Real Life

Lassitude

Mel Douleur

A ball of nerves and a wreck of toxic energy will eventually either burn itself out or implode. I suppose it depends on the type of person it exists within. Those super high energy folks who push themselves harder and higher than the rest of us, they implode. Sometimes in ways that seem far more like explosion than implosion, but if you think about the psychology of it, it is a collapse, even in its fireworks and devastation. They are folding in upon themselves in a violent mental break that sometimes screws people up forever.

But the burnouts are the people who take the final fizzle of the stress that was fueled by their demands upon themselves and use it to guide their life down a new path, these are the people we watch, follow, idolize, etc.

I could be either. Or both. Somewhere on the road before these two.

Exhausted, irritable and empty.

This week has been filled with a lot of bad, some of which I shouldn’t own, but do. And probably a lot of something made from scratch in my own brain. Defeat, failure, a huge round blob of sadness that even I don’t understand. But it sits there, limp and heavy in the top of my chest making it difficult to breathe.

My desk at work has become a never-ending inbox. My boss “sympathizes” with the incredulous amount of tasks that I must own, but doesn’t understand why I cannot get them done. The impending repercussions of unmet deadlines dangle over me like a guillotine, but it never actually falls so that I might be released from this madness. And he promises endlessly that help is coming, that there is light at the end of the tunnel, that things will improve.

For eighteen years, I have lived under this pressure. But I believe I have reached lassitude.

I have been here before and, last time, close to twenty years ago, I basically walked out on my life. I quit my job, chose a new path, moved 100 miles away. I got really fat and really desperate. And I continued down that horrific spiral until I met a man who cared enough to pull me out of it without making demands on me in the process.

Now, as I feel the edges of that longing to isolate myself, the desire to prepare to walk out again, I find my feet rooted to this life.

I have been struggling for a long time to feel worthy. My husband deserves better, my kids need better, my boss should go try to find better. But I am what they all have.

I am all they have.

Maybe I wouldn’t feel so empty if I force myself to see things from their perspective. I’ve been able to do this with my husband, to see the bond of marriage as the gift that it is, usually. And my kids show me every day that they don’t see me as a failure at all. I’m their first love. I’m their world.

But I can’t seem to see past my failures at work. I have wasted so much of my personal time dwelling on what I could’ve done better, smarter, faster, etc. When my boss does praise me, which is rare, I feel so undeserving that it’s difficult to take it seriously. And when coworkers point out any inadequacies, they may as well be brandishing a knife, because those criticisms cut me as deep as any blade.

“Why? It’s just a job.”
No, it’s MY job.
“It’s just a paycheck.”
No, it’s my livelihood.

“It’s only work.  Leave it at your desk. Don’t bring the office home.”

Someone, please, tell me how to do that!

I know my self-worth should not be wrapped up in the company I work for. I know that my happiness should NEVER rely upon someone, something, or somewhere else.

But tell me how to stop doing that.

Or tell me how to fill myself back up again so I can keep doing it.

I’m burning out, and the season hasn’t even started yet.

I don’t want to implode.

I want to breathe. But somehow, still succeed.

How do I find fuel in the fire that consumes me constantly?

 

100 days of gratitude

Choice

Mel Douleur

We don’t have a long time here. So the choices we make and the lives we touch really matter. 

At least that seems like good, moral, responsible philosophy.

But that supposes we are in charge of our own destiny. That fate doesn’t already have our every move plugged into some great script that doesn’t so much unfold but is preformed.

The first time I tried to temp fate and end my life as a teenager, a counselor told me that if I felt that way, maybe I should actively try to void this fate I believed to be cursed with, but by changing myself instead of ending myself.

It made sense, and years later, I would get much the same advice when I returned to therapy as a young adult. 

In taking that advice, I acted on the idea of who I should be. I never really thought about what would happen to who I was.

My husband met me at a wretched phase where I didn’t care anymore. I had already given up. I had a suicide plan. And he saved me from it.

Hooray, hearts and flowers all around, but the weird thing is, I’ve thought every day since I threw away those pills, “I wonder what I kept him from.”

I have these thoughts about everyone who spends their attention or affection or God forbid both on me. I can trace this thinking back to my beginning. I have no idea why I think this way, and rationally, I know it’s wrong… But that doesn’t stop the guilt.

Nothing stops it, and, if I’m not making them up, pulling them out of thin air sometimes, I’m doing bad things, giving myself perfect reasons to feel like an awful person. 

I’ve hurt people, I’ve been an absentee friend, sister, employee, girlfriend, wife, mother, all because, as long as I’m locked in my own head, I can’t hurt these men and women who mean so much to me. But locking them out is just as hurtful as not being truthful with them.

Today, I spent part of the day wishing I were in a hole, far away from people where I could just just not be responsible for anything or anyone. Then I felt guilty for thinking that. I thought about texting or calling friends who might yank me out of it. But then I felt guilty for being the friend who never calls unless she needs something. I thought about my husband. But then I felt guilty for burdening him with one more bad day. 

So, I bucked up. Pushed on. Kept living.

I made a choice. 

And I’m grateful for that choice.

I know a woman who isn’t going to get too many more choices, cancer is stealing them from her. And her kids. And the world.

We don’t have a long time here. 

So the choices we make really matter.

100 days of gratitude

Breathe

Mel Douleur

Have you ever heard the wind against vinyl siding? It’s a strange, plastic sound. It might sound like rain, sometimes even like hail. But not really.

You cannot compare it to any other noise, but when you live with it regularly, you grow so accustomed to it that it surprises you when you notice it again.

In a storm, it can be terrifying. If you have any imagination whatsoever, it will sound as though the outer walls are being ripped from the house by claws and teeth and talons.

But after the storm, when it slows into a benign squeaky rustling, it’s sort of soothing.

Like listening to your lover’s breath after making love.

It’s calming and envelopes you in a sense of harmony. You cannot help but breathe in unison with it. And as you settle into rhythm, sighing in the gaps and smiling when the sound returns, you might be lulled to sleep by the soft, white noise.

The tiny wind chime tinkles a sweet melody, like a baby’s sleepy giggle.

A low, grinding crunch announces a new dose of ice from the freezer, like the rumble of turning over in bed.

Warm murmurs of fresh heat waft from the air vents, like the mild snores of a long, winter’s doze.

The floors settle with a faint groan, like the gurgles of digestion in the middle of the night.

A house lives, breathes, even as it sleeps.

And aren’t you grateful for the chance to notice it?

 

I’m attempting a writing challenge called 100 days of gratitude. My goal is use this exercise to better my craft as well as myself. Today is Day 1, my challenge was to start and end with a question. And yes, despite my insomnia, I am grateful for my hearing. I can’t imagine life without sound.

Real Life

Fearless

Mel Douleur

Image result for motivational quotes

I find myself in strange places sometimes, propped up by the rock that my husband has become for me. I can see everything laid out in front of me, instead of being buried beneath it, and I feel what it means to be fertilized by the shit people throw on you.

Yesterday was a hard day, one that cannot be explained easy but involved an employee (whom I adored) abandoning her job, being let down on a personal level by another, and the silent torture of drowning in my work responsibilities. This is normally the point where I shut down emotionally and hide (literally or figuratively, depending on how bad it is), bottling up the negative feelings to deal with later. The results of this would typically build up a few times into a molotov cocktail of self-hatred.

Instead, I texted with my hubby in several moments when I felt overwhelmed, actually believed him when he said it wasn’t my fault, and managed to get through the day without shutting down.

I’m still terrible at talking. And, just like I absorb the moods of everyone around me, like an emotional sponge, I also drench everyone around me with my mood when I get too full, too heavy hearted. So, the whole office knew something was up. There are equals I could have confided in. My boss even asked if I was ok. But I couldn’t.

Venting about people’s incompetence is much different than telling people, face to face, that you are hurting, heartsick, and broken by this thing that shouldn’t break anyone.

Perhaps I should close myself off a little, to prevent other people from being able to devastate me in this manner.

But I don’t want to.

Part of what makes me who I am is my compassion and sensitivity. If I let people steal that from me, if I become jaded and put up walls, I close myself off from all the wonderful things that come with empathy as well.

I refuse to fear growing close to and caring about others simply to protect myself from their flaws.

So. Instead, I’m just going to keep going and growing, loving ALL of the people who touch my life. Because that is my purpose.

I am at my best when I am caring for and helping others.

Love is what sets my soul on fire.

And I’m so grateful for my husband’s new found ability to see that, and not try to talk me out of it.

I won’t fear talking to him anymore.

Real Life

Starting over

Mel Douleur

We all experience moments in life when we wish we could start over, begin again, have a clean slate. You have that option when writing a blog. You can delete everything and start over.

I’ve considered this for a while. It would be so easy, and words are unlimited, I could easily fill a whole new blog.

But I’ve seen so many people delete their site, erase their precious words and open something totally new and different. Reinventing themselves for a whole new audience.

I found that I simply couldn’t do it.

I have my “Writer’s Blog.” A place to spotlight my poetry and fiction. And I’ve kept this site private for so long, I imagine it will be new for some. With a facelift and some little tweaks, it looks totally different.

But my words are all still here.

There may be things here I’m not proud of, pieces of the past few years that could hurt my husband anew. But my hope is to give him new things to focus on.

And if anyone knows me, they know how difficult I find it to delete my words.

In the last few months, I’ve had to delete everything I’ve shared with others privately, and I did so willingly and purposefully. But to delete these words, these indelible marks of mine on the internet, my personal tattoos on society? No. I simply cannot.

So, I am here to continue my story.

If you read these words, Daddy, please know that I never have and never will write anything that is meant to hurt you. But this is the canvas in which I paint my soul and I cannot promise it will not sometimes be black. As you always have seen me for what I show you, see this for what it is.

My truth. My reality. My words.

And as we rewrite our story, together, finally, in life, I hope you’ll let me journal those adventures here so that our story may inspire others along the way.

 

Real Life, Struggles

Panic

Mel Douleur

I haven’t written in a while, just to write. Any spare time I have these days I seem to waste on mindless games or weaving needle like thoughts through my brain to see how much damage I can do in that short period of time. No one can hurt you quite like you hurt yourself.

I took this blog down while I was sorting through some things personally, and I thought I would drain it and start fresh. Delete the old and create a new space to send my little and sometimes big thoughts into. But, truth be told, I don’t want to.

Like me, this place is a culmination of my experiences. I can’t reboot myself and start over, so why should I do that here.

The story of my retreat and absence is typical, I think. I fell down the rabbit hole. And was pulled back up and out through a series of events that I might document later, because I feel like it might help someone else, someday. But not today.

Instead, I’m going to write from my head.

Last night, exhausted and stretched past my limited capacity for verbalizing the storm that churns inside my skull, I had a panic attack.

I have not hyperventilated since I was in high school. I might have come close a few times, but last night, I literally felt like I was suffocating.

My wonderful hubby and I were lying in my beautiful blanket fort, strung with fairy lights and feeling safe and sweet in this perfect cocoon he built me, I thought I might just slip into sleep. I am stressed at work and home and in basically every facet of my life. And I’m not handling it well, so I’m just tired. All the time. Very, very tired.

I was sleepy, but he was talking and my mind was turning over all the things I hadn’t done this week, all the things I wanted to do, all the ways I’ve disappointed him. And his words sliced through everything else, reminding me how much I’ve disappointed myself. And like a weld breaking inside my chest, like a concrete mixer cracking open, everything gushed out and simultaneously seized up.

And I felt ridiculous.

I pushed away from him, gasping and trying to pull in air. I felt like I was dying. I might have wished that I would. Because the truth behind that panic attack was that I couldn’t believe I was the person I had ALWAYS feared becoming.

Being the rational, independent, capable, modern woman that I am, I brought myself under control. It took some time, and I’m sorry to him that meant some of my walls went back up. Sometimes, control and hiding go hand in hand. Sometimes, I cannot escape my need to wrap up life in a brown paper package and tie it up with a string. If everything is neatly put away, I can pretend it’s dealt with.

I can pretend that I’m ok.

I have a whole lifetime, forty years, of pretending to be ok. What’s one more time?

But now, he knows how much I hide. And he keeps telling me not to. He keeps making me talk to him. And I wonder if that is why I panicked.

Time will tell if we can get through this, make things “ok” again, or if we’ll just pretend.

I don’t want to though. Despite how much part of might want to leave, the more important part of me, the part that is his wife, the mother of his kids, the woman he saved all those years ago, she wants to stay and fight and make it work.

I hope she doesn’t have to kill this other part in the process.

D/s, Erotic Poetry

Bound

Mel Douleur

image

Wrists given willingly
Wilfully
My last act
Of independence
But how those ropes
Could set me free
Your bonds
Taking everything away
And replacing it
With you
You could shred me
But instead
You would polish me
Make me into
A new woman

I have longed for my
Limits
To be pushed
Now I burn
For those lines
To be erased
I have ached for
The blunt edge
Of affection
Now it has grown
Into an ever present need
I have wanted
Oh how I have wanted
To feel the ecstacy
Of bruises
And welts
The stinging reminders
Of your love
In a world of musts
And nows
I have learned patience

But I hope
Soon
To be bound
For the wait

Image from Tumblr.com, artist unknown.

Real Life, Struggles

His Arms

Mel Douleur

His arms are a bit lean compared to the rest of him. Lean but strong, and covered in a manly coat of fur.

They never rise in intimidation or frustration. Even when it’s wanted. Even when it’s coerced. And though their embrace is quite heavenly, that notion is perhaps amplified by the infrequent hugs he gives.

There’s an awkwardness that arises between married people who don’t get each other. Pretty often, you don’t have a clue how it happened. You just wake up one day and the person you married seems as foreign as an alien lying next you in bed. An alien you’ve built a life with. A stranger you fell in love with. You were in love, weren’t you?

Sometimes you know exactly what happened. You grew apart. It’s simple. But seriously fucking complicated.

You find yourself. Finally being true, after years and years and years of denying who you really were inside. No more hiding behind a wall built from rigid bricks of must do‘s and thick mortar of will be‘s. Ending the denial that you want more, or less. Finally speaking up, saying that you need something completely different.

In the past, you might have even shied away from hugs, snuggles and cuddles because only weak little girls need that shit. Strong, independent, willful women need nothing.  Especially not the arms of a man!

In your twenties, you might actually believe that. In your thirties you might start to realize what you denied yourself. Especially when you start holding your children too tight and forcing them to be living stuffies, in some deluded effort to train yourself to live without the physical embodiment of love.

But sooner or later, it will catch up to you. I don’t care how hard and tough and strong you think you are. Eventually, that old wall will start to fall apart. You might hate what’s behind it enough to build it back up. You might try to deny anything is wrong, while secretly crumbling inside until you can’t hold yourself up any longer. You might embrace the girl behind the wall, and try to give her back all the things you stole from her. At a cost to your marriage, your family, your kids. Your life.

But men deplore change. And women are change.

When I first told someone I was going to try to change my marriage, their response was sort of brutal: “Good luck with that.”

But you only have two choices. Leave or stay. Walk away or stick it out. Make a new life or make it work.

When you get pregnant in the middle of all this… well, the decision is temporarily made for you.

More hugs and kisses are probably a band-aid. As was the idea that D/s would be possible with the kind, gentle, simple man I married.

He is who he is. Men deplore change.

My needs, dreams, desire and purpose modify themselves on a nearly daily basis. Women are change.

But the extra hugs, as simple and silly as it seems, they do feel really good. His arms around me do feel awfully good.

In the evenings, when life winds down to just the two of us, offering a tiny glimpse of what life could be like after kids grow up, after jobs give way to retirement, after the world has spun the gusto out of us, I can’t help but wonder:

Will his arms be enough to hold me?

Forever?

Can they?

 

poetry

Spare room

Mel Douleur
http://www.deviantart.com/art/Fort-of-a-Lifetime-316207721
Fort of a Lifetime by Snuffles379 via DeviantArt.com

 

Knowing who you are
Is a far cry
From knowing what you
Want
The spare room
Does not compare
To the palace
I could rest
Within
The spare room
Does not care
If the bed is
Yours
Ours
Mine
The spare room
Respects
My authority
Instead of imposing
It’s own
Even when I long
To feel it
Ripped away
So I fold myself
Into this tiny
Blanket fort
Of
My own
Construction
Outside the palace
Away from that
Spare room
Because hiding
Is far simpler
Than choosing
Between your
Heart
Or
Your soul

poetry

Selfish

Mel Douleur

Love is sometimes selfish
Wants to be seen
Felt
Known
In dark moments
Beneath clouds of regret
And isolation
Love wants to hurt
Because it hurts
In the dark
And silence
But in the light
Set free
On the wind of
Truth
Words
Hope
Love burns brighter
Gleaming
Clean, soft brilliance
My love is
Selfish
But I strive
To shine
Beneath
That
Light