It's On, Bitches.

"Now you just dig them in front. They have worriers, they'rte counting the miles. They're thinking about where to sleep tonight, how much money for gas, the weather, how they'll get there--and all the time they'll get there anyway, you see. But they need to worry and betray time with urgencies false and otherwise, purely ambitious and whiny, their souls really won't be at peace unless they can latch on to an establisherd and proven worry and having once found it, they assume fascial expressions to fit and go with it, which is, you see, unhappiness and all the time it all flies by them and they know it, and that too worries them to no end."

~Dean Moriarity from Jack Kerouac's "On the Road."

When I was in High School, we called these type of people, "Poseurs". Social Butterflies, flitting from one social construct to another, the whole time betraying their true essence. Let's be real, in High School, how many of us were too busy looking outward to people, places and situations for soul validation, instead of our selves? Zip. Zero. Zilch. None. Not one. Our brains were still developing. We didn't have a solidly formed ego! We were grown children. With boobs, hard ons, acne, physical awkwardness, social anxiety, RAGING hormones, and no fucking manual on how to maneuver the depths and the plateaus of high school. So, what did we do? "They assume facial expressions to fit and go with it , which is, you see, unhappiness and all the time it flies by them and they know it, and that too worries them to no end."

My Father, who comes from three generations of teachers, and was brave enough to teach middle school, told me one day, he said, "Suzanney. If the guy's an asshole in his Junior year of high school, and hasn't changed, he's going to be an asshole for the rest of his life." Truer words have not been spoken. You see, I was madly in love with a boy. Who, unfortunately, by Junior year in high school, had not pulled back into some semblance of a solid ego, but rocketed to a permanent asshole. His best friend even told him, "Dude, you gotta grow up." I told him, I pleaded with him. The same boy who kidnapped me to my first AA meeting a year and a half previously, had evolved into a budding alcoholic. Just like his mother. The one he lost several days before Christmas when he was only 8 years old. He was puerile, sophomoric, jaded, had seen too much for his age and couldn't process it, except by drinking and being an asshole.

I told him, your drinking is scaring me. You embarrass me by your behavior. If I had known about the word, "antics", I would have said it then. Please stop, or slow down. He continued. I thought: "you were the first person I told about the ONE memory of my sexual abuse. I was 15. I ended that shit at 8 years old, and I never told a soul. I trusted you. We have a blood oath. We have plans. I ask you for two, simple things. The same things you tried to help me with, and you refuse." No. Not at all. You say, Jump! I never even asked how high. I just jumped as high as I could, because I wanted to be the best fucking person for you. I would've died for you. And you can't do this for your best friend and me? Who are you? I don't know you any more. I still love you, but I don't recognize my Nature Boy. Tucker is dead. Check it- 20 years later? He changed his middle name to the mere initial, "T".

I walked away. We would come together before he went off to boot camp. After we had graduated high school. So, he didn't have to put his mask on, and follow the Social Constructs he created with his Machiavellian presence. He could be in-between a boy and a man. Who could not deny our love. I swore I would wait. I just wanted to be a base mom. Have three kids, and follow him wherever the military sent him. I was that devoted to him.

Then he told me in a letter from boot camp: I want to join the FBI. I want to be Fox Mulder. I knew there, we could never be; you see, I didn't have any recall of my torture I endured as a child. But, I knew, knew, deep in the pit of my soul that whatever had happened when I was a kid, wasn't going to mesh very well with a G Man. I knew. I cried for weeks. He came home from boot camp. He wanted to meet me at the bar in the local bowling alley. I came home from college in Detroit to see him one last time. That, kids, was not an easy stunt for me to pull off, I had to atone for that sin for a week, upon my return to Detroit.

Anyways, I sat at there bar with my coke. All by myself. He said he would be there at 8 o'clock. His other, social construct, gaggle of female followers, filled a table, waiting for, I can only assume, their hero's homecoming. It was 8:20.

Fuck this and fuck you. I'm out. I split. I cried all the 2.5 minutes home. Cleaned myself up, walked inside, stoic and stiff jaw, silent, and went to my room. He called. His friend Juan, had a cell p-hone. First person I knew who had access to a cell phone. He had a lot of only access to people, places and things.

Where are you?

I'm at home.

I'm here, C'mon. I want to see you. Read- I went to get laid and make plans with you for our future.

Me- Knowing I was bat shit crazy, had 18 masks deep on, constructing my social identity, knowing I would crack one day, and he could die while I was locked up in a psych unit, worrying about me, and I would commit suicide knowing I kilt him. So, I told him, "You are now 35 minutes late. You left me sitting there alone, waiting like a lost puppy for you. I can't do this. Good bye. Don't call me again."

Naturally, he doth protested. I allowed him to prattle on for a minute. I said,

We're done.

My heart shattered, broke, exploded- basically it was decimated. He would want to know why. I'd have to say, I don't know, it's just fucking horrible, and I want you to be happy. Sometimes, walking away, some people might call what I did, "Playing God", is the best thing you can doing for someone you love.

You see, he finally began to find his ego footing. I had found mine in third grade. I knew I couldn't put him in danger. I would do anything to NOT hurt him. And if walking away from him, spared his life, then I would excuse myself. I think he thinks I did it because I didn't love him. Oh contraire, mon freur. I did it because I loved him too much. And I am not a selfish person.

Please don't misunderstand. We were 18. I had enough insight and knowledge to know, us staying together would be a huge, fucking disaster. I knew I would not bring him joy, I mean, sure, for the first decade, but then...then what? Living with Sybil? I had already been diagnosed with Bipolar I. I couldn't do that to him. I NEVER wanted to leave him. I'm not selfish and I am not poseur. I am true blue. Sometimes my Integrity is my downfall. There is saying, "A speaker of truth has no friends". A truer statement has never been uttered. Trust and believe, I know.

Mid June, I turned 47. I'm single, never married, no children, and absolutely no prospects on the horizon. I'm okay with all that. Doesn't really stoke my fire, it's not a source of joy, but it's not some faux social construct that I built and constructed, so people would just think I'm fucking fabulous. Because, in life, as in theatre, the curtain descends, you return to the dressing room, remove your make-up, your costume. The persona of a social character that you gave life, and breathed life into, and made jump off the page and become empirically real. Everything ends. Then, there's the valley. Or, as Iyanla Vanzant wrote, "In The Meantime." And you reflect. You heal. You are gentle with yourself. Because what goes down, inevitably goes flying high again.

The valley, is where I can remove my masks. Not take a shower. Not be available 24/7, 365. I heal. I lift my face to the sun. Work through some flashbacks and memories, ultimately demolishing more masks. Planting my ego firmly in the Earth. Destroying social constructs that I have believed or created to keep me "safe". Every high, I grow. Every valley, I heal. I refuse to be static. I must be kinetic. I swear, I'm like a shark. If I stop moving, I'll perish. But, I refuse to be content. Serene, yes. Content? Hell No. Hell to the no. I always say, "No one dies on my watch." I've saved three people from death. Talked one out of suicide-in between classes, the other had OD, and the other was wandering around, which was unusual for her, so I checked on her. She was 20 minutes away from flatlining into a diabetic coma.

Tucker, I have always said: If you're damned if you do, and damned if you don't, do. Because if you're fucked either way, better to do the right thing so you can sleep at night. It's not cake, like I said earlier, my integrity is my Achilles heel, but, at least I can sleep. Knowing I removed one last mask, one last flashback, lived from sunrise to sunset, going to sleep in my own fucking bed, and even though I am the sonofabitch in so many people's stories, and they blame my mental illness for it, they don't realize that the social construct of being mentally ill somehow makes you dumb is false, so in several months or years, I won't be the bad guy. They realize that I am, by no means stupid at all, and, as a matter of fact, gave them a huge bowl of Grace. Some people tie their wagon to hating me, like Tucker. When all he truly hates is himself. The people who dragged my name and reputation through the mud? Deflection's a great defense to an aggressive offense.

But? No matter what? When all is said and done, I sleep very, fucking well. I used to say, "I have no regrets". For about 99.89% of the time, I truly don't. If I were to not wake up tomorrow- which is very plausible, no one is immune to time and death- I'd be okay with the way things have turned out for me.

I know I'm beginning to trudge up another steep incline today. But, unlike other years, times, days, etc. I am ready. I realize that my social construct of fear of telling my story, or speaking my truth, without proper social protocols, like "Trigger Warning", or whatever, and following the rules that someone else created to lull people into a false sense of security is disrespectful bullshit. You're a grown ass person. Soon enough, even beginning today, my story is definitely not a genteel, feel good one. If I have to point that out to my reader? You have absolutely zero business reading whatever the fuck this thing is going to become. Honestly? The last 20 years of my life have been shit, pain, suffering, misery, doctor visits with no resolution for my symptoms, in and out of the psych hospital, numerous ethical violations by mental health professionals, I mean it has been a shit sundae, with a topping of dingleberries. But, I'm still here. Assholes are letting off fireworks and I'm freaking out, so it's medication time. Love that PSD.

But, there's a reason for everything. I saw some thing that said something like, Your road to recovery could be another person's roadmap to healing. Fuck. I'm all about Diet Pepsi, Anything Exotic and helping people. Who knows. But, if you're committed to reading this, like I dedicated myself to writing in it at the bare minimum, once a week? Buckle up, bitches. Keep your Xanax handy. My life may not be pretty, but it's fucking mine.