day was pure hell. I learned early that while others could read or look around at the scenery, I just concentrated on the road ahead if I could see it and focused on not losing the contents of my stomach.

I’ve tried everything. Bracelets, Dramamine, Ginger, even the special seasickness patches available by prescription only. Nothing works.

So every flight I take is my own personal version of hell. I board the plane, sit with my eyes closed and wait. When the plane’s wheels leave the ground I usually can’t control the nausea and I lose it. When the plane lands it’s a repeat of the takeoff and the whole time in between I am just one turbulance bump away from needing yet another airsickness bag.

I hate it. Not just dislike, but dread with my whole being. I completely understand why they use nausea as aversion therapy. I hear jet engines and I can feel my stomach start to churn.
Not only am I nauseaous, but I’m completely personally mortified. I’m embarassed to be tossing my cookies in a public place where the enforced captivity means some poor schmo has to participate in my weakness. I always feel bad for them. I mean, who wants to sit next to someone who has their head in a bag for a good deal of the flight? I can imagine how I’m the object of great stories they tell of how horrible their flight was sitting next to a barfing woman.

Even though it meant the nausea was delayed, I wasn’t any happier about the waiting than any of my fellow passengers. I wanted it done and over with. I wanted out of the plane with no need to get back on. Home with my boyfriend and our dog.
I thought about what I could do while I waited. I hadn’t been writing much lately due to a combination of things and I really wanted to get back to writing. Perhaps this would be a way to use the time.

I reached down and pulled out my laptop. I knew the battery was at full life and so I would have plenty of time. I booted the system, opened up Microsoft Word and started to type. Then I noticed something interesting.

I have no real trouble pouring out intimate thoughts and feelings when I write as evidenced by my recounting of my problems with flying above. I have shared some of the darkest parts of my mind in some pieces I’ve written, but I felt completely naked and exposed there in the airplane sitting between two people who could look over at what I was writing at any time.

I couldn’t write while someone was watching.

I found that interesting. Perhaps it’s the seemingly annonymousness of the web. Although I know people can find out pretty much anything if they really want to, there is an illusion of annonymity. No one is watching me type my thoughts and feelings. Perhaps it’s this that allows me to write as I do.

I closed the laptop after about five minutes of staring at the empty document. I’d just have to wait for another time.

I ended up chatting with the woman in the window seat. I appologized to her ahead of time for what was going to happen. Luckily, she was fairly unflappable and a good sport about it all.

Eventually, the pilot came on to tell us we would be moving soon and I took my position, seatback upright, table tray stowed, eyes closed and hand clenched firmly around the barf bag.

I’ve willed myself through many things. I was sure I could make it through this. One moment at a time.

I have a friend who is concerned about what I write here.  He’s afraid that recognizes themselves will take it wrong.

His concern is a valid one.

He is correct.  I’ve worried often that some things I write might have the potential to hurt people.  I have some memories that I’ve written down that were very painful experiences.  The people in them, may be hurt by reading the starkness of my point of view.  I know there are things in my life I’ve done that if I were to read accounts of them, finding some of my actions held up to the cold light of the writer’s experience, might be painful.

I’ve written a few pieces that I’ve sent only to close friends.  The reaction to those pieces by those friends was enlightening.  Their upset at the events caused me to re-evaluate ever publishing those publicly.

But on the other hand, something inside me drives me to write things as I experienced them.  To write the truth as I felt it.  To try to make the reader feel as though they too lived it.
So, I’ve tried to walk a balance.  I’ve seen too many times in life where people use ‘truth’ as an excuse for cruelty.  I don’t want to fall into that, but at the same time I hate having to censor things I say.

There is no easy answer, but then few things in life really are…