Get Your Shit Together.

When I got home that night, I knew I needed his stuff out. He has a habit of picking up and leaving. This includes anything he owns. Did this include me? Did he own me? I looked around at his stuff. Most of the nice things were items I had bought him. His leather jacket, the shoes, his bolo ties; I'd brought value to his life. Not just in items but in who I am. Even at my lowest I had value. He didn't want me to think so. I found myself screaming, crying, grabbing all of his shit and feeling animalistic. After this break down, I then folded his clothes and neatly organized and packed his shit up to get it the fuck out of my way.

He was coming to get it, but I was forced to move my schedule around. I fought this at first. Then I realized this was it. The last time I'd be forced in a position where he came first. The Couch World: as a bystander you'll be consumed.

He, his sister, and her girlfriend showed up and right away started recording me. I knew this was a trap. They wanted me to react. They wanted a reason to say, "See, she's fucking off her rocker." I asked them not to record me. I wondered what my rights were. His sister's girlfriend said, "This is to protect everyone here." I have to laugh. Who was really being protected? I felt violated yet again. I breathed. I disassociated as much as I needed to. I had perfected this skill with my father. I floated away and would check back in with myself. Let them record me. Let him act cordial and put together. He and I both knew the truth. As my life was crumbling and reforming, I had people rooting for me to fail. People who claimed to be my friends. I wasn't going to fail again. This time I had people rooting for me to succeed as well.

The first thing I did was put my salt lamps up. He always made fun of me for them. Today I'm going to wear a flannel shirt, another thing he mocked me for. When I get back to Utah, I will be buying a pair of Vans. He hated them. He hated that I had so many pairs of them. They slowly disappeared from my wardrobe. Funny enough, he bought himself a pair one day and I remember thinking, "Huh."

I don't know what will come from writing these things out. Kathy said I need to read back the things I started writing and we can go over it. The day I decided to start keeping track of my outbursts I started to see a pattern. It could be as simple as him trying to convince me I had eaten a cereal that I had never tried before. I thought I was going crazy. My mind was going, could I really not remember something I'd eaten? 

I had never had that cereal before; never.

Is this how he worked? Shaking up my reality until he became my reality. What he said, believed, liked, didn't like... I think I got lost. I was so fucking lost.

If I'm being honest, I still am. Maybe we all are.

"Get your shit together. Get it all together and put it in a backpack, all your shit, so it's together. And if you gotta take it somewhere, take it somewhere you know, take it to the shit store and sell it or put it in a shit museum I don't care what you do you just gotta get it together. Get your shit together."