Dreaming

I had the most beautiful dream last night, but somehow, it became one of the most disturbing things my brain has ever presented me with.
I was up far too late reading a new book, the conclusion to a trilogy of zombie books. Maybe the weird cloning thing they did to one of the main characters threw me off, or planted something in my brain. I don't know.

I found myself sitting in the grass, holding a little girl close to me. She was at most 10 years old. The dream was a bit fluid here, taking on a kind of montage feel- she and I were walking, playing, holding hands, with her at varying ages and heights. She looked a lot like me, in the lower part of her face, but her hair and her eyes were exactly like his. I had this warm, fuzzy feeling- I knew she was ours.
Then, we were back in the grass, sitting under a tree, and she turns remarkable intelligent eyes on me and I suddenly knew this wasn't real. Something was wrong.
"I'm going to have to go now," she said, her tone mature and precise. "I thought we would be great together, and I wanted to say goodbye. You were the first Mommy I picked out- but things have changed, and I have to move on." She took my hand. "I'm going to miss you, but I need a Mommy who can be my Mommy."

And then she was gone.

She told me her name, but I can't bring myself to write it.

I really have no idea what to make of this. Is it some piece of torture cooked up by my subconscious? Is it really from somewhere outside myself? Is it about me coming to terms with the idea that I'll never be a mother?

I wish I had an answer.

So anyone who's read this thing at all realizes that it's more about me and my most recent lost love than about the voice in my head. And it's not funny either. Neither of these is what I intended, but in some ways, it's working for me. 

I had another epiphany about him this week. For some reason I have been thinking about him more than usual lately, and in the midst of one daydream where he's thrown her over and come back to me on his knees, I realized something: I couldn't take him back. No matter what he said or did, I couldn't do it.

I mean, on some level, I desperately want him back. I want what we had. But that's just it. I want what we HAD, not what we could have. I can't trust him anymore. I don't know him as I thought I did. I love him- I'll always love him, but if I can't trust him, how could I possibly ever have him back?

I guess this means my real problem is that my love is the enemy of my self-respect. 

Or maybe it means I've finally turned a corner and can begin to get over him. Because, I have to say, I'm not over him at all. I'm sitting here with fresh tears on my face. I had to leave the computer earlier this evening because the urge to message him when I saw that he was online just got to be too strong. 

I think I'll always mourn for what would have been. But that's what it is now- what would have been, not what can be. Because he broke his promises to me, and he pushed me out of his life, and I can never let him back into mine in that way. 

It doesn't matter that the sex was fantastic, or that he understood me so well, or that I could tell when his arm hurt from 50 miles away without talking to him. What matters is that he chose someone else over me, and he let her push me out of his life. He did this against my protestations, my predictions that it would happen, and he did this in the most insulting way possible- by comparing me to his abusive, schizophrenic ex-wife. 

I think the first step in my recovery, in moving him from the "love of my life" category to the "love lost" category, is admitting that he was in fact the one who made those decisions. Yes, she was bad. Yes, she probably manipulated him and told him lies about me. But ultimately, he made his own decisions. And he decided that he'd be better off without me. 

No matter how much it hurts, I've got to at least make the decision that I am okay without him. 

Easier said than done.

It finally hit me, what I really lost when he broke up with me. I lost the only man who ever seriously talked about children with me, the only man who I ever yearned to have babies with. It took me 27 years to find him.

And now I've lost my chance to be a parent.

I know, it's not supposed to work like that- couldn't I find someone else, find a sperm donor, something? No, I need to be part of a team if I ever have kids, and there's nobody else I've ever met that I really wanted on my team the way I wanted him.

And I am doomed by my own choices to now work with other people's children, knowing there will never be one of my own.

And he probably thinks I'm mostly over him by now.

Permission

Do you know what Thanatophilus wants more than anything? Permission. He wants one person to say that they/the world would be fine/better if I committed suicide. He knows that other people's need/love for me is my best excuse- and if he could get just one person that I care about to say that suicide is a perfectly good option, he could convince me to do it. The closest he's come, in fact, was in the aftermath of a breakup that still weighing heavy on my mind.
He even, sometimes, tries to convince me that if these people really loved me, they'd give me the permission he wants. Twisted, isn't it?

So why don't I actually seek this permission?
First, it's embarrassing. Can you imagine going up to your best friend and asking them to tell you it's ok to kill yourself? This becomes more of a problem because of how my family has tarred me with the epithet "dramatic"- there's no chance they'll take me seriously, I'll just invite more harassment.
Second, I'm afraid I'll get it. Yes, I know how weird that sounds. No, on a rational level, I don't think anyone's going to actually give me permission. But suppose they do? Imagine they're having a bad day, and I ask at just the wrong moment. Then what? If I don't do it, I'm just being dramatic again. More scorn.

I spent a large chunk of today remembering. Remembering his hand in mine, his eyes, shining with what I thought was love. And remembering that moment where he compared me to the abusive, schizophrenic woman he married. That's what I got for a year of my life, a year of my devotion. I was told it wasn't enough, I expected too much, and he needed to be with the woman who moved into his house and stole his entire attention from me. The same woman who cheated on her husband (letting him know and ignoring the fact that he refused permission is still a cheat), and then divorced him. The same woman who insisted that this was going to work, and worked as hard as she could to push me away.
I don't know what else I could have given him, what else I could have done. All I know is that my best wasn't good enough for him.

And for a time, I felt that was almost permission.

Attitude

So, I was in a small vehicular accident the other evening. It's not my first. I have suspected for a long time that I am a terrible driver, and my record bears this out.
Where Thanatophilus becomes involved is in talking to my mother afterwards. Apparently, I have a "cavalier" attitude about this stuff. What she doesn't understand is that pretending not to care is the only way to keep her from talking to Thanatophilus directly. He wants to say things like, "I suck at driving, would you like to drive me everywhere I want to go?" and, "Maybe I should keep driving, and try to make sure the next accident is fatal."
Mom of course would accuse me of "being dramatic", a character flaw she assigned me at the age of 2, and refuses to believe I could ever grow out of. I'm not sure why she seems to think I have to find the non-existent middle ground between drama and cavalier, when I have not yet met someone who can do that after an accident, but apparently I should be able to think perfectly straight, and be totally upset yet drama free.
But I did make that evening come out not totally as bad as it could have. I went to an awesome concert, and then handed my card (remember that I work with kids? I do some freelance work.) to one of the musicians I follow. The idea that he has my number is pretty exciting to me.

Know what's weird? When I am alone, Thanatophilus looms huge, and I wonder how life can possibly happen with me in it. But when I am responsible for someone, or even with someone, I am totally in control, Thanatophilus is nothing but a tiny heckler in the depths of my mind. I like being needed. It lets me feel useful, which I think is the feeling that Thanatophilus most hates. Being liked is nice, but being needed is much better.

Analogy

Last night, while reading The Fellowship of the Ring, I decided that being depressed is kind of like being a Hobbit in a world full of Big Folk. Sure, everyone goes through a phase where they're that short, but you are stuck with it forever. All the signs are hung too high for you to see. All the table and countertops require a boost. You know you don't really belong, and so does everyone around you who takes a second to notice. The nice ones will talk to you, bending down and trying to make you feel somewhat less short- but you can see their bent knees, and you know they will never be like you, never have to deal with this. Or they'll stand up, talking with their head bowed, and you can see either way that it makes them uncomfortable. The not-so-nice ones will carefully talk to a point over your head, so it's hard for you to hear them. This also applies to people who somehow do not notice how close to the ground you are. Many people deny the existence of Hobbits, and decide that you're obviously a child who should stop pretending to be an adult.

There are entire companies that seem to deny your existence, but at the same time offer products that will "make anyone more normal". Elevator and platform shoes can give you a taste of what it's like to be tall, but they're awkward, and you're likely to fall down. And you're left hoping that either nobody notices your short arms, or they mistake you for an adolescent T-rex. (Roar loudly to enhance this effect.) There are even stilts out there that, once you learn to properly use them, can make you taller and faster than any of the Big Folk.

And sometimes, from the top of your stilts, you look around and realize that there are more Hobbits up here than you could have guessed. Many of them are the same people who have been so mean or so oblivious. And eventually, you realize that there are hardly any Big Folk. Most of the world is made of Hobbits who have somehow given themselves the appearance of height.

And somehow, when you are not on your stilts, you can never seem to remember that.

Funeral

Dear Thanatophilus,
Did you know that you were really annoying during that funeral? I was trying to concentrate on the woman's life, and all you could say was, "Gosh, how do you think they get a whole body into one of those little urns? Doesn't the little angel look restful?" No, Thanatophilus, the angel does not look restful, the angel looks sad. She's weeping for heaven's sake, not putting her head down like a second grader about to play "thumbs up"!

I can't take you anywhere, and I can't seem to leave you behind. Why are you never satisfied with anyone or anything- unless I am upset about it? When I want to break up with someone, you suddenly think they're tops! When I feel in love, you start telling me either that they stink, or that I am not worthy of such a paragon, and they'll realize it soon enough.

Why can I never win arguments with you?

Who is Thanatophilus?

What a good question!

Thanatophilus is the evil voice that lives in my head. The one that tells me that killing myself, even killing others, would be a great idea. It's not a second personality, it's just my basest, most depressed desires personified. Yes, I know it's probably a sign of mental illness. No, I am not currently seeking help.
My goal here is to maybe amuse, maybe educate, and maybe, just maybe, disempower that evil voice with your laughter.

Thanatophilus got his name while I was listening to a reading from the bible, and thinking about the Greek I took in college. It's simply the words for death and love mashed together in what I think is a proper form. And it's appropriate for this voice. It loves death, at least as far as contemplation goes.

No, I do not actually hear voices. No, I have never made a serious enough attempt on my life that it required medical care. No, I can't go and see a shrink- I am one of the many under-employed, uninsured Americans.

Who am I?

I'm a 28 (almost 29) year old woman who has never had a job with which she could support herself. I am a survivor of abuse, but only just. I am a deeply damaged person, but you'd never know it to deal with me. I work with children, and the last thing I want to be associated with my "real" life is this voice. I know it would be easy to track me down if you cared to, but I am asking you not to.

I am a polyamourous woman, with only one current relationship. He's married. Luckily, she thinks I am awesome, and loves having me around. Unlickily, they live 300 miles or so away.

I may update this if my conversations with Thanatophilus don't prove as revealing as I think they might.