I’m Not Supposed To Tell You

I’m not supposed to tell you… 

Every day I am screaming on the inside. I wake up in the early dawn hours covered in sweat. My hair is drenched, matted to the back of my neck soaking wet. My pillows are damp with fever dreams and nightmares. My world is crashing in on me as I lay alone in my bed. A bed I bought with my husband on a day where I would later ask him to leave.

I’d never said those words before that day. “Get out. Go away. Just leave.” We bought a new bed and a mattress to sustain a sinking marriage. Floating hopelessly into the marital martyrdom. Sign the papers. Sign away credit and life. Sign the dotted line and pretend. Don’t tell anyone the truth. Don’t let the world know.

I’m not supposed to tell you…

I’ve lost my faith. The doctor had to put me on Prozac. I cried at the loss of my great love who had died in my heart. I cried endlessly for months. I raged because I’d never felt such a betrayal. All my childhood came bearing down on me in a bathtub on a Saturday morning a few months back. And I broke. They say you don’t know when you’re breaking but they are wrong. You know. You feel every pain washing over your body like a tidal wave. It doesn’t matter the twenty years of therapy you’ve done to overcome the abuse. When you’re hurt, and lied to, and betrayed, it can all return in a split second.

You feel the hurt of a father who never loved you. You see every belt being ripped from his pants and crashing against your skin. You go back to the memories you thought you had erased decades ago. But they are still inside of you. They are a part of you. You sit in a tub surrounded by toys, wanting to drown away a lifetime filled with only hurt. But all you get is a yeast infection from being submerged in the water for over four hours. All you get is a man who promised to love you, but instead he stands back in awe of your crazy depths. And he is scared of you. He’d only read the stories of writers gone mad. Never seen it firsthand.

Those stories romance the novelty of psychotic breaks. Glorify their redemption because the heroine always rises up. But what happens when she doesn’t rise? When the dead black crow never rises to become a glorious phoenix.

I’m not supposed to tell you…

It took another month after I crawled out of the tub to tell someone to give me something. To sit and cry in front of a doctor. To tell them the story of betrayal. To check mark all the signs of depression. And I went home with a prescription. I swallowed my own Prozac Nation with a tiny ounce of water. And hell followed with it. I lost 20 pounds within a month. I didn’t want to eat. The nausea was coupled with the thoughts. The creeping madness because my brain had to be rewired. It couldn’t keep sustaining on rage and sadness. The neurons had to settle back and trigger secure coping mechanisms. I sat in my bed. A deep, dark solemn purple room and a lonely white queen sized bed, blanketed in a teal quilt. My only safe place. I make payments every month on my only safe place. 

It’s not really safe, you know? The dreams and the madness are just contained there. When I rise, I leave them there on sweaty sheets. I turn on the television and drown out constant narratives with televised realism. I watch a fascist and our new world. I watch the media spinning their machines trying to make sense of things that are incomprehensible. I paint my face pretty metallic colors to highlight my normally dismal day.

I do all that is required. Each day, I swallow the green pill and I realize I am one day closer to something.

I’m not supposed to tell you…

Whatever that something is, I’ve given up hope on knowing or caring what something actually means. I am the girl who no longer romances the notions of a happy life with fairytale endings. I’ve been beaten one too many times and I accept I will never leave these hills. I will make a life here. I will raise my child here and I will pray every day he gets the opportunity to go out and see the world, the world I will never get to see. I pray one day he will eat at a cafe in France. He will smell the English rain. He will ride those double decker buses he sees on his shows. He will sit in a Broadway theater. He will touch ancient ruins of Mayan temples. He will be everywhere I was never able to go.

I’m not supposed to tell you…

I’m stuck here. I married a man I thought I knew… but I guess no one really truly knows another human entirely. I wake up everyday to a person I see only as a stranger. I just stopped outwardly yelling at him. Inwardly, my soul is tearing me apart with the words saying, “I’m so fucking stuck.”

And those words are terrifying because I believed once, only 6 months ago, that I could grab the world by the tail and swing it whichever way I desired. I can’t see my own ambitions anymore. I can’t feel where my heart is telling me to go right now. All I hear is the words repeating in my head and they are saying, “I’m not supposed to tell you.” 

Maybe I’ve told too much. Danced too close with my devils tonight.

Maybe I shouldn’t say, “I’ve given up…”

Not yet anyways.

When my son hugs me and says he loves me, I still feel joy inside of me. A spark tries to ignite inside of my soul telling me there is so much more yet to live. Now is the time to be strong and LIVE.

Live for him.
Live for myself.
Crawl under the teal quilt and ride out the storm.
All storms pass, at their own times.


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8 Comments on "I’m Not Supposed To Tell You"

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Sounds a lot like my life.
I wish there weren’t so many of us going through this kind of stuff.

Nina Rubin

Wow, this is an incredibly powerful post. I especially relate to your lines about knowing when you’re broken. Of course you know.

Lisa @ The Meaning of Me
Lisa @ The Meaning of Me

God, your words. Hoping you find your way forward. Hold onto that spark in your son, in you.


Big love to you *HUGS* I hope you find secure ways forward xoxoxo


I hope this storm passes quickly!! Your son sounds like the gift you’ve always wanted and needed. ❤️❤️

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