You Might Want to Skip this One

I will start this post with a long and detailed disclaimer.  No, I don't think Ian leaving (see, still can't say dying) is something that  happened to me.  His life was wholly his as were his struggles, his pains and his many triumphs.  I think what I'm going through now is mine--is happening to me.  And no, I don't think it's only happening to me.  Keith's grief is every bit as raw and painful.  Some days I wish I could read his thoughts when I turned on the computer so that I could understand how he is doing and which specific things are gnawing at him.  Having said that, this post is unique to my experience and the very dark corners of me which have never seen the light. 

The last 2-3 days haven't been great.  Pretty awful in fact.  I think I'm putting pressure on myself that  somehow my feelings need to level off by the end of next week, because Mikey and Lucy are going to home with me all day, all summer.  I won't be able to hide.  I'll be on all the time.  I'm not responding well to my own  pressure. 

This is what's going on.  I want to self-destruct.  I want to get drunk or high.  Really.  I want to escape and that's one way to do it.  I want to do something bad.  And thinking like that took me to a place I haven't gone in a long time--the last time I felt this way.  April 1987.  I was raped.  I've never thought any good could come from letting that out, but if writing about it will make me stop thinking about it, that would be a good thing. 

I was in such a place of deep self-loathing afterward that the few friends that believed me, went out and bought several dozen eggs and took me for a ride.  While I'm not  proud of it, I remember the relief it brought to me to throw those eggs at everything--buildings, cars, even an open Jeep and a homeless  person.  I said I wasn't proud of it.  I don't know why they thought of that.  I'd like to think it's because they knew drugs and alcohol and promiscuity were out of the question.  Maybe that's why I stole a few things around that time too--never thought of that.

Wanting to do something bad is only the first similarity I can now see between these 2 tragedies.  Guilt is definitely the most glaring link.  I feel I could've prevented both things.  In the case of the rape:  This wasn't a stranger.  I knew his middle name, his hometown, his birthday.  I knew he wasn't someone to be trusted.  In fact, the night it happened, he was mad at me for warning a new young freshman to watch out for him.  I didn't see him as my big bad wolf--other girls' yes, but we were friends.  He knew I liked him, but that I would never let anything happen because I wasn't that kind of girl.  I had flirted with him and teased him in the past.  That night I had on a mini skirt.  I didn't set out to be alone with him.  I didn't even start out in his apartment.  I asked his roommates not to leave us alone.  It doesn't matter.  I am guilty for letting myself get close enough to a person like him that I couldn't get away.  It's been 20+ years.  I still remember saying things I shouldn't have said and being in places I shouldn't have been and being seduced by the idea that nothing bad would ever happen to me.

With Ian, I was seduced over the years into thinking that he would be okay.  That nothing else bad could happen.  We were past it.  How could we possible handle any more?  So when I should have been seeing warning signs (just like in 1987), I didn't.  I didn't scream at the doctors and make them understand something wasn't right.  I didn't want to believe something wasn't right.  The pit I had in my stomach that wouldn't go away should've been recognized as "wait a minute, I've felt this before and it's not good."  I thought I was sparing Ian the anxiety and fear by not jumping to the conclusion that it must be his heart failing, but what if it was me I was sparing?

I feel again like if only I could turn back the clock and make that one thing not happen...

I feel again like I can't really tell anyone how I'm feeling.  At least this time, I won't run away to Boston for a year to sort it all out by myself and never ever let anyone know.  ( I won't get drunk or high either.)

I feel the same look on people's faces when I start to talk about Ian's death as I did on Keith's face the only time I tried to talk about the rape with him.  I understand it.  It's a "Please don't go there.  I don't know what to say.  I don't want you to feel worse" face).   It's a little the same as the feeling I get once in a while when he touches me a certain way and I wince.

I feel again like my life is over.

There are experts that say it doesn't matter what you wear or say or do--it's not your fault.  I don't buy that.  I knew he was dangerous.  I could've run away long before that night ever happened.  I take responsibility for all things leading up to that night.

There are other experts that say it's all part of a plan.  I try to buy that.  But  if one thing is part of a plan then so is the other.  I didn't see either one of them coming and I know how long it took to get over the one-- and I thought it was the worst thing that could ever happen to me.

It wasn't.