Time of Year

Some years it sneaks up on me, at others times I can feel it coming. From about mid-September until mid-January, I struggle. In the strange irony that supposedly makes life interesting, this is also my most favorite time of the year, my favorite season, by far.

I love fall the most, when the air gets cooler, and unfortunately just when all of "this" starts to set in, and on the years I forget it's coming, or when a few more weeks have passed before whatever this is “hits”, it breaks my heart all over again that I can’t just get past whatever is hard-wired in me to drop a little lower this time of year.

It’s the only way I know to explain it. I think people that have had relatively "normal” lives, (I use the word normal with caution here- it’s hard to define what is normal, so just bear with me) with no severe depression or anxiety, with no trauma--or timing tied to that trauma-- who didn’t experience abuse or severe dysfunction-- well, there's a certain base level in life that they walk along, their pathway if you will, with some hills and valleys, but nothing that consistently sets them reeling that is tied so close to the earlier suffering.

For the rest of us, the category I find myself in, I don’t really know what to call it—but that “level” I tread on is a bit lower. It’s closer to more pain, more associations with trauma and traumatic events, and memories that won’t erase or ease, no matter how much therapy or time I throw at them. It’s where I reside, and I understand that it also makes me who I am, and there are things about that level I am grateful for—deeper compassion, understanding those who suffer similarly, and just an overall awareness of my tenuous place in the world.

So, there I am walking on this lower line, and the thing is, that’s during the rest of the year—spring and summer. That is my “normal” line or level, lower than some others—but it’s there. And it’s fragile. And I know that.

Then, as in the past, let life throw in a curve ball like getting laid off from a job, severe financial stress, the loss of a love, experiencing an abusive relationship, or just re-hashing family pain to the point of insanity, and there’s a crack that gets bigger and bigger on that level, until I fall through. How big the curve ball, how close it is to past pain, defines the width of the crack, and I can either (barely) hang on to the edges and climb out, or slip through and fall. And fall. How low, how deep I fall before I try and catch myself is key--and it varies. 

There have, at times, been moments when it felt better to fall and fall, rather than to try and catch myself, grasping  on to dirt and rock that gave way constantly, knowing then that I would just have to fight with every ounce of strength to climb and cry and struggle to get back to my semi-normal level. But I have done it. More than once. Not without scars. And certainly not without help.

This year, the crack came fast and opened up and swallowed me quickly. It wasn’t some obvious curveball this time. It was a combination of things where I kept nodding and saying “I am ok”, until there was no more “I am ok” left. My lower level gave way. That overpowering feeling hit me--hard. I am tired of this. I am tired of feeling exhausted, overwhelmed, and dealing with not ever feeling like I have had what I would have deemed a normal life one day-- looking ahead through ten-year-old eyes.

I am finally smart enough now to know that when that crack opens, I need to call for someone with a good, strong, ladder to send down to me in that dark place and help me climb out a little easier. I called a therapist. I found her randomly on my insurance website, and hoped that I would get lucky. Sometimes it takes a few tries to find the right person who fits and “gets” you and what will help. I told her I was trying to be proactive before things got worse. I called just to make the appointment and I told her I was terrified I was going to slip back into a massive depression as I had before. I told her I was scared to come because somehow, it would throw me further down the black hole.I told her I was talking to friends, and my husband, maybe that would be enough. I even tried to call back and cancel.

She was having none of that. She gently pushed me to keep the first appointment. And boy, did I ever get lucky. This woman is the most perfect therapist I could wish on any human.

She listened for a few sessions as I lamented that I didn’t understand why I was falling through the crack again, why I couldn’t just be a normal person and get through things without feeling this way. I have love in my life, I have my husband, I have a house-full of rescue animals that are an incredible comfort, I have these good things--I have a childhood friend who checks on me constantly when I am like this. Why isn't it enough? I cried a good bit. She helped me catch my breath.

After a few sessions, she reminded me that I lost Lucy last year at this time in a very traumatic way—and that I had to quickly press on with everything else, while not necessarily having the time to grieve for what happened and the horrible way it all took place. Anniversaries are hard, no matter how tough you are, and I am approaching that one.

She listened as I told her that I lost a friend of decades recently—only a few months ago. He was always one of my closest friends, I considered him (and others in his family) within the small circle of people I trusted-- one of my safe places. And then, with great pain, I discovered that to him, I had all along really been (along with a line of other women) nothing but an odd person to have in reserve for ego boosts to draw from when he felt inadequate in his life. Several times recently, he tried to overstep with me (with confidence behind a virtual screen)—completely disregarding my marriage and his, and making me feel used, sad, and foolish for believing he had always been a close friend. It hurt both me and my husband, and I ended all communication with him. I didn't know how to handle the situation. The realization of the truth of this friendship--or lack thereof--made me doubt my value as a friend--and a person. I feel so insecure about the few truly close friends I have, and losing one that I trusted was devastating. (another situation over the last few weeks that I kept telling myself “I was ok” about).

We talked about how recent layoffs at my job have left me covering extra duties, when I already work so many hours. I told her how overwhelmed I feel at times when I can’t be on top of everything at work the way I like to be---and how that can feel like failing—when somewhere in me, I know it’s not.

She reminded me that even though I am no longer alone for the holidays, that I was for many years and it was so painful, and that paying some type of homage to surviving those times was going to always linger with me. As I told her stories of painful moments from so long ago—from childhood and in college that very few people know—that I write off as just my family history-- she listened.

During one story, she got a look of horror on her face as I shared a particularly difficult Christmas eve episode—and she told me I wasn’t grasping how strong I was to have faced all of this, survived it all—and found the strength to reach out for help. That anyone in my situation would need help to navigate all of this loss and pressure. That I was strong, not weak—which is how I always feel when I reach out. Why do I do this--even knowing the value of therapy and how it has helped save me before? Why do any of us? Why do I think I have to have superpowers in the face of a lot of things going wrong, or just too much to handle all at once?

She is helping me re-define that. The strength in reaching out. No matter how much I preach it to others on social media, or in one-on-one conversations with others who are struggling, I see myself as weak for needing help. 

So many of us do. We think we are more flawed, more unworthy, more wrong about things if we ask for help. We are not. Life is hard. There is love and joy and beauty and friendships, and surprise moments that make the ride worthwhile, but it is hard. For all of us.

Today I left my session feeling so empowered, that I could take on everything in front of me, including these ghostly memories, these haunting associations, these struggles, pain, losses, and just my exhaustion, and crawl back up to my “normal” level a little faster.

This therapist of mine...she is wonderful. She has a beautiful, long ladder, and as she lowers it down to me, under my breath, I thank her as I climb every single rung to the top.

There is breathtakingly beautiful art throughout this post. All of  the black and white gorgeous pieces can be found on etsy in The BlackraptorArt's Shop- Unique black and white art by Joonas Ennala.

The beautiful angel kitty photo is by Krista May and more of her work can be found in her etsy shop

And finally, the ladder image, named (appropriately) Above All Odds, is by the artist Daniella Fishburne. More of her beautiful work can be found in her etsy shop.

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Loss in the Month of December

It is so hard sometimes to find out who people really are. Especially people you admire. Especially people who are mentoring or helping you. Especially if you find out bad things.

The last month of the year 2014 has been particularly painful. Several months of me being unemployed and searching for the right career home had finally ended, and after barely surviving financially—and I do mean barely, we had just let ourselves breathe. Note to self: exhale with caution in the future.

We were behind on everything—bills, Christmas, anniversary pictures that we usually have done in November—all of it. But it all seemed like it was going to be ok, finally.

Then, I was kind. We were kind.

We were kind to someone whom I had already started to doubt, and that gnawing doubt felt awful. I wanted to deny it, but it wouldn't go away. 

For the last year, I had finally made some progress in my writing, particularly for my book, in workshops and through guidance and support-- and the very person who had been a key part of that, who I had thought so much of, turned out to have a different side, and I had seen it. I was pulling back, but one last time, I got pulled in again. And that one last time cost us dearly. Emotionally, financially, and for me, something went dark afterwards.

The first loss is too painful to write about here. It was the worst and most emotional.

The second loss--all the confidence I had felt in my writing-- swirled away in that one day; a mad rush of all the positive words and moments throughout the last year that were tied to those classes and interactions—all of it got sucked into a black hole and poof! it was gone. Almost instantly. I couldn’t associate any of it as good or true if it came from that person who I now knew as not a good person—even a really bad person. And what did it say about me if I had been fooled or charmed by someone who told me things that may or may not have been true? How hungry was I for compliments and positive feedback? Then, what if it was real? What if she meant those things? What did it matter if it came from her? All that I had learned, all that I found valuable—the things I had written, the progress I had made—the notes, the time, the lessons—I wanted nothing to do with it.

It wasn't just drama or emotion. The writing that I have been doing is so personal, and the most important thing to me has always been that I am doing the right thing in the right way. Now, so much of it feels wrong, especially if the inspiration and guidance has come from someone I now feel is just really, at the core, not a good person.

So what of all this good vs. bad? Who am I really? I can tell you that I have done a lot of soul searching in the last month, and that’s saying a lot, because I feel that in my 45 years I have done my damn share of that already. But really. I asked myself over and over if I am truly kind and what motivates me and if I am a good person. What motivates me to be that? Do I want praise for it? Do I want some kind of reward?

I can remember my mom promising me over and over when I was a little girl, that if I was a good person, good things would happen for me. She would lay the whole thing out—in detail. That if I would do well in school, behave, not get into any bad things-- that I would meet a prince charming-type guy, get married, have lots of money, no worries, and lots of babies, and be happy forever. She would get so excited telling me this. I asked her one day if she had always been good, and without a beat, she said “yes”. I remember my little seven-year-old self, standing there on our green linoleum kitchen floor and I looked around and said, “But you don’t have all of those things”.  She didn’t know what to say. She was clearly annoyed and told me to go play or do something else. I was worried even then. I already saw how the world worked-- or didn’t work--and I didn’t like my odds. But I wasn’t playing for the odds. I wasn’t trying to win a game. I couldn’t live with myself if I wasn’t nice or kind, or didn’t do the right thing. I didn’t understand how people just did whatever they wanted with little regard for the consequences. I actually envied those people—and at times— I still do. How did they not worry or fret about things all the time the way I did?

So, the sequence of events that started on December 12 seemed to keep going. We ended up financially wiped out, suffering a huge loss to our family, and then having to further deal with someone who each day just seemed to show me how foolish I had been to trust or believe or be kind to them in the first place. It was both painful and humbling.

Then other little things kept happening, and I honestly felt like I was going to lose it. I was driving home from a work meeting, in a rain storm, and I was stopped at a red light. I was actually sitting in my car thinking perhaps we had gotten through the worst of it. Then – BAM! A car rear-ended me. Seriously. In the second after it happened, I actually laughed and said out loud- “You have to be fucking kidding me.”

It felt like a hard hit. I motioned in my rear-view mirror for the person to pull out of traffic with me into a parking lot. I feared the person would just drive off, but she didn’t. As I waited for her to pull in behind me, I thought- I have had it. I am going to let this woman have it. I am not going to be nice, screw being nice.

I actually got out of my car and slammed my door and almost ran into a woman a little shorter than me, already pleading her case, already in tears. I heard at least one kid crying in her car. She had been Christmas shopping, she was distracted. It was her fault, she was so sorry. Was I alright?—she should have asked that first. She was sorry.

She stood in front of me, defeated…in a Santa hat.

My car was fine. The woman was apologizing, pointing to a small dot on my bumper that I couldn’t see, as we were both getting drenched in the rain. She didn’t do anything on purpose. It was an accident. It was life. And no matter what had happened to me in the last few days, I couldn’t be horrible. I couldn’t be unkind.

I told her to let me drive home and make sure everything was ok, but not to worry, I didn’t think there was a problem. She stood there relieved and we exchanged information. We started to walk away and she asked if she could hug me. She didn’t wait for an answer. As she hugged me, she said, “You are a good person, thank you. Merry Christmas!”

I got back in my car, let her drive away, and started to cry. I don’t know if I am a good person. I don’t. I know that it hurts me if someone mistreats an animal, or a child, or another human being. I know that I lose sleep over these things. I know that I am not perfect. I know that I am not always kind, and that bothers me, especially when I slip and say the wrong thing in the wrong moment—or when I think I have hurt someone.

I know that in December of 2014, I lost a little part of myself and it will take a long time to get it back. That may not be a bad thing, but I think it is a sad thing. I won’t go out of my way to trust or help as easily for a long time, if ever. It was just too costly. But I will hold those dear to me a little closer.

I haven’t revisited my book, and I honestly don't know if I will. I can’t imagine it at the moment. It breaks my heart. I was just so far down that path and in that mindset; it is hard to go another way. I will see what the new year brings.

That’s all I can do for now as the year comes to a close, and as I say goodbye to December…and all that I lost. Wait and see what the new year brings.

Artwork: Head and Heart by Charlotte Salomon

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This Day

For years,

I stood in front of

racks of paper sentiments-

trying to make them ring true;

trying to find you and me.

I read each word

hoping somehow

this day would change everything-

I would wake to find

wise words, devotion…love.

 

I waited

Year after year…
 
buying gifts with all my hope

all my heart, and the last of my worth—

Costing me everything.

 

I sealed my heart

in each envelope

along with a card I didn’t believe...

someone else’s words

that I knew you wouldn’t even read.

 

The waiting

took its toll.

I lost myself more

and more of myself

each moment, each year, on this day.

So this year

On this day

I won’t stand in front of

an array of meaningless cards

and someone else’s prose.

I will stand

on my own

waiting for nothing from you

as I finally know--

you aren’t there.

You are

like this day-

just another Sunday

in a sea of Sundays

made special in name only.

 

My waiting

has been my burden.

Not yours, just mine.

And I let go, finally...

On this day.

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Bill Zeller: The Last Words of a Tormented Life

I have been facing a persistent case of writer’s block for weeks now, and none of my standby remedies have worked. One thing that often helps a lot is to read the blogs of other people I admire and get some inspiration. In spending time doing that, I came across a piece on Katie Granju’s blog that stopped me in my tracks and had me weeping. 

A young man named Bill Zeller killed himself on January 5, 2011. That was only six days ago. He was incredibly intelligent- a Princeton grad student, handsome, well-liked, and only 27 years old. He left behind a lengthy suicide note detailing what led him to such a horrible decision. The words he leaves behind are so powerful, so piercingly painful, that I have not been able to stop thinking about him since I read his letter. I want so badly to turn back time and go to this person and somehow help.

Bill’s letter details abuse he suffered as a child- his first childhood memories are of being raped. That in itself it horrific enough. But as you read on, you see the devastation this abuse had on his soul, his psyche, his life. Bill saw himself as damaged irreparably. He saw nothing of how the world and his friends all saw him. It has broken my heart to read the adjectives he used to describe himself. That was not him—it was the aftermath of the abuse and the depression.

He never shared with anyone that he was abused. Not a soul. He carried this burden alone his whole life.

I also wept as I read the letter, because while my background was not nearly as severe and traumatic as Bill’s—there were some exact phrases in his letter that I had written so many times in my journals—and in weak moments—in letters like his. The words were so familiar that they jumped out at me—I thought—I know that feeling of hopelessness. I know how horrible that feels. And all I could think is that somehow I found a way out of it—there was a light at the end of that long tunnel—and how I wish so much Bill had found a way to see another life other than the one his abuser trapped him in.

There have been several tribute sites created in remembrance of  Bill, and his wonderful friends all share stories of an incredibly caring person who wasn’t the damaged soul he saw himself as at all. He leaves behind a large group of friends who will miss him terribly and hurt deeply for the pain he suffered in silence.

Bill’s final wish was that if his letter was reproduced, that it be published in its entirety. I am honoring that wish and hoping that somewhere Bill is at peace.

Bill's letter:

I have the urge to declare my sanity and justify my actions, but I assume I’ll never be able to convince anyone that this was the right decision. Maybe it’s true that anyone who does this is insane by definition, but I can at least explain my reasoning. I considered not writing any of this because of how personal it is, but I like tying up loose ends and don’t want people to wonder why I did this. Since I’ve never spoken to anyone about what happened to me, people would likely draw the wrong conclusions.

My first memories as a child are of being raped, repeatedly. This has affected every aspect of my life. This darkness, which is the only way I can describe it, has followed me like a fog, but at times intensified and overwhelmed me, usually triggered by a distinct situation. In kindergarten I couldn’t use the bathroom and would stand petrified whenever I needed to, which started a trend of awkward and unexplained social behavior. The damage that was done to my body still prevents me from using the bathroom normally, but now it’s less of a physical impediment than a daily reminder of what was done to me.

This darkness followed me as I grew up. I remember spending hours playing with legos, having my world consist of me and a box of cold, plastic blocks. Just waiting for everything to end. It’s the same thing I do now, but instead of legos it’s surfing the web or reading or listening to a baseball game. Most of my life has been spent feeling dead inside, waiting for my body to catch up.

At times growing up I would feel inconsolable rage, but I never connected this to what happened until puberty. I was able to keep the darkness at bay for a few hours at a time by doing things that required intense concentration, but it would always come back. Programming appealed to me for this reason. I was never particularly fond of computers or mathematically inclined, but the temporary peace it would provide was like a drug. But the darkness always returned and built up something like a tolerance, because programming has become less and less of a refuge.

The darkness is with me nearly every time I wake up. I feel like a grime is covering me. I feel like I’m trapped in a contimated body that no amount of washing will clean. Whenever I think about what happened I feel manic and itchy and can’t concentrate on anything else. It manifests itself in hours of eating or staying up for days at a time or sleeping for sixteen hours straight or week long programming binges or constantly going to the gym. I’m exhausted from feeling like this every hour of every day.

Three to four nights a week I have nightmares about what happened. It makes me avoid sleep and constantly tired, because sleeping with what feels like hours of nightmares is not restful. I wake up sweaty and furious. I’m reminded every morning of what was done to me and the control it has over my life.

I’ve never been able to stop thinking about what happened to me and this hampered my social interactions. I would be angry and lost in thought and then be interrupted by someone saying “Hi” or making small talk, unable to understand why I seemed cold and distant. I walked around, viewing the outside world from a distant portal behind my eyes, unable to perform normal human niceties. I wondered what it would be like to take to other people without what happened constantly on my mind, and I wondered if other people had similar experiences that they were better able to mask.

Alcohol was also something that let me escape the darkness. It would always find me later, though, and it was always angry that I managed to escape and it made me pay. Many of the irresponsible things I did were the result of the darkness. Obviously I’m responsible for every decision and action, including this one, but there are reasons why things happen the way they do.

Alcohol and other drugs provided a way to ignore the realities of my situation. It was easy to spend the night drinking and forget that I had no future to look forward to. I never liked what alcohol did to me, but it was better than facing my existence honestly. I haven’t touched alcohol or any other drug in over seven months (and no drugs or alcohol will be involved when I do this) and this has forced me to evaluate my life in an honest and clear way. There’s no future here. The darkness will always be with me.

I used to think if I solved some problem or achieved some goal, maybe he would leave. It was comforting to identify tangible issues as the source of my problems instead of something that I’ll never be able to change. I thought that if I got into to a good college, or a good grad school, or lost weight, or went to the gym nearly every day for a year, or created programs that millions of people used, or spent a summer or California or New York or published papers that I was proud of, then maybe I would feel some peace and not be constantly haunted and unhappy. But nothing I did made a dent in how depressed I was on a daily basis and nothing was in any way fulfilling. I’m not sure why I ever thought that would change anything.

I didn’t realize how deep a hold he had on me and my life until my first relationship. I stupidly assumed that no matter how the darkness affected me personally, my romantic relationships would somehow be separated and protected. Growing up I viewed my future relationships as a possible escape from this thing that haunts me every day, but I began to realize how entangled it was with every aspect of my life and how it is never going to release me. Instead of being an escape, relationships and romantic contact with other people only intensified everything about him that I couldn’t stand. I will never be able to have a relationship in which he is not the focus, affecting every aspect of my romantic interactions.

Relationships always started out fine and I’d be able to ignore him for a few weeks. But as we got closer emotionally the darkness would return and every night it’d be me, her and the darkness in a black and gruesome threesome. He would surround me and penetrate me and the more we did the more intense it became. It made me hate being touched, because as long as we were separated I could view her like an outsider viewing something good and kind and untainted. Once we touched, the darkness would envelope her too and take her over and the evil inside me would surround her. I always felt like I was infecting anyone I was with.

Relationships didn’t work. No one I dated was the right match, and I thought that maybe if I found the right person it would overwhelm him. Part of me knew that finding the right person wouldn’t help, so I became interested in girls who obviously had no interest in me. For a while I thought I was gay. I convinced myself that it wasn’t the darkness at all, but rather my orientation, because this would give me control over why things didn’t feel “right”. The fact that the darkness affected sexual matters most intensely made this idea make some sense and I convinced myself of this for a number of years, starting in college after my first relationship ended. I told people I was gay (at Trinity, not at Princeton), even though I wasn’t attracted to men and kept finding myself interested in girls. Because if being gay wasn’t the answer, then what was? People thought I was avoiding my orientation, but I was actually avoiding the truth, which is that while I’m straight, I will never be content with anyone. I know now that the darkness will never leave. 

Last spring I met someone who was unlike anyone else I’d ever met. Someone who showed me just how well two people could get along and how much I could care about another human being. Someone I know I could be with and love for the rest of my life, if I weren’t so fucked up. Amazingly, she liked me. She liked the shell of the man the darkness had left behind. But it didn’t matter because I couldn’t be alone with her. It was never just the two of us, it was always the three of us: her, me and the darkness. The closer we got, the more intensely I’d feel the darkness, like some evil mirror of my emotions. All the closeness we had and I loved was complemented by agony that I couldn’t stand, from him. I realized that I would never be able to give her, or anyone, all of me or only me. She could never have me without the darkness and evil inside me. I could never have just her, without the darkness being a part of all of our interactions. I will never be able to be at peace or content or in a healthy relationship. I realized the futility of the romantic part of my life. If I had never met her, I would have realized this as soon as I met someone else who I meshed similarly well with. It’s likely that things wouldn’t have worked out with her and we would have broken up (with our relationship ending, like the majority of relationships do) even if I didn’t have this problem, since we only dated for a short time. But I will face exactly the same problems with the darkness with anyone else. Despite my hopes, love and compatability is not enough. Nothing is enough. There’s no way I can fix this or even push the darkness down far enough to make a relationship or any type of intimacy feasible.

So I watched as things fell apart between us. I had put an explicit time limit on our relationship, since I knew it couldn’t last because of the darkness and didn’t want to hold her back, and this caused a variety of problems. She was put in an unnatural situation that she never should have been a part of. It must have been very hard for her, not knowing what was actually going on with me, but this is not something I’ve ever been able to talk about with anyone. Losing her was very hard for me as well. Not because of her (I got over our relationship relatively quickly), but because of the realization that I would never have another relationship and because it signified the last true, exclusive personal connection I could ever have. This wasn’t apparent to other people, because I could never talk about the real reasons for my sadness. I was very sad in the summer and fall, but it was not because of her, it was because I will never escape the darkness with anyone. She was so loving and kind to me and gave me everything I could have asked for under the circumstances. I’ll never forget how much happiness she brought me in those briefs moments when I could ignore the darkness. I had originally planned to kill myself last winter but never got around to it. (Parts of this letter were written over a year ago, other parts days before doing this.) It was wrong of me to involve myself in her life if this were a possibility and I should have just left her alone, even though we only dated for a few months and things ended a long time ago. She’s just one more person in a long list of people I’ve hurt.

I could spend pages talking about the other relationships I’ve had that were ruined because of my problems and my confusion related to the darkness. I’ve hurt so many great people because of who I am and my inability to experience what needs to be experienced. All I can say is that I tried to be honest with people about what I thought was true.

I’ve spent my life hurting people. Today will be the last time.

I’ve told different people a lot of things, but I’ve never told anyone about what happened to me, ever, for obvious reasons. It took me a while to realize that no matter how close you are to someone or how much they claim to love you, people simply cannot keep secrets. I learned this a few years ago when I thought I was gay and told people. The more harmful the secret, the juicier the gossip and the more likely you are to be betrayed. People don’t care about their word or what they’ve promised, they just do whatever the fuck they want and justify it later. It feels incredibly lonely to realize you can never share something with someone and have it be between just the two of you. I don’t blame anyone in particular, I guess it’s just how people are. Even if I felt like this is something I could have shared, I have no interest in being part of a friendship or relationship where the other person views me as the damaged and contaminated person that I am. So even if I were able to trust someone, I probably would not have told them about what happened to me. At this point I simply don’t care who knows.

I feel an evil inside me. An evil that makes me want to end life. I need to stop this. I need to make sure I don’t kill someone, which is not something that can be easily undone. I don’t know if this is related to what happened to me or something different. I recognize the irony of killing myself to prevent myself from killing someone else, but this decision should indicate what I’m capable of.

So I’ve realized I will never escape the darkness or misery associated with it and I have a responsibility to stop myself from physically harming others.

I’m just a broken, miserable shell of a human being. Being molested has defined me as a person and shaped me as a human being and it has made me the monster I am and there’s nothing I can do to escape it. I don’t know any other existence. I don’t know what life feels like where I’m apart from any of this. I actively despise the person I am. I just feel fundamentally broken, almost non-human. I feel like an animal that woke up one day in a human body, trying to make sense of a foreign world, living among creatures it doesn’t understand and can’t connect with.

I have accepted that the darkness will never allow me to be in a relationship. I will never go to sleep with someone in my arms, feeling the comfort of their hands around me. I will never know what uncontimated intimacy is like. I will never have an exclusive bond with someone, someone who can be the recipient of all the love I have to give. I will never have children, and I wanted to be a father so badly. I think I would have made a good dad. And even if I had fought through the darkness and married and had children all while being unable to feel intimacy, I could have never done that if suicide were a possibility. I did try to minimize pain, although I know that this decision will hurt many of you. If this hurts you, I hope that you can at least forget about me quickly.

There’s no point in identifying who molested me, so I’m just going to leave it at that. I doubt the word of a dead guy with no evidence about something that happened over twenty years ago would have much sway.

You may wonder why I didn’t just talk to a professional about this. I’ve seen a number of doctors since I was a teenager to talk about other issues and I’m positive that another doctor would not have helped. I was never given one piece of actionable advice, ever. More than a few spent a large part of the session reading their notes to remember who I was. And I have no interest in talking about being raped as a child, both because I know it wouldn’t help and because I have no confidence it would remain secret. I know the legal and practical limits of doctor/patient confidentiality, growing up in a house where we’d hear stories about the various mental illnesses of famous people, stories that were passed down through generations. All it takes is one doctor who thinks my story is interesting enough to share or a doctor who thinks it’s her right or responsibility to contact the authorities and have me identify the molestor (justifying her decision by telling herself that someone else might be in danger). All it takes is a single doctor who violates my trust, just like the “friends” who I told I was gay did, and everything would be made public and I’d be forced to live in a world where people would know how fucked up I am. And yes, I realize this indicates that I have severe trust issues, but they’re based on a large number of experiences with people who have shown a profound disrepect for their word and the privacy of others.

People say suicide is selfish. I think it’s selfish to ask people to continue living painful and miserable lives, just so you possibly won’t feel sad for a week or two. Suicide may be a permanent solution to a temporary problem, but it’s also a permanent solution to a ~23 year-old problem that grows more intense and overwhelming every day.

Some people are just dealt bad hands in this life. I know many people have it worse than I do, and maybe I’m just not a strong person, but I really did try to deal with this. I’ve tried to deal with this every day for the last 23 years and I just can’t fucking take it anymore.

I often wonder what life must be like for other people. People who can feel the love from others and give it back unadulterated, people who can experience sex as an intimate and joyous experience, people who can experience the colors and happenings of this world without constant misery. I wonder who I’d be if things had been different or if I were a stronger person. It sounds pretty great.

I’m prepared for death. I’m prepared for the pain and I am ready to no longer exist. Thanks to the strictness of New Jersey gun laws this will probably be much more painful than it needs to be, but what can you do. My only fear at this point is messing something up and surviving.

—-
I’d also like to address my family, if you can call them that. I despise everything they stand for and I truly hate them, in a non-emotional, dispassionate and what I believe is a healthy way. The world will be a better place when they’re dead—one with less hatred and intolerance.

If you’re unfamiliar with the situation, my parents are fundamentalist Christians who kicked me out of their house and cut me off financially when I was 19 because I refused to attend seven hours of church a week.

They live in a black and white reality they’ve constructed for themselves. They partition the world into good and evil and survive by hating everything they fear or misunderstand and calling it love. They don’t understand that good and decent people exist all around us, “saved” or not, and that evil and cruel people occupy a large percentage of their church. They take advantage of people looking for hope by teaching them to practice the same hatred they practice.

A random example:“I am personally convinced that if a Muslim truly believes and obeys the Koran, he will be a terrorist.” – George Zeller, August 24, 2010.

If you choose to follow a religion where, for example, devout Catholics who are trying to be good people are all going to Hell but child molestors go to Heaven (as long as they were “saved” at some point), that’s your choice, but it’s fucked up. Maybe a God who operates by those rules does exist. If so, fuck Him.

Their church was always more important than the members of their family and they happily sacrificed whatever necessary in order to satisfy their contrived beliefs about who they should be.

I grew up in a house where love was proxied through a God I could never believe in. A house where the love of music with any sort of a beat was literally beaten out of me. A house full of hatred and intolerance, run by two people who were experts at appearing kind and warm when others were around. Parents who tell an eight year old that his grandmother is going to Hell because she’s Catholic. Parents who claim not to be racist but then talk about the horrors of miscegenation. I could list hundreds of other examples, but it’s tiring.

Since being kicked out, I’ve interacted with them in relatively normal ways. I talk to them on the phone like nothing happened. I’m not sure why. Maybe because I like pretending I have a family. Maybe I like having people I can talk to about what’s been going on in my life. Whatever the reason, it’s not real and it feels like a sham. I should have never allowed this reconnection to happen.

I wrote the above a while ago, and I do feel like that much of the time. At other times, though, I feel less hateful. I know my parents honestly believe the crap they believe in. I know that my mom, at least, loved me very much and tried her best. One reason I put this off for so long is because I know how much pain it will cause her. She has been sad since she found out I wasn’t “saved”, since she believes I’m going to Hell, which is not a sadness for which I am responsible. That was never going to change, and presumably she believes the state of my physical body is much less important than the state of my soul. Still, I cannot intellectually justify this decision, knowing how much it will hurt her. Maybe my ability to take my own life, knowing how much pain it will cause, shows that I am a monster who doesn’t deserve to live. All I know is that I can’t deal with this pain any longer and I’m am truly sorry I couldn’t wait until my family and everyone I knew died so this could be done without hurting anyone. For years I’ve wished that I’d be hit by a bus or die while saving a baby from drowning so my death might be more acceptable, but I was never so lucky.
—-

To those of you who have shown me love, thank you for putting up with all my shittiness and moodiness and arbitrariness. I was never the person I wanted to be. Maybe without the darkness I would have been a better person, maybe not. I did try to be a good person, but I realize I never got very far.

I’m sorry for the pain this causes. I really do wish I had another option. I hope this letter explains why I needed to do this. If you can’t understand this decision, I hope you can at least forgive me.

Bill Zeller

—-

Please save this letter and repost it if gets deleted. I don’t want people to wonder why I did this. I disseminated it more widely than I might have otherwise because I’m worried that my family might try to restrict access to it. I don’t mind if this letter is made public. In fact, I’d prefer it be made public to people being unable to read it and drawing their own conclusions.

Feel free to republish this letter, but only if it is reproduced in its entirety.

 William "Bill" Paul Zeller: October 26, 1983 - January 5, 2011

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Pain vs. Tradition: The Walk Down the Aisle

It’s not that far to walk. Maybe 30 feet I am guessing? It is a small church. And at the end of that walk, a part of my life will be over and a new one will begin. It will take 3 minutes or less. And yet, it is the one thing about planning this wedding that has caused me the most worry, the most heartache. It has been the one argument my fiancé and I have had over anything to do with the wedding.

Will my father walk me down the aisle?

I actually have already talked to my mother about where my father should get fitted for his tux. I have already had a disjointed conversation with her about him walking me down the aisle. I never called her to formally ask. He and I have not really spoken in over a year. The last time we spoke was by necessity at a family gathering for Christmas last year. My mother called me a few months ago once I started to plan the wedding, simply asking what my father should wear to walk me down the aisle.

It seems easy enough to those outside the situation. Knowing my history with my father, knowing my feelings about him, knowing the pain he has caused in my life—NO—he should not have the honor of walking me down the aisle. It seems easy enough.

Do I want him to? No. Mainly because I have had to take care of myself for a long time. I may have done a poor job of it at times, but I have had to find a way to navigate through this world, to honestly survive my relationship with him. It was his voice I heard in my head for the better part of my life. The voice that made me doubt myself, that made me make choices I would not have made otherwise. The voice that told me I wasn’t worth a healthy relationship or belief in myself. The voice that constantly made me doubt myself and at times hate myself. That voice I heard—his voice-- became my voice. I was 36 years old before I even began unraveling that mystery; before I began to try and hear my own self in there. Before I realized it was his voice and not mine I had been hearing.

This isn’t about breaking with tradition. For me, tradition went out the window years ago. I could care less about wedding etiquette or rules, or what people see as right or wrong. A lot of people don’t know the truth about what went on in my house growing up, or who my father was behind closed doors, or who he is now. So yes, there might be questions at the wedding, but that isn’t it either.

It begins and ends with my mother. Although I have wanted to pummel her at times over the years for concentrating on nothing but the fact that I wasn’t married, that I was getting older and was going to end up ALONE, that I was going to get too old to have children—I am happy that she is getting to see this happen. It has worried her to death—almost literally. I know she only wanted my happiness as she completely missed the irony that she was begging for me to enter into an institution that had brought her nothing but pain, disappointment, and loneliness. I know that it will be one of the happiest days in her life to be at my wedding. And I think she has had too few of them. I know if I tell her (because I will have to tell her since my father and I don’t speak) that I do not want him walking me down the aisle, that it will be she who suffers. She will hear him venting, he may refuse to come, and my mother is at times dependent on him when traveling. Not because of any illness or anything like that, she just relies on his opinion, almost his permission, to do anything.

My mother is living in the biggest state of denial I have ever witnessed. Part of this is that in her world, we are the perfect family, have had no issues or dysfunctions to speak of, and every holiday has been a Normal Rockwell painting. My wedding is just another painting in progress, and everything should be in place: the bride in white, the handsome groom, the three tiers of cake, and the father walking the daughter down the aisle.

As much as I want to just let it go, and do the easy thing…I woke up yesterday asking myself who this was easy for. I have, too many times in my life tried my very best to make things good for everyone else. And to be honest, because I grew up living my mother’s denial, I too kept up appearances that everything was normal, if not wonderful in my family for many years. You can learn denial and keeping secrets just like you learn everything else. Everyone at college went home for Christmas and excitedly talked about relatives not seen all year, presents, family meals, and just happiness. At times I even made up stories, or at least very heavily embellished what I had to look forward to. The truth was, Christmas was one of the most painful times of year for me. There were several Christmases that my father either made me leave the house (on Christmas Eve) or things became so explosive that I had to leave. I wasn’t a problem teenager. I didn’t come home with a tattooed boyfriend or a pregnancy announcement or any of the other afterschool-special problems that might send a parent over the edge, even at Christmas. It was as if just my existence, my very being, and all the disappointments I had become were too much for him to handle without loads of alcohol and profanity spewed in my direction. It took me awhile to stop trying to be the last missing piece in my mother’s Rockwell painting, coming home to make it complete for her. Finally, I started taking vacations at Christmastime, saving my vacation time at work, and not always being honest with those who I knew about where I was going. No one wants to hear that you are spending Christmas alone, even if it is in Maui or Paris. It is best to just let people assume you are heading home with the rest of the world.

I took baby steps in trying to preserve my sanity. Not going home for holidays, and then not visiting when my father was home. I felt guilty making things hard on my mother, but had to, at some point, save myself.

And in about two months, I am getting married. It will be one of the most important and happiest days of my life. And though it may seem like an easy decision one way or the other…to spare my mother’s feelings or to say no to someone who doesn’t deserve the honor…it isn’t easy. But, I have waited so long for this. For this love. I honestly had completely given up on it happening for me. And the joy I have had in my life for the almost ten months I have been with my fiancé has changed my life and made me stronger. I honestly believe I had to learn to love again, and my fiancé has taught me. They say you have to love yourself before you can love someone else. I think for the most part, that is true. But sometimes, you can’t see yourself until someone else sees you. Believes in you. Helps you hear their voice and your own above everyone and everything else. And that has happened for me.

The thought of even the gesture of letting my father walk me down the aisle makes my stomach hurt, makes me angry, makes me sad.

The thought of walking myself down the aisle, toward the man I love, toward my new life makes me nothing but happy.

Maybe it is an easy decision after all.

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The Suitcase

Everyone experiences heartbreak. I can't say mine is worse or less painful than any other, I only know how it affects me. And last year, I experienced the worst heartbreak of my life. To make a long, complicated story as short as possible: I fell in love with a man I had known for two years, a dear friend, who lived and worked in San Francisco. We had talked and written and become so close during that two years that being together felt more like the next step than a risky venture. We met in person, were mad for each other from moment one, and after a few months, we decided I would move to San Francisco. We looked at places to live, made plans for a life together, and were both giddy at the thoughts of it all. And then, in the most cruel way imaginable, I found out he had been living with another woman the entire time we made all these plans, the entire time we had written to each other as friends, the entire time we were seeing each other.

After I found out, he abruptly cut off all communication with me, became someone I instantly did not know, and never, ever showed a flicker of remorse or sorrow. I fell apart in ways I am embarrassed to think of now. I completely lost my footing and my confidence.

A great deal of my sorrow was just over the fact that one person could do such a thing to another. Especially to someone who had shown them only kindness and love. And WHY? Why had he drawn me into his life, made these plans, while LIVING with someone? How could I be so stupid? What signs had I missed? Why would someone treat me this way?

I needed answers, and never got them. I wanted to understand how this could happen, but there was no explanation.

For almost a year now, I have felt like someone had pushed me off of a cliff, and I was continuously falling, falling...dreading the impact at the bottom, but never hitting it. Just staying in this never ending, horrible free fall, waiting for it to be over.

When I came home from that trip, my last trip to see him, I put my suitcase in my extra bedroom and ignored it. I felt that if I opened it, the pain would be too much to bear. Seeing the things I had packed for what I thought would be a wonderful, special trip. The things I bought while I was there, before it all came apart. I couldn't bear it. And day after day, I let the suitcase sit there, haunting me.

I replaced all the toiletries, my curling iron, and an electric toothbrush just so I wouldn't have to open it. Weeks went by and then months, until I was in another season, and didn't miss or need anything inside it.

And then, a few weeks ago, I moved to a new apartment. As I carried random boxes, lamps and other items out of the spare bedroom, the suitcase stood in the corner. I realized it had been almost a year since I left it in that same spot, in that same position. My heart hurt remembering how it felt coming home that night.

I looked at this bag, and thought of just adding it to the trash pile outside. But I remembered a few things inside it that I had loved. The French shoes I had bought in San Francisco that made me feel as though I was walking on cobblestones instead of concrete. The little black and white dress that made me feel beautiful, even sexy? The journal that I had kept for years before meeting him, knowing him. I took the handle in my hand and loaded the suitcase in the back of my car.

A few nights later, I finally screwed up my courage and opened it. The first thing that greeted me was the scent of the perfume I had worn, that I loved, but hadn't worn since then. I was determined not to cry, but it happened before I could think. I wept. For a moment, I thought again of just closing it and trashing everything. But I made myself keep going. I found the French shoes, the little black and white dress, my favorite bathing suit, my journal, jewelry I adore that I had almost forgotten about, clothing I feel my best in, and some writing I had done-some short stories- that are some of my most excellent pieces. I sat there with these things all around me, still in tears.

And slowly, I began to replace the things from the suitcase in my life. I wore the shoes to work, brought the perfume out of hibernation, and washed all the clothes and returned them to my closet. My necklaces, bracelets and rings returned to my mirrored jewelry box, and the writing to my desk with my other work. I performed the suitcase cleaning ritual I used to do after my business trips, vacuuming the whole suitcase, spritzing some Febreeze and returning it to my closet.

I was fine with the contents out, but the suitcase itself bothered me. I couldn't look at it without thinking of the pain of that last trip, the pain that took me a year to open. So, I tossed the suitcase in the back of my car, figuring I would happen upon a dumpster while I was out.

And then, while driving around for work, in a shopping center where I was visiting a potential client, I saw two women behind a table with containers and stacks of odd items surrounding them. A sign read DONATIONS, and listed the name of a women's shelter. I returned to my car and pulled out the suitcase and quietly added it to the stacks of donations. As I walked away, I thought of some woman, starting her life over, exiting from pain, heading somewhere new and safe. I thought of her packing things in this suitcase, beginning anew-- associating this suitcase with happiness. At least that's what I hope. It seemed to clear my head and my heart.

I also know that during the time I was in love with him, before the heartbreak, that I felt more beautiful, more amazing, more everything than I had felt in a long time. And the betrayal took that away from me for awhile. During the last year, and especially in the last six months, I have realized that I was not stupid or blind, and I was not part of the betrayal. All of the things I felt --love, excitement, happiness--were all true and real. So the way I felt because of those things- beautiful, worthy, confident--had to be true, too. The only part of the equation that was false was him. I have finally separated myself out of it all, forgiven myself, stopped punishing myself, although it seemed to take forever to get to this point.

And it's funny, I think in a way that the suitcase in my house, however hidden, was almost like he was still around. Breaking it open, taking the parts that were the best of myself out of it, and then doing something positive with it freed me. Maybe it sounds dramatic, maybe no one can understand, but it makes perfect sense to me. And it's been almost a year since I could say that about anything.

Artwork by Paul Compton, for this and more of his work, click here.

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