Delicate

The last year or so has not been the most gracious for me. I don’t intend to dwell on the past or bore you with a recap of the casualty of myself. I instead would like to share with you, how far I have come, even if only it’s a fraction of the steps that are still waiting for my feet to touch,

A year has past since worn-out shoes and a wonderful love faded.

Two years since the prime of a wonderful love and a summer of snow.

Three or four since my grandmother and best friend stepped into the other room.

And five, well whats five anyways.

I’ve never been someone to dwell, never someone to cry, mourning was and in some instances still is foreign to me. It’s unkind, cruel and yet still full of love.

They come in threes, ‘they’ say. For me not just threes, but fours and fives and into the hundreds. When it rains, it pours and pours, and I hate the weight of rain, so I brush it off, and wait for a sunny day, forgetting that like wood, rain soaks into the the depths were not even the sunniest of days can try it out completely. Slowly it rots, seeps further, breaks away and suddenly…

Your broken. I was. I suppose, in some sense I had been for awhile, but finally somehow last year, I completely fell to pieces. I felt rotten inside, I felt used outside. I felt alone, and sad and oh the fucking sadness. Just speaking of it now, scares me. the feeling of utter sadness is something I would never wish on my worst enemy (and trust me I’ve unfortunately created some).

To avoid this feeling, I avoided all. I was prescribe many a prescription, many a time, and relived the routine for just over two years. Phantom feelings I had for that period. They were only distant memories. Happiness I knew was spoken with a smile, stress with physical sickness, sadness with sighs, and madness with only a raised voiced to announce my anger. But truly, I felt nothing. In fact, the only time I could feel was drinking and fucking. And even after the fact, sadness would creep back into my heavily medicated heart, where drugs saved me.

Now, I am ‘off-script’ as they say. Against doctors orders, but I was tired of people telling me what to do. I was tired of people giving me advice. I was tired of people trying to help me, and have pity on me and manufacturing me into this broken down harlot who is lost in this big wide world.

It wasn’t easy. In fact, it happened on accident. The first day I ran out of my medication. I was worried. I don’t want sadness again. But I went through the day. The second day I open my bed side drawer knowing that I had nothing, but maybe I could find something to help me through the day, but only empty bottles. The third day I grew a little anxious, the fourth I was exhausted. A week went by and my body began to ache,  and sleeping was rough. I thought about heading to the pharmacy, but was truly only a thought. By two weeks my appetite increased and I spent more time reading. A month and my body still ached from time to time, but sleeping was becoming more bearable and my anxiety was quite minimal. But I did worry about the sadness coming back.

All this time, drinking seemed non-existent. I rarely drank and when I did it wasn’t because I felt the need to, it was because it was purely habit. It was normal for me to come home and finished a bottle of wine before bed. It was normal for me to forget to buy dog food, and instead buy beer. Fortunately, my dog’s food was full this time and there were less Asian ladies waddling their way to my blue bin for cans and bottles.

Me telling you all this doesn’t mean I no longer drink or I’m not drinking now. In fact, I’m double fisting with a tea and glass of wine, but I don’t feel the need to douse daily routines with spritzers and adult apple juices.

I recently have had two tests. NO! Not the kind of test where I’m tinkling on sticks or I have to make some uncomfortable phone calls to past lovers. THANKYOU!!!

The first test was someone who I used to think was so wonderful waltzED back into my life with his two left feet and endearing charm which I love and loathe simultaneously. Anxiety came, but left with him and her (Stay tuned for future blog). The second, an old friend invited me to a ‘program’ of some sort. I know, it was meant with trying to reach out, but no thank you. I am not where I was then, when they chose to take the exit out of my life. Trying to re-enter with the same notion they left with, is not acceptable. (I could go on about this but, alas, another blog, another time.)

A delicate situation. Truly, is what this all is. A fragile process with constant triggers. It’s just delicate. But I’ve been broken, broken and broken, so many times, that putting me back together won’t be easy, holding myself together will be even tougher. But alas, I present you….me. A little delicate right now, but it’s me.

These are small steps, I know, teeny tiny, but nonetheless, they are mine.

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The Art Of Self Loathing

Sometime of Past ‘circa 2017

Well, folks I’ve always been a jack of all trades, but it seems I’ve finally become a master of one. SELF FUCKING LOATHING! Ugh, so not ideal, in any way whatsoever and yada yada ya da.

You guys know, I got issues. Dr. Phil couldn’t even fix the shit I be shitting on. My main issue, I feel is I constantly self sabotage myself. I say something stupid, I do something reckless, I knock a bitch out (KIDDING! I’m a lover not a fighter). Anything good I have, or semi decent or positive or whateverthefuck, I always seem to mess up.

Then it starts, I hate myself. I self loath my days a way. It’s selfish I know, but I get into this funk and I can’t seem to get out.

Some kind of Present

Mjz8gmgPGe-10Wow was I ever fucking dramatic or what. I suppose in those of yesteryear my life was drama-filled, whether I wanted to or not those were the days of my life. Full of sex, drugs, Sunday Night Specials. The soap story of the century.

Now, I’m still the same person. Still a sad sap, but I spend less time in my bathroom taking depression baths, I spend more time in the sun, less self-anylsing and finally moving the fuck on!

A lot has happened, not only in the 30 years I have plagued this world, but even in the last couple years. (Also just a side note:Fuck you 2017, worst year of my life, eat a dick).

I spent a lot of the last couple years as a hollowed out individual, nothing but a shell of a woman running on empty. Tears, cocaine and two-finger dieting. Definitely traits I decided not to share on Tinder. Anyways, I wasn’t much of a person.

By the beginning of Summer of last year, I lost friends, motivation, a love, and any one thing that could keep a person going. Medication increased, self worth decreased, I was constantly fighting with everyone of my selves, until I give up, they won and kept fighting and I grew more tired.

But alas, that time has past. Here I am, a little more than a year later and this is probably the first time I am actually not crying while writing my blog. I’m not even sad, not even a little. Just wondering WHO WANTS TO BE A MASTER OF SELF-LOATHING! Not this not-so-spring chicken.

Anywho, what sparked this blog was me sorting through my drafts of blog not posted. This was one. For me it’s nice to see how things have developed.

Thoughts?

 

He Was A Friend

You guys are well aware that Miss Cait has many an issue with many a thing. I am an addict on many levels; I do a lot of drugs, I drink a lot, I self harm, I self hate, I am bulimic, and I’ll fuck anyone that gives me any sort of attention. And like most men, AA couldn’t handle my ass. Off the bat, I am all sorts of fucked up. This all being said, in me writing this, all of these issues I have are by no means any excuse for what I am about to share with you. I am holding my own accountability.

***

I trusted you.

I remember the first time we started talking again. It was a couple months after the new girl started and your wife was being a mommy watching baby at home. I asked you for advice on my car. You were shocked. You and I hadn’t talked in almost a year, because your wife and I never got along. We avoided each other. At one point I hated you. But I was tired of it. Holding resentment and hate for someone is exhausting, and it’s not worth anyone’s time. So I asked you for advice.

From then on we started to build a better coworker relationship. Then it turned into a friendship. We would banter back and forth, we were both perverts, delighted in mundane things and well, things were coming around. That is until she came back.

I was anxious, I was nervous. I remember thinking, we won’t be able to be friends again. That she would come back and things would go back to the way it was before she left. In some sense, it did.  But you would talk to me still, only behind closed doors or when her back was turned. You were fearful she would ring you out if she saw us talking. I always thought it was strange. I always thought it was a little too paranoid for my taste. I always thought pure silliness.

This year has not been the kindest to me. I am battling everything it seems, and everyday I would wake up not knowing if I could work. I was always sad. I had gotten involved with someone else, and I fell in love with him. But as with most people, it seems I had pushed him away. He and I are still great friends, but I was always a little unstable coming to work. You however, you were a constant for me.

I came into work one day, a couple hours early. I was crying. I had reapplied my make up at least 5 times, and when I was in the process of doing so for the 5th time, you came in. You looked at me, I looked at you. You asked if I was okay, and you knew I wasn’t. You hugged me. It was nice. You told me it’s going to be okay, and that when I am ready I could tell you what happened. Eventually, I told you. You gave me advice, and this time it wasn’t advice on a car.

There were more days like this, I would come into work upset and you were always there. I spoke to you about the medications the doctors are making me take, I spoke to you about my family, my relationship problems, my depression, my eating disorder. Every time I came in you knew a little more about me, and you only did so because you didn’t ever judge me. Then you started to open up to me.

You spoke about financial issues, about your baby, about work, about your marital problems. You opened up bit, by bit. Perhaps it was because my life is so fucked up and you knew all the details that yours is nothing compared to mine, or perhaps it is because I didn’t judge you.

You began opening up about always wanting to see me or talk to me. You had a lot of venting to get out. As much as you were my confidant, I started becoming yours. We depended on each other. I remember one time, I was with my ‘not boyfriend’. I was at his house. I had just left the bar to see him. And you called. I looked at my phone to see an unknown number. I thought it was strange, and I never pick up unknown calls, but this time I felt compelled to. And when I did, it was you. You called me an ass and selfish. I asked you why and you said, you wanted to talk, you asked who the person was I was with (who truly was only a friend, but a past lover I won’t deny it). I didn’t know what to say. I apologized, and maybe you were upset because it’s the first time I didn’t come in to the pub to see you, I was with other company. I won’t say you were jealous, I don’t know that. But it seemed peculiar to me.

We only talked briefly, and you mentioned we need to always say bye to each other. You were hurt that night, because I didn’t say bye. I just left with my company. I didn’t realize something like that meant so much to you, but from then on I made sure to say bye and you always did too.

***

I don’t really know how this came about, but I remember I went downstairs and you were there. We smiled at each other. You made a sexual pass at me. I am usually fine with sexual passes, I am easy I don’t give a fuck, but this for me was not okay. You were supposed to be my friend. My friend, nothing more, nothing less. I was so hurt by this advance, I went back upstairs and tried to shrug it off. All day I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Why would my friend do that? He knows I am battling a ton of issues? You knew all my secrets, why would you become one of the many people that treat me like a piece of meat? I told you I am tired of people not knowing the real me. I am tired of people constantly objectifying me. I am a person too.

The more I thought about this the more I started to try to connect the dots. The more I was thinking maybe I was wrong. Maybe you made a pass at me because you did know the real me. Maybe you did it because you do genuinely care for me. And I know it’s crazy, because you are taken. You are married, you have a wife and a baby, but you made the first move. Why?

Later that week I came in for work. I followed you to the basement. I gave you a hug. You put your arms around me and told me it wasn’t fair. I pulled your head up and kissed you.

From then on, we knew we had something. We constantly flirted, I came in on my days off to see you. We updated each other on our progress in this so-called life, we were there for each other.

At some point, we made our way downstairs. I was off shift and had been drinking at the bar for a couple hours, you were working. We kissed, we touched each other. You always called me a tease. So I made sure you would never call me that again. I got on my knees, and well you know exactly what happened next.

Things were progressing further and further. And finally it happened. We did the deed. Again it was a day I was off, I had been drinking quite a bit. I was on my way to leave, and you grabbed my hand. You took me downstairs. I didn’t fight it.

We promised each other we wouldn’t tell anyone, that we would take it to the grave. Unfortunately, I am terrible at promises.

I started to drink a lot. Every time after shift, on days I wasn’t working I was drinking. I was with a close friend one night, and I couldn’t keep it in any more. I told her everything. At first you were just supposed to be a conquest, one and done, but it became more. My friend was shocked, but not surprised. I guess there was always speculation about us. From then, I told three more people, I told my ‘not boyfriend’ and two more coworkers. Unfortunately the friends I told, made a mistake and told others. I don’t hate them or blame them for it. It happens. Gossip you know.

Rumors came and went and we always shot them down. We tried to distance ourselves, but it seemed we couldn’t resist one another. You always asked if I told anyone. I always told you I didn’t. I didn’t want to lie, but I had to. I was drinking when I told someone, and I don’t think I would have told them if I wasn’t. I didn’t want to lose your trust, I didn’t want you to stop confiding in me. I didn’t want to lose whatever it was we had. I lied to you. I lied to myself. I lied to others who asked me about our relationship.

This rumor recently resurfaced. So much so, that a very dear friend of both of ours asked about our relationship. We both denied it. You approached me and told me I needed to the fix the situation. Not only did I not know how, but I am not the only person in this.You did this too. However, I did whatever damage control I could, I asked the people I told if they told anyone. I told them the severity of the situation. I told them that not only will I lose my job, but that you would lose your family. Even though I was so removed from your wife and baby, I didn’t want that. For your sake. I wanted you to be okay. I wanted you to be protected. I wanted to protect you.

My last shift at work, you pulled me aside, it looked as though you had been crying. I don’t know if you had, but I wanted to hug you and tell you it will be okay. But I couldn’t. Too many people were watching. You looked at me, and you grabbed my hand. You whispered to me no matter what happens you still love me and nothing will change that.

That was my last shift. The rumor exploded, and I was right. I lost my job and not because of this rumor, but because I couldn’t fix the situation. You thought you could fix it by getting rid of me. Throw me out like a piece of trash like all men do with me. (Apparently you are terrible at keeping promises too).

Now, I have nothing else to lose.

You broke my heart. You were my friend. I loved you.

I trusted you.

***

There you have it friends. The truth. I feel terrible, but I brought that on myself. I was selfish, I was heartless, I didn’t give a fuck about everyone involved. All I thought about was me and him. I didn’t think about her feelings, our coworkers feelings or anyone else. I always said married or taken men were there best, because I would never get hurt, it seems I am wrong again. Not only did I get hurt, but everyone else did as well. But I am hopeful I guess, he always said to me, in my moments of utter sadness, that it always has to get worse before it gets better. Maybe there is something to it. Maybe he can listen to his own advice from now on.

The Scarlet Letter

I always wondered what my epithet would be. Maybe I read too much on old mythology or my hard on for GoT has taken me to this point, I don’t know, but somehow I have gotten here. Now, I say I’ve ‘wondered’ what my epithet would be, in truth I know it. It’s both sad and a great honour that these titles aren’t made by ourselves. Epithets are made by the people. PLEBIANS UNITE!

Over the course of my life time I have acquired quite a few.

Cait The Great

Now, not only did this one rhyme and at the time I was high on living the bohemian life tucked under Edgar Allen Poe and Trojan Wars. But I was strong like bull. I fending off boys for my sisters, I used my strength to help around the house. I was a little tank. I was strong, independent at the ripe age of 8. And yes, morbidly and romantically I was entwined with Mr. Poe at a young age, but that’s a story for another time.

Few summers after, came…

Cait The Great White.

Why this stuck for a whole summer, I’ll never really know, but I blame it on my love for sharks and a white dress, I wore nearly every day until it because the color of a very dusty rose.

Cait The Jack of All Trades

I am sure many have acquired this name over their life times. For me, this came from my dance school. I excelled at every dance class I took. From ballet to jazz to tap to hip hop and whateverthefuck else I did. But, I was never the top dancer. I was second, always second to the top. Where I thought I would be the best in ballet, there was always someone taller, leaner and had all attributes a ballerina should have, with jazz there was a dancer with spirit fingers that were out of this world, with tap, well my sister kicked my ass in it. I was never the best, I was always second best. A jack of all trades, but master of none, and being master at always being second best is no epithet anyone should live by.

In college came, Cait The Native. No epithet really, but everything I did, everything I accomplished was because I was native. I got scholarships and bursaries, not because I was a starving artist, but because I was a red skinned girl who wore moccasins to class. It’s funny when I first applied to school they didn’t accept me. REJECTED! I was then advised to reapply, but under being native. Sure enough, I got in. Clearly applying as a white person is nothing to compared to a native.

Even my theatre ensemble native the fuck out of me. No fault of their own, and at the time it didn’t bother me too much. But in my mind, I was more than being native.

College passed, and into adulthood I came. And with a thunderous bang, came more epithets I could every imagine.

Cait The Harlot of New West60c99e26569147e9d9f58a8fc12c7831--funny-shit-funny-stuff

Cait The Homewrecker

Cait The Cheater

Cait The Vamp Whore (This one actually makes me laugh)26POP-master768

Cait The Stealer of Men

Cait The Husband Capturer

Cait The Tight and Easy

Cait The Untrusted

Cait The Trusted In Bumping Naughty Bits

Cait The Master Blower of the Love Whistle

Cait The Usurper of Men

Cait The No Hearted

Cait The Addict

Cait The Pill Popper

Cait The Reckless

Cait The Crazy

Cait The Used Up, Damaged Fucking Whore of a Person Who Deserves Nothing, but Loneliness and a Broken Heart.

Wait a minute. What happened here. What happened to all the good things I have done?e14cd95a68c4bbe95d829d6b48715722 (1) What happened to all the good qualities I possess? Or do I possess them no longer?

I have always been loyal to those I love, I’ve always put the ones I care about before me. I’ve invested in friendships and relationships financially, emotionally, mentally. But here I am. Cait The Girl With The Scarlet Letter. Cait the Native is starting to sound a lot more desirable now.

I have certainly done stupid things, but I am not stupid. People talk, rumours run rapid, and when you aren’t there to defend yourself, people start to believe these rumours. It’s sad, it’s hurtful, it’s something I would never wish on anyone. I lost a lot of important people in my life over this. And I am not trying to pass blame to the masses and the gossip king and queen in town. I am not, but I am not there. And although these rumours are blended with truths and I am sure exaggerations, and certainly lies, I am not there.

I had a relationship with someone who was married. I knew it was wrong, he knew it was wrong, but in those moments of our selfishness it felt right. I didn’t intend to destroy a family, he didn’t intend for anyone to find out, nothing was intended. Now, because of this, long time girlfriends don’t trust me around their men, I am now considered a homewrecker.

I am very open about my sex-capades. I talk about banging this person and another 14b986d022db146fc633a6a37053ae27person, I talk about infidelity, orgies, I talk and talk and talk. I realized that me being so open about this had people define me as this skeeze queen. True, through no fault but my own, I joked about my sexual encounters. All the time. It’s unfortunate really. I do what all my male single friends did, but I am the whore.

Now, people expect me of this. I once invited a friend out to meet me at a bar. I was there with some co-workers and other lonely hearts enjoying the night. It was quite a ways a way for this bloke to come out, but I offered to pay for his cab ride, even offered him to crash at my place if need be. He came and was terribly upset that I was going home with another lad. I apologized, I felt terrible, but my intentions were intentions of catching up, having some drinks and hanging out. His intentions were different. I didn’t realize this until I received a 20 minute lecture on being a terrible person and leading on men. Apparently this is a trait I have. God forbid me to invite a boy out and not put out.

It’s because I am more than this. I know I am more than this. But as mentioned before rumours run rapid, and when all the rumours are about you, and you aren’t there to defend yourself you start to believe them. I know I did. Maybe this bloke was right. My vagina is friendly to all!! Maybe the right thing for me to do was fuck the shit out of him. After all he came all this way thinking so why not deliver?

Maybe I am a piece a shit. Maybe I am all those names everyone seems to know me by now. If that’s the case, I should wear each and everyone of those fucking names proudly, right?

Like I said, I’ve done stupid things, but I am not stupid. I know there is more to me, than just an epithet.

Case of the Ex

We are exes for a reason. We fell in love, tried, then as time went on, we fell out of love. Time changes, people change, love fades, but you sir, I still have love for you and it will always be unconditionally so.

You met me when I was just a girl. Sure I was a barely legal hitting up the college scene tumblr_m06nyh5rOL1r67iiqo2_250in this beautiful city, but nonetheless a girl. I didn’t know how taxes worked, I still asked my mom for help with homework, I slept with a bed full of teddy bears, and I still drew hearts over every single fucking photo with Ewan McGregor. (sigh, such a babe).

You were older, only by a few years, you weren’t neither a man nor a boy. You at this time, is what I would call a ‘man-child’. You worked at Blockbuster, dropped out of school, lived at home with mom and pops. You were independent, but couldn’t quite make it out in the world solo.

Then Girl and Man-child met.

I remember it vividly.

I remember the couple weeks that followed.

I remember the first 8 months we were together.

I remember our 8 years together.

I remember them all, and I remember them well.

You and I, Sir, we certainly have been through a lot. Infidelity, financial crisis, deaths, starting/attempting to have a family, health scares, celebrations and everything else that comes with being in your favourite person’s life. We really have been through it all.

What I am trying to say in all of this me reminiscing is thank you. You have seen me at my worst, and you have seen me at my best. And in a time like this, when I am feeling lower than ever, when death is constantly teasing me, you sir, you are still here. After 10 fucking years you are still here. And I know it probably seems crazy that I am somewhat taken aback by this, but some friends have all but left me over the last couple months, They don’t like the person I have become, they don’t like the choices I make, and so in turn, instead of trying to aid me in becoming my old happy self again, they have left me. But you, you Sir are still here.

I know it hurts you to see me struggling. But you have helped me so much. You answer my phone calls when I just need someone to talk to, you check in with me, you help me with Barrie, you are more than just an ex who has become a friend. You are such an integral part of my life, you are my family, and I’ll forever love you for it.

You know, sometimes, I think back and I wonder why we didn’t work. This is silly because you and I know why. We were just too different. We certainly put in a valiant effort. If 8 years together doesn’t say something, I don’t know what does.

When we decided to part ways. It was sad. I was sad because you were my first love, and although I still loved you, I was no longer in love with you. It wasn’t fair to you for me to tag along trying to be something I wasn’t, trying to feel something I couldn’t. I remember I was quite erratic. One day I wanted to be with you, and the next I was glad we parted. But you Sir, you said we needed to do this. If we are meant to be it will happen again. And so at some point we tried again, and realized quite quickly that perhaps its best we move on. I am glad we made this choice.

I love how now, we are so open with each other, that I can call you when I’m doing a walk of shame home. Usually, our conversation starts off with “Sir, I’ve done it again….” Then followed by laughter and potentially a life lesson. I love that you let me help you with your dating profile and you update me on your love life, or lack there of for that matter. (KIDDING!!!). I love that we aren’t even fuck buddies, which is pretty impressive for me since 99.9% of all my male friends, I’ve banged. I love that you have seen me grow from just a girl into a woman. Mostly, I love that you still love me, you accept me for all my flaws, you are willing to put in the effort to help me get better, you are a true friend.

With all my heart, with all my love,

Thank you Sir,

Cait

An Open Letter

Dear Friends, Family, all those who I love, and all you strangers out there,

Please know I am really trying. I am trying to make it on my own in this big beautiful world, but times are difficult now. You all know I have many issues, I’m depressed, I have severe anxiety, I’m bulimic, I drink all the time, and I pop pills like tic tacs. Straight up, I’m fucked up. I’ve made shitty choices, done stupid stuff, hurt the ones I loved, I am all but for caring anymore.

I thought I hit rock bottom last year, but it seems as though I keep falling, and the ones I thought would catch me, have distanced themselves. They are tired of seeing me fall, and tired of carrying my weight. I am very saddened by this, but I suppose I understand.

I can brush it off, I’m a woman with scraped knees, bruised soul and a heart that is in a never ending state of always breaking.

To my family back home. You know I love you all, very much so. But please, it is very hard for me to be away. I am sad I have never met my little niece, I am remorseful that I can’t be there for all your birthdays and life celebrations, I am constantly feeling guilt for not being able to be there all the time. But please know I am, I am always here, a phone call away, I am always here. But please understand, I love this city. I came out here when I was 17, with big dreams and aspirations. Now, I am almost 30, those dreams and aspirations haven’t left me yet. But it takes time. I also have priorities. I have my boy Barrie and my little kitty Olive to take care of. I have friends I take care of out here. Don’t worry, I am figuring out how to take care of myself, but again it takes time, patience, and support from all of you.

I talked to two people today, both who I love dearly. They both expressed their concern for my well-being. More so in the sense, that all my bad habits will ultimately lead to my demise. Please don’t think that way. Everyone goes sometime, whatever will be will be, but I am trying to change. I am trying to die an old lady, warm in my bed. I will admit to this however. Suicide is a constant tease for me. Maybe death isn’t so boring, maybe it’s a wondrous thing after all. I would be able to see my grandma again and my best friend. I would be able to tell them how much I love them and how much I missed them, and how happy I am.

I almost ended my time here once. This was in the fall of last year. I was no longer on medication at this point. I stopped drinking, and wasn’t doing drugs. I was really trying to be my old self again. I had fallen in love, and it was very hard for me to watch the one I loved so dearly move on. I was so sad, I did everything he wanted, I changed my ways for him. Anyways, this particular night I couldn’t sleep. I was restless. I had all these thoughts running inside my head. What did I do wrong? How can we go back to what we had before? What am I doing? I always fuck everything up!!!

11136654_10100458342870173_3235526434844555125_nI got out of bed. Walked into the kitchen, opened the drawer, and grabbed a pair of scissors. Blade to my wrist, eyes closed, tears coming down and just as I felt my wrist becoming warm with liquid, I heard a whimper. Barrie. I turned around and he just stood there whimpering, looking at me. I dropped the scissors, grabbed a cloth, and went over to him. Barrie, my boy, he knew I was sad. He knew I was hurting, and out of everyone in my life, he was always there for me. I couldn’t leave him. He saved me. I can honestly say, if I didn’t have him in my life, I wouldn’t be here right now. And I still have moments where I look at the tiny scar on my wrist and I want to be embraced my death itself, but Barrie. My boy Barrie. He keeps me here.

Now, please don’t be sad for me friends, I’m okay. I’m always okay. All I ask is you for you to understand I am trying, I really am. But it gets harder, the more I am being pleaded to stop, and begged to come back east. I need to do this. I need to get through this, Barrie and I.

Always,

Cait

Worn Out Shoes

And so some time has passed. For those of you that dwell in the same town as I, you probably have all heard the story. Rumors fly around this town like rapid anal air attacks. I usually do my darnedest to cover my face and get the fuck out before it all hits me at once.

You see friends, recently (and I use recently rather loosely), a coworker of mine had passed away while we were working. I won’t go into details, for I am constantly going through the details in my head every morning when I wake up and every night before bed. Besides this story isn’t about the incident itself, instead it is about the aftermath.

I never used to work Wednesday. It wasn’t until the Ice Queen decided to reconvene her reign at our pub and she took all the shifts she desired. The bitch took my Monday shift so I was condemned to Wednesday, for all my eternity at the pub I shall now be serving shitty lunch specials, forced smiles and tall glasses of suckmydick. But whatever, I’m easy, I’ll suck it up and reconfigured my life for the Ice Queen.  My lady, I bid you to eastmyass.

Anyways, so I’ve been finally getting the groove of this Hump Day shift, and I am finally accepting the change that came with it. I got to work with another chef who I hardly ever see and I got to work with one of my girlfriends. All good, same shit, different day essentially, whatever!

Unfortunately, one Wednesday, shortly after our lunch rush, and me serving a table of 30 geriatrics from the local retirement home, I heard someone screaming. My instincts took over and I immediately ran to the front patio, to see if the bag lady Shannon was arguing with the pigeons again, but alas I was wrong. (My instincts suck). A couple of customers beckoned me over, and as I was headed towards them I saw it. I saw my coworker, I saw my friend, I saw death for the first time face to face.

Like I said this story isn’t about someone going to work to flip burgers and leaving in a bag. It was a freak accident, no doubt. No, this story is about…family.

***

We closed up early that day. Two hours later I got the call, that my friend did not make it. I was still in my work clothes, my feet covered in blood, my make up smudged all over my face, I was exhausted. I called my mama, I cried. I called Mr. Wonderful, I cried. I called more coworkers to let them know, we cried. I got off the phone and sat on my front porch, still unclean and cried. I cried, I cried, I cried and cried.

WHAT. THE. FUCK. How does this happen? How does someone go to work to flip fucking burgers and they die? His wife. His poor wife. She has no idea, she expected to see him that day, it’s not like he is a War Vet or Firefighter where you know they may never come home. He’s a chef. To me that’s not okay.

I was there. I was fucking there. Deep in it. Why was I fucking there? Oh I forgot, it’s because the fucking ICE QUEEN condemned me to Wednesdays. I never work Wednesdays. I never work Wednesdays, why did I have to work this Wednesday? If I had my old shift back, I wouldn’t have had to have been there. I wouldn’t have had to see what I saw, to hear what I heard, I wouldn’t have had to see my friend’s life drift away from his eyes. I want my Mondays back. I want my friend back.

The next couple days the pub closed. But all of us coworkers/friends/family we all came together to talk. Counselors were at our feet, police officers at our beckon and mother fucking ego-maniacal reporters where lingering in our shadows until the perfect moment.

I was constantly asked by everyone how I was doing. I hated this question. Yes, I was a wreck, yes I was sad, but I was more sad because I could only imagine how is wife feels. To lose the love of your life, let alone shortly after giving birth to your second baby. That’s not fair. I feel like shit and all you guys are concerned about me, what about her? What about his babies?

Looking back now, it was out of love. My coworkers genuinely cared for me, they were worried about my well-being along with the few others that witnessed this tragedy. But at the time, I couldn’t handle it. I thought shitty question after a shitty circumstance.

Days passed, sleep was inexistent, narcotics came back into fruition, anxiety exhilarated, and all I could think about was my shoes. I had an interesting moment. I had worn my shoes home that day, I never do that. Maybe in some sense I thought the rain would wash away the life that drifted on them, or maybe it was all I had of him. I remember sitting in my bedroom, a few hours before the funeral, staring at my shoes. All the moments of that Wednesday came rushing back, all my senses in overload, stroking out. Now, I could throw these shoes out, bury them, burn them, do whatever to get them out of my way, or I could keep them. Maybe I would put them in my closet or a box, and whenever I wanted to feel again, I could find the shoes.

Now I know this sounds like a rather perturbed thought, but I am a girl who can’t feel. I am so hooked up on pharmaceutical cocktails that to really make me feel, to really make me care, to really make me feel like a person, well, perhaps these shoes would help.

Mylittleshroomy (not her actual name, just a term of endearment for one of my dearest friends) and I headed to the pub to meet up with the rest of our coworkers. There we talked, we checked up on one another, we dispersed in to few cars and headed to say farewell to our friend. My car was one of the rides we took, but I didn’t drive. I couldn’t.

We arrived at the funeral. I was doing okay. I was supposed to be doing okay. I had already cried prior that morning, I am good. So good. I am going to be okay.

We all sat together, hand in hand. And waited patiently for the service to begin. I couldn’t help but think a week ago he was fine, he was alive, he was happy and smiling and asking me how my day was. A week ago, I finally was getting used to my new work schedule. A week ago he had told me they had finally picked out a name for his baby girl. A week ago, the saddest thing I still hadn’t gotten over was Glen (Walking Dead spoiler alert). A week ago everything was okay. I was okay. He was okay. He was alive and well and I am not okay anymore. He isn’t alive. He is not okay. I am not okay. I am not okay. I AM NOT OKAY.

I couldn’t breathe, I stood up and ran out of the room. My heart bursting out of my chest, my breathe struggling to make way and my tears flooded my eyes so much so I couldn’t see clearly. Mylittleshroomy and Mama Bear (Head Server) followed me out. They took me outside. They hugged me. They let me cry. They let me feel. They held my hand. They gave me my time. My heart hurt so much, why did this have to happen? This wasn’t supposed to happen? We did so much to help him survive, how did he not make it? What did we do wrong? Was I not quick enough? Did the ambulance take too long? Where did we go wrong? Why couldn’t we save him? I could’ve have saved him!

I guess they call this survivors guilt. In all honesty, I look at my life and think I really have nothing going for me, but he, he had so much. He was young, he was starting a family, he was a devoted husband and father, the only thing I’ve been devoted to was popping pills and getting my rock off. In a heart beat, I would’ve have taken his place. Mama Bear consoled me in a way I never expected. She told me it was okay to feel. It’s okay to be sad, but it wasn’t okay to feel undervalued and unloved. She told me it wasn’t okay that I was sad because I wished it was me instead of him. She told me that we all care and love each other, and we all have these thoughts inside our heads, but together we can help one another. We see each other every day, we celebrate all our birthdays together, we fight with each other, we fuck with each other, we help each other, and in the end we are all family here. We lost a family member. Why lose two?

At some point we three walked backed in, hand in hand. The service began.

***

I was anxious. I haven’t walked into the kitchen since the incident. I didn’t know if I could do it. I thought I could not walk in and I could leave, and find a way to move on without moving through the process of grief, or I could walk in and see what happens. I took a breath, and I walked in the kitchen. The evidence was gone, but the story was still there, in the walls, in the floors, in me. But I walked through the kitchen. It wasn’t until that moment I realized what I needed to do.

This was a little more than a month ago now. I still have bouts of not being able to sleep. I’ve slipped into old bad habits. My medication has doubled. And I have good days and bad days. Someone once told me every day gets better. I’m still waiting for that day, but I am hopeful.

And.

In the end.

I threw out my shoes.