Time, Birth and Death

It’s the end of the year and a part of me is truly shocked I made it this far. Frankly, I was shocked I made it to my birthday in July.

I often wonder if I’m just perfect at making horrible decisions or I’m one of those people who are meant to live a certain kind of Life and just figure out a way to get through it.  Is it destiny or a string of Fuck Ups?

The 14th of January 2013 I had a miscarriage.  When you hadn’t even known that you were fertile, no less pregnant and wake up to contractions and blood rushing down your legs, it’s a special kind of trauma. One of those experiences words can’t even begin to describe.

It was a bleak time.

I honestly don’t think I knew the meaning of depression until I went through the next couple of months after it happened.

There were days when I’d wake up and cry because I was still alive. I felt guilty and lonely. As if I’d somehow caused it and even though I knew I hadn’t, I felt like the blame needed to be passed somewhere and I was the only one to carry it.

I didn’t want to write about this.  The thing with sharing experiences with people is that not everyone will respect it.  We live in a society where everything turns into a joke, no matter how traumatic, and one never wants to be on the receiving end of being dismissed.

Friends often ask me if, in a sense, it wasn’t a blessing. If I would have kept the child and really, I don’t know. But I would have liked to have been the one to make the decision.  I felt [possibly still feel] like my body betrayed me.  For months afterwards I’d have panic attacks when my menstrual cycle came around and menstrual cramps would leave me terrified with flashbacks of that morning.

It’s been, by far, the most painful experience of my Life.

I still cry about it.

And I’ve learned that the real pain in certain experiences is that you go through it alone.  You can’t collectively grieve, even with people who understand.

It’s your loss and you have to come to terms with it.  You grieve as long as you want and you do your best to get by.

This is not a “Everything will be fine, just keep going” post.  Sometimes I have no guidance to provide.

What I CAN say is Life’s taught me that Time heals and creates all wounds.

And that’s that.

“…But then she has to be so transparent and so honest, and like, her secrets are completely – they belong to everybody. And it’s caused her problems in her personal life. That’s almost common knowledge.

So I think it’s this thing where you feel – it’s such a cliché, but like such an open book sometimes. It’s a struggle to try to figure out what to keep to yourself and what not to. Because writing, for me, is so important, and I need to do it. It’s a physical need. And so the more difficult a thing is I’m going through, the more I’ll write about it. Sometimes I feel like, “Should I be keeping that to myself, or is that not appropriate?” But then I think, “Fuck it. Whatever.” And write about it anyway, because I need to.

The purpose that it serves is greater than ego or pride or what people may think of you and all the rest of it. I spent a long time trying to make sure that I wasn’t worried about being embarrassed or stigma or people thinking that they know you, because they don’t. The more that you work on your craft, the more that you can find ways to write about the most terrifying things, things that you can’t even really say out loud to yourself, but write in a way that still feels very safe, and everybody takes something different away from it when they read it.” 
– Warsan Shire


Where’s the passion in Death?

“But why is it called a passion killing?That’s not right.” – My Mother

And then it actually occurred to me.  The term “Passion killing” romanticizes murder.  I understand that what they basically mean is that the person was so overcome with emotion that they committed the act, but let’s face it, murder is murder.

It got my thinking.  I had an ex who used to threaten to kill me if I ever cheated. Now at the time it was funny, I assumed he was playing.  He’d told my best friend the same thing and he seemed more bothered by it than I was.  For some reason I assumed that when someone threatened to murder you and meant it, I dunno, I assumed you’d feel it somehow.

As time went on his behaviour became more erratic, it didn’t help that we were hardly ever sober and our relationship resembled clips out of the “Love The Way You Lie” video.

Still, as things got bad, they were still somehow beautiful. I was convinced we were just two passionate people and the outside world didn’t understand us.  My mother hated him and his mother detested me.  We’d disappear for weeks on end from home and lounge about together until we got sick of one another and one of us left.

He kicked me out of his house a couple of times in front of his friends, threw my clothes out and cussed me out.  There were times he would lock me in the house and not let me go to school  because he thought I’d see other men there. It was a mess.  But I stayed.

We’d break up, have tearful reunions, be happy for a week, cheat, fight, then break up again. One of the last times I saw him we fought and he tried to punch me.  In that moment I realized if I stayed I’d be waiting to fuck myself over intentionally.  I walked out of his house and never called him back/texted him.


He lost his mind, drugs and stress caught up with him and his family obviously blamed me. As if I was the one prepping them for him/giving him the money to go there. I was home, slightly broken, but fine. Or so I’ve assumed.

Six months later he shows up at my gate, high I assume, at 8 in the morning on a Saturday having walked from his house, which is on the other side of town, to mine to come tell me we’re supposed to have an arranged marriage.  I listened as he rambled on about his new girlfriend, how he needed money and eventually, how he missed me, then I walked into our yard, locked the gate and asked him to leave or else I’d call the police.

Now,I haven’t seen him since, he left town for a bit, but if what mutual friends have said is anything to go by, he’s still pretty mad.

This wouldn’t mean shit if he was far away,  but he isn’t anymore.

A few nights ago I had a dream that he came to my house and tried to kill me. Odd since I haven’t really thought of him in months.  But the Universe has a funny way of aligning shit and yesterday as I was texting a friend he told me said individual was in the tattoo parlour we usually go to, getting one. I texted a mutual friend to ask if he’s around, and he replied in the affirmative.

Now, I’m a tad bit scared, Why? I’m not really sure. It’s been more than a year. Maybe I’m paranoid but at the same time, rather that than careless,no?