The Trouble With Trixie

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Open Letter to You

Dear Would-Be Boyfriend,

I’m not High Maintenance. I know, you’re not used to that. It doesn’t take a lot to make me happy; it really doesn’t. I understand that you’re building your own business, and that takes time. A lot of time. You’re busy. I get it. I occasionally ask to see you, and don’t expect that you can always be available or make accommodations. I always text before I call, in case it’s not a good time, or you’re with a client, or are catching up on some much-needed sleep. I’m exceedingly considerate in this way… perhaps too much so. I always thank you for your time, whether it’s in person or on the phone, because I know how precious little you have. I don’t nag you about getting together, or call you a dozen times a day – hell, most times not even once a week, although I admit I’d love to have some kind of contact with you every day, even if it’s just a text saying hi, or I’m thinking about you, and nothing else. I don’t wake you in the middle of the night when I’m afraid, when I can’t sleep, or when I can’t stop crying. I don’t rail at you or fly off the handle or go Psycho Kitty when something doesn’t go my way, or when it takes more than 15 minutes for you to answer my text.

Because I’m Not High Maintenance.

This doesn’t mean I don’t have feelings, though. When we have plans and you tell me a scant few hours beforehand that you forgot and scheduled something else, that doesn’t feel good (and why was I the one to lose in that situation, anyway?). I’m not especially fond of having you answer calls and texts from your ex while we’re together, either… that kinda kills it for me. Those times that we talked about spending a night or the weekend away together and then unbeknownst to me you chose to make yourself completely unavailable as if we hadn’t discussed doing anything at all? No warm fuzzies for me there.

What I do feel is cast off, discarded, unimportant, uncared about, forgotten, and utterly invisible, although you often tell me just the opposite.

I make time for you because you are a priority for me. If you tell me in advance that you want to get together on a certain date, I will plan for that and adjust my schedule to the best of my ability to accommodate as necessary. I have not been seeing the same from you. I ask for time on occasion – I don’t demand it. So please, bear this in mind going forward: I am not High Maintenance. It seems that you are accustomed to – and possibly prefer – women who are. Perhaps that makes it easier on you, because it takes a lot of the guesswork out of the equation. I won’t do that for you, and don’t think I should have to. It really takes so little to make me happy. Especially at this stage. A little time, a little attention, a little affection, and I’m good. However, that involves you saying “yes” sometimes. It involves planning. It involves keeping your word. And it involves making time with me a priority. It might even involve making me a priority. In the spirit of transparency, I would love that, and I believe I’m well deserving of it, too.

So, let me be clear. Saying you’re going to show up for me is fine, but then you actually have to do it, too. Words are meaningless when you’ve developed a pattern of being consistently inconsistent and reliably unreliable. I’m not saying it’s all up to you, because it’s not; I will continue to do my part. You do have a choice, though. There is always a choice. You can choose to open your heart to me, as it was before, and we can talk about how to move forward and what that might look like. If I have been friend-zoned, that’s useful information for me to have, so that I can proceed accordingly. If the door is closed, then I need to know that as well, so that I can stop wasting time for both of us. If there is some other kind of blockage somewhere, please, talk to me about it. What is happening in my imagination is far, far worse than whatever you have to say, I assure you. One thing is for certain: if things stay as they are, and there are only more cancellations, forgotten dates, blown off requests, and the like in our future, then I will take that at face value. You cannot keep saying “no” and not have me believe you. One of those times will be the last time you say it, and then I’ll be gone. Not being High Maintenance doesn’t mean that I won’t notice that your actions don’t match your words, and we both know which speaks louder.

I know it’s not what you’re used to. But I won’t become High Maintenance for you.




My brain is broken.

I wrote this post a year ago, in March 2014, but have not released it until today. I don’t know who will see it, and I suppose it doesn’t matter. There will be more to come.

Some days, I’m almost okay. Most days, though, I spend at war with myself, battling the demons that live within my mind. We all have them, I know. I can’t say that mine are any easier or more difficult than anyone else’s. It’s all relative, anyway; all just based on perspective. What I can say is that I have felt afraid, ashamed, and alone in my battles for… well, almost forever.

I have both anxiety and depression, and have struggled with both for most of my adult life. The depression has had a good grip on me for 18 months or so now, since at least October 2013, and the last 6 months have been particularly bad.

All I want is to be normal, and it’s a full time job just pretending to be. Sometimes I can’t do it. I just can’t. In the last year, I’ve had to work really hard to keep it together. Sometimes, I’m simply not able to.

My interactions with others, regardless of who they may be – friends, family, strangers – leave me feeling stupid, worthless, and that I have nothing to contribute. When I do try to be social, I don’t feel heard and/or the reaction that I see and hear reflected back to me is that people just want me to shut up and go away. So I try to seclude myself as much as possible; I try not to participate in things, try not to say anything to anyone, I just want to withdraw, curl up, cry, and wither away.

Logically, I know what I’m feeling isn’t true. I know it’s not real. But there is a massive disconnect between what I know logically and what I feel emotionally. No amount of telling myself how UN-true it is helps alleviate the devastating, terribly cruel things that I think and feel.

Then, of course, I beat myself up because I’m being such an idiot to let myself feel that way. …Right?

For years, I have been fantastic at looking and pretending I’m okay. An absolute pro. That is, until I have to start talking about how I feel, and then I come apart at the seams, unraveling, and all the Ugly squirms out and spills all over the floor, like Oogie Boogie in Nightmare Before Christmas. Now, though, my Ugly is everywhere, splattered like vomit, getting all over everything, my shoes, my clothes, my hair, and its too late – it is just too late – there’s just too much leaking out at this point for me to ever hope to keep it cleaned up or even try to pretend it was an accident.

It’s too much, it’s too late, and I’m too broken.