Sad Bitch

Today was a sad day for me. I woke up, someone who is 31 years old, uncertain of what to do with their life, with a wonderful dog (who maybe has 5 years left of his life), a renter, a cheque to cheque kinda woman, with no family close by.

Sad.

Before I was always working towards something, now I am working with  no sense of direction and just all around saddness.

My friends, I am so sad today. All day just silent tears drifting down my face as I go through my mundane routine.

***

I love my boy Barrie. I love him so much, that if it wasn’t for him I certainly wouldn’t be here right now. He makes me so happy, that when I cuddle him in the back of my mind is saddness, because I know he won’t always be here for me. At some point he will go, and I’ll be here, with his smell all through my clothes and furniture. And I’ll be sad. A truely heartbreaking kind of sadness.

***

I haven’t been home in almost 5 years. Quite a few reasons why I have chosen not to go back, but ultimately the main one being financial. It’s quite expensive to see the family, and yet for whatever reason my subconsious seems intent on spending the possible funds for a trip home on alcohol and materialist things that won’t last.

Sad.

***

I’m not where I wanted to be. In truth, I wasn’t always a spinster, I used to think by 30 I would be married or in some sort of relationship that resembled it. I thought maybe a kid would be happening or a home or something concrete. But sitting here now at 31, nothing.

Sad really.

***

I’m sad again. And not sad again in the terms of just being sad, but I believe my depression has greeted me yet again, which makes me even sadder. I don’t like this feeling. Its a terrible feeling, and one I fear most.

I’m just a sad bitch, and to be honest, the only thing that is keeping me here, is my boy Barrie. If I didn’t have him, I wouldn’t be sad because I would’nt be here. It worries me, when he does go though.

Friends, I am just a sad bitch. Hoping———–praying that this too will pass because this feeling isn’t worth any type of feeling.

Family Affair

I have such terrible luck when it comes to finding someone decent in my life to bang exclusively. Perhaps part of that bad luck comes from my wandering eye and lack of respect for myself, and the other part is just shitty cards dealt.

After the ex and I went splitsville in 2015–ish, the down hill spiral of indecencies reached an all time fuckery. Jumping back on the saddle so-to-speak was not as easy as I had hoped. I went from bloke to bloke, hopelessy looking for something a little special.

Feeling down and too clean for myself, I mosied into a divey bar, looking for lonely hearts. Now, I do have standards (somewhat) so I didn’t just hop on back with the first daddy that sauntered my way. I was in the bar for all of two hours, couple scotches in, and a margarita just for kicks, when one mysterious silverfox stepped right on up beside me. He smiled, I smiled (awkward part he wasn’t smiling at me at all, but instead at the bartender passing him his beer…) I also smiled at the bartender, asked for two shots for myself and then I put my head down and died inside…..

ANYWAYS.

Eventually he did notice me and yada yada, small talk and all that useless chitchat, plus my charming personality (especially after sipping  on cheeky bevies),  we ended up back at my place and I think you could imagine what activities we got up to, if you have no imagination I’ll give you a hint….’sexual activities!’

Thinking this was just a one night stand with someone who reminded me of my psych professor in college, when he texted me a few days later I was thrilled. Not only was he a silverfox with daddy written all over him, he was well off, semi-aloof and that was semi-good enough for me.

We would see each other every few days, always ending up at my place. It was nice, consistent, but something was off.

One day he stopped texting. I would text him and nothing. I would send nudes, and beg and do anything a naive little twat would do if she lost her daddy and nothing.

It didn’t last long but I really did like him, and for the eleven or so weeks of us it was semi-something special. Looking to get over this sad, sad episode of my life, I ventured back to the same divey bar, moped around with the same lonely hearts and drank the same cheeky beverages and then some.

At some point, a man approaches the bar. Probably around my age or younger, but looking oddly familiar. I cycled through countless celebs in my head and I simply couldn’t pin point who the fuck he reminds me of. So the bartender hands him his beers and off he goes from whence he sat. Every so often I would glance back at him. Eventually these glances turned into pyscho starring, he then called me over.

FUCK. MY. LIFE.

I mosied on over, like a miner niner school girl, being asked to sit at the cool kids table. Before I could say a word he  slided a beer my way and asked me to join him. We talked and laughed and the whole time I was still trying to figure out who this strapping young swan was.

At some point the bar closed and we headed back to his place.

And again, I M A G I N A T I O N.

In the morning or noon or whatever fuck time it was, I was awoken to an older lady walking down the steps. She was surprised to see me, and I was just as surprised to see her (primarily because if this kid was fourteen I will s h i t myself). He wasn’t though, just a college kid, living at home in the basement of his parental units ( a fact I usually wouldn’t be so relieved to hear.)

Momsy was very nice, and invited us up for breakfast. Now, usually I would bolt before the sun came up, but I was hung to the tits and hungry as ever. I walked on up, in one of the chap’s shirts, eye liner barely on my eyes and instead outlined my crows feet, and hair still in its rachet, man handle position.

As soon as the plate hit the table I was nom nom noming like no tomorrow. Momsy hollars for daddikins to come join the breakfast party. Foot steps can be heard coming down the stairs and then nothing. I look up to catch a breather from my inhaltion of susbstinance, when …..Mr. Silvefox, who is oh so handsome and so daddy and reminds me of my pysch college professor is standing in the door way. He looks at me, I look at him. He looks at his son, I look at his wife, mom and son look at each other, I look at the scraps of food on my plate and die inside.

NO WONDER HE LOOKED FUCKING FAMILIAR!

FUCK MY LIFE.

FUCK THIS WORLD.

JUST MY LUCK AND FUCK IT.

All I can say is watch out momsy, I may just be tired of dudes for a little while.

Sickness

Out of all the mysterious things in this world, out of all the complications and misunderstandings, I do know one thing; Love is a mental illness.

We do not choose who we love, it just happens. Sometimes slowly over time, sometimes all at once. Love is it’s own being. I wouldn’t go so far to say love is a disease, but it is a sickness. It sets in, takes it course and for me at least, eventually works its way out.

I’ve been in love twice in my life. The first love, was the sweetest. I was nineteen years old, still a kid in my eyes. But in his eyes, I was a woman. Our love grew quickly. So quick in fact we said those three words before we were even official. There is some romance in that isn’t there?

One year, passed by, then two, then before we knew it eight. It was that year, we decided to  part ways. We still loved each other, but at some point our love went from being in love to just love. And although it was painful, and utterly sad, that was okay. Our love went from one form of being to being unconditional.

We still talk on the phone most days. We see each other often and as odd as it may seem, he is now more of a brother than anything. Absolutely no sexual desire between us whatsoever, just unconditional love. We didn’t choose for it to be this way, it just became so. As we age, I realize that him and I were meant to be this way.

My second love was the hardest. It was complete madness. It happened quickly, and ended just the same. This love, made me realize that no matter how fucking fantastic and amazing it is to be in love, it is the worst fucking feeling when it ends. It is this love, that makes me never want to fall in love again.

For us, our love was a sickness. Please, don’t misunderstand me. I am in no way degrading this experience nor am I regretful. In fact, I am thankful for it, for all of it. .

I won’t get into all the details of our love. But it ended with heart break and complete sadness. It was misery and nothingness. It was a blue meloncholy fog, suffocating my every being.

In truth, I never got over him. That isn’t to say I didn’t try.

I never chose to fall in love with him, but I did and madly so. The problem is I couldn’t get out. The love I had, made me sad, all the time. I was constantly crying, I was constantly anxious, and I was constantly disappointed in myself. I wanted to be with him so badly, but he had moved on and loved someone else. I suppose in some regard, that hurt even more, knowing that the love he once had for me has gone onto another.

I would rather be embraced by nothingness, than love, but the sickness chooses, I don’t get too.

Time does help. Eventually days and weeks and months passed, and my love for him was still very much there, but it was deeper in my body. A place were I often wouldn’t venture too, for fear of being suffocated by the sadness that came with it.

A year or so had passed now, and we started talking again. At first it was odd, but it was so familiar and I didn’t realize how much I truly missed it. Apologies were strung back and forth between our dialogue, intermittent with fond memories, and obscure political rants. And at the end, he said he still loved me, had always loved me, and never stopped. Of course, I felt the same, but I don’t think I can go there again, at least not now. As much as I would love to jump back the into lunacy of what we had, I was sick then. And all my symptoms have not been healed, even to this day.

I cannot choose love. And although it is still very much there for him, I’m choosing to love myself first.

This Time.

It has been roughly 4 months or so since I have been off my happy pills. And by happy pills I mean the lil notso tic-tacs that numbed absolutely every ounce of feelings I may have never even had had.

I didn’t necessarily choose to go off them either. Essentially, I ran out and needed another script, and my excuse of being ‘too busy’ was something I was starting to believe in. Eventually when I did have time to go into see the quack I instead didn’t. Something was different in me. This time, I didnt feel the need to fulfill another three months of dullness. Before as soon as I was nearing two weeks worth of meds I would have anxiety attacks if I couldn’t see the quack. In fact, I would usually try to get my medication a month before it would finish, but the pharmers always denied my request.

This time, well this time it’s different. I’m not on any medication, only breakfast Plan B as needed. I am, believe it or not, feeling not just better, but actually feeling. And unlike right before the demise of Cait and onto the cycle of  pharmaceuticals my emotins aren’t from one extreme to another. Before I wouldn’t just have a quick cute cry, instead I would sob for hours upon hours truly being a sad bitch. When I was angry I would be flipping mother fucking raging, and when I was happy I was absolutely delirious. Now, these extremes are further from me now, and to be honest I am enjoying the distance.

When I first went on the rollercoaster ride of pharmaceutical blues, and found the right match for my craziness, I was incredibly thankful. It came when I truly needed it. I didn’t have anymore anxiety, and my saddness had dimished. However, after a year and somet ime being on these meds, I didn’t feel much of anything. I didn’t care much. I didn’t do anything. I was very much an empty shell. The person I once was, was somewhere over the rainbow.

This emptiness caused me to find another source of fulfillment. Alcohol. I have always been a fan of the liquid diet, but it became more extreme. I would have a bottle of wine a night, if not a bottle a six pack of beer, if not that then hard bar.

I would often go to bars to hang out with other sad saps like myself. Now, how sad is that, a lonely heart joining all the other lonely hearts out there and we aren’t even socializing. Just sitting side by side, at the bar, being just a bunch of fucking lonely wallflowers. Lonliness is not a nice feeling, but at least I could feel just a little bit again on my own terms.

Now, the problem with alcohol is it often leads to other things. For me, drugs and sex.

Drugs were something I never did sober, (for the most part). Sure, I may do a bump or pop a perc pre-party, but on any other standard Cait night I wouldn’t. However, when drinking every night became a standard night for me, the drugs occurred more frequently and instead of the utter sadness that alcohol would bring, drugs would bring me fucking ecstasy! It was phenominal. I was more alert, I was social, I was fucking happy and felt on top of the fucking world! I didn’t feel pain or sadness. That is, until I was hungover and coming off the ride. Those times, I was the lowest I could possibly feel.

 

When drinking and on drugs, sex was the next thing I craved. The best part was that the feelings weren’t just emotional, it was physical. Absolutely euphoria! My whole body was being seduced in this world o

f lust, while in reality I was just being fucked. Fucked. Fucked and fucked.

But, this time friends, it honestly is different. Like I said, I’m off the medication. I like having my old ‘Cait feelies’ back. My cravings aren’t that of alcohol, drugs of sex.

This time instead,  I crave pizza.

Substandard

I haven’t always made the wisest decisions. This certainly rings true in the last couple years or so. A lot of these naughty decisions were spur of the moments, selfish IOU’s to myself and reckless lack of ‘thinking’. BUT! Shit happens.

Some substandard choices I’ve made in my life time are:

*A year diet plan of breakfast Plan B.

*Sleeping with a college professor. I really wanted an A, but he gave me a…..wait for it….D! Kidding, I got an A. I will say I did deserve that A though.

*Drunk texting said Professor a few years later. What about? I vaguely recall, but I suspect it had to do with our college study sessions.

*Almost got escorted out of an Adam Carolla Comedy Show. BUT, I DIDN’T! Guess you could say, I was a couple bottles in on Mangria, and though my Canuck charm would lure him to join me for shots, but alas he shot me down and then some.

*Karaoke to Spice Girls. Just  no, no one should ever do it.

*The first thing I ever stole, when I was in college, was a piece of cardboard that said Fart Card. Fucking, dumbest thing you could ever buy, let alone steal.

So there are more to this list (obvi) like sleeping with a married man times a few, but we all know these harlot stories of mine. So lets fucking move on already.

As mentioned, I’ve made some naughty choices. But, all of these decisions I have made, have inspired me. They gave me stories to write to about, memories to share, and experiences to learn from. They have made me, me. Shaped who I have not become, but am currently becoming, and for me it’s exciting. (It’s like puberty all over again, except this time, when my panties make me look like I’ve been on a ketchup diet it’s a mother fucking blessing.)

Now, being off medication and reflecting on what was instead of what could have been, I’m discovering new attributes about myself and so far, it’s rather encouraging. I’m reading more, eating three meals a day (which was never a staple for me), and back to the old pen and paper (which then turns into this bloggidy blogg blog.)

I’m reaching out a little more as well. Not in sense of help me I’m poor….., but in the sense that I am no more the anti-social, social butterfly I used to be. You see, before I was out. Always out. My home was a place of bed for me, that was it. Sure, it was beautiful, expensive furniture, nice photographs, but it was just a roof over my head. I was always working, and when not working, socializing, being out where I truly thought the lights were much brighter. I had lots of friends, different circles, always having a party, but it was ultimately an excuse not to go home to my sad, sad, life. This time I go out and I still very much enjoy it, but I am home too, even if at times those sad moments still creep up. I spend time with my dog, I have more conversations with my neighbors and get this…I even planted a flower. Now, this is coming from a girl whose father bought her a cactus and that even perished in my care. Granted, I forgot about it as soon as I planted it and it died, I’m also pretty sure Barrie pissed on it, but I planted it. Not a substandard choice, my friend, just a very substandard job of keeping the flowering little fucker alive. (RIP- flower).

Being able to look back on some of my many terrible decisions has allowed me to grow, (more so than the flower I planted). I don’t plan on making more awful choices, at least not intentionally. But decisions will be made, for better or for worse, and the better ones will be for the better, and the substandard ones for the better too.

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.

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

Wow 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 West

Cait The Homewrecker

Cait The Cheater

Cait The Vamp Whore (This one actually makes me laugh)

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? 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 person, 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 in 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