For Not Being Pretty

I didn’t call on Saturday. I tried to call on Monday but I knew it would be a futile attempt because of the holiday. Aside from the crisis line, this department seems to keep strictly banker’s hours. I didn’t reach anyone, no surprise.

 
I did finally call but not until nearly 5pm today. . .err, it’s after midnight so change that to yesterday now. I left a message for Josh late yesterday evening that I should’ve left nearly a week ago. I didn’t hear back yet. I didn’t expect to because of the lateness of my message but at least it’s finally done now.
 
My husband has been a real demon these last few days. It’s been really hot, in the upper 90s. We don’t have central air. My husband doesn’t do well in the heat. I’m walking around on those all too familiar egg shells. Gently & quietly existing, oh so very gently trying not to be the reason that he begins to crack. 
 

I wanted to call Josh early this morning but my husband didn’t give me a second to myself. I could see that he was on the very edge of an angry fit. If he’d heard me on the phone rearranging the IOP it would’ve been the tiny nudge that he needed to attack. I’m just not strong enough for a full on assault. I’d rather just default to towing that line & going along with his program.
 
I hate to default to this weak woman, especially after winning back so much of my freedom when I walked out on him in February. I’m just not strong enough to stand my ground right now. My choosing this route of treatment is a tough struggle when he is so adamantly against it all. He has surrendered to the out of sight out if mind option. We stopped screaming & fighting about it for the moment but without a resolution or my submission it just becomes another taboo subject that can erupt at any moment.

 
I have lots of excuses besides my husband for not calling Josh sooner. I’m too tired. I’m getting a little better. I don’t really need it. I need a few days off of work all to myself. The honest reason is that I’m terrified. I can feel the fear all the way down in my bones. It’s the fear that cripples me. What am I afraid exactly? I’m not sure. Everything, is the likely answer.
 

I know treatment is very important but I just can’t seem to make up my mind about it all. I keep flipping back & forth like a fish out of water. One minute I’m determined & sure, the next I’m hopeless & uncertain. Nothing in my head is stable & it makes me anxious to try to sort it out. Even in my times of sureness & determination which is the attitude that I woke up with today, I still hesitate to make waves.
 
There’s also the large period of time where I just refuse to think about any of this. It’s a total state of avoidance & numbness. I have to admit I prefer being numb to being in a state of panic, sadness, & pain. The scary part about the emptiness is that it also removes even the desire in me to keep on keeping on. I just don’t care about anything anymore. It’s blissfully pain-free but very dangerous.  
 
In my past, it was this same numbness that finally allowed me to not care about the pain it would cause if I left this existence. I was 14 yrs old the last time I shut down emotionally like this. I very nearly didn’t see 15. I used to write so much back then, pages & pages of writing.
 
The stuff I wrote wasn’t pretty but I suppose it was a way to vent my overwhelmed teenaged mind. I’ve been writing a little again but the words stutter out of me. The flow feels blocked but I figure as long as the words form I’ll try to put them down. I’ll leave this entry with my recent scribbles but be warned it’s still not pretty.

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It’s the hunter’s brutal bullet that takes the light from the eyes of a doe.
 

It’s a poison arrow in a champion’s heart in a failed attempt to achieve "happily ever after."

 
It’s the blood & tears that stains the sheets of a Virgin’s bed, innocence skillfully stolen with beautiful lies whispered in a naive ear.
 
It’s the shrieking cries of the infant ripped from the safety of a mother’s torn womb born into the bitterness of life.
 
It’s the last rattling breath of black lungs long dependent on the  inhaled poison that created the traitor cells.
 
It’s the murdered heartbeat of a soul never to be born because an ignorant choice is made by a hopeless, broken shell of a human.
 
It’s the last pulse of blood from a severed artery slashed in a desperate attempt to flea an endless onslaught of misery.
 
Brutality, murder, deceit, desperation, hopelessness, misery, a never ending list of pain. 
 
Will I find an escape or succumb to the madness of my sins?