To My Ex-Husband

letter-writer


To my ex-husband,

All I ever wanted was for you to love me until I was me again.

And I didn’t think that this was too much to ask.

I should have took more notice of the way you’d complain about wanting the old me back.

Where did she go? And I didn’t have an answer, because my mental illnesses took over and kept me their prisoner.

Do you realize just how paralyzing that was? I struggled so hard to be that old version of myself again, but it was a long battle, not to mention an impossible one.

I am mostly me again, but I’m certainly not the same old Merry that I was back in 2011.

Because I’m a stronger, updated version of myself now, partly because of the hell you put me through.

I read and hear from many sources that I need to forgive you, but that’s something that I’ll never be able to do. I will never wish you well, nor will I pray that someday you’ll see the light. That’ll never happen because you’ll never admit that you did anything wrong.

Your evil superpower is an ego the size of your ass.

You’ve caused me far too much damage for forgiveness to ever take place.

Because of your early subtle and then later insidious abuse, I have a persistent voice in my head that tells me that I’m not worthy of love.

That I’m not worthy of empathy and human kindness. That being mentally ill is something to be ashamed of, ostracized and mocked for.

I have a deep river of anger and hostility towards you. I wasted 15 fucking years of my life, the entirety of my 30’s, with a cold, heartless, lying, cheating son of a bitch. Those are years that I’ll never get back.

They are now all lost to the hands of time. All I have to show for those precious years is a greater understanding of how to detect an abusive person and then steer clear of them.

And I will not allow myself to be treated like human garbage ever again. I deserve so much more than what you were ever capable of giving.

What do I wish for you?

I wish that someday, when you become sick yourself and you’re scared shitless, that you end up alone in an ER somewhere, desperately hoping for some reassurance from your beloved that you’re not a miserable burden, better dead than alive.

Do you remember that day? That awful day when I tried to kill myself, but you couldn’t be bothered to follow the ambulance to the hospital to comfort me?

I still cannot wrap my head around it. What sort of human can do that to someone that they claim to love?

I suppose someone like you, because that’s exactly what you did. Such cruelty is absolutely disgusting and everyone that knows would agree with me.

My mother despised you, by the way. Your heart hurt when you learned that she passed away, eh?

Save the bullshit for someone who might believe you.

I hope that someday I run across your mind and you experience even the slightest twinge of regret. And if that day ever comes, I hope that you can feel my hatred for you over the miles that gloriously separates us.

I pray that your new soon-to-be wife wakes up one day to discover that you’re also cheating on her, because like you told me in a sad attempt to rationalize your deplorable actions, you have a sickness that makes you want to fuck as many women as you can.

Because of course, you’re the victim.

I really hope that she has the nerve and determination to kick you out of her home, just like I did.

Because of you, I have many years worth of therapy ahead of me. And I hope that each session, when I speak your name in an effort to finally redeem and recollect my sense of self worth, it burns your soul.

Whatever is left of it.

Your ex wife,

Merry

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Mental Health Is Like A Teeter-Totter

When I called this past Monday about making a psych appointment, I was given two options.

Option A: Go to the main campus of the hospital system I’m currently using for my healthcare and wait for many hours in the ER. 

Option B: Wait until September 11th, the first available appointment for a psych evaluation at the smaller and much closer office building.

Since I’m not currently experiencing a mental health crisis, I decided on option B.

Mental health is a precarious thing. It reminds me of a teeter-totter. It goes up and it goes down, sometimes so quickly that you’ll lose your balance and fall on your ass with a loud thud.

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Look, a therapy dog!

It’s not that simple getting help, as you can see from my options up there. Either I am in serious trouble and need assistance right NOW or I have to bide my time until I can be evaluated.

I can tell you what I need, a decent therapist.

I need to talk about what I’ve gone through the last few years with someone who isn’t too close to the situation. This time around, though, I won’t follow any doctor(s) or therapist blindly like I have in the past.

Perhaps I’ll even allow the doc to give me a booster med that is specifically used for major depressive disorder. I know that I want to stay on Effexor, because without it, I’d be curled up in the fetal position on I-71 South towards Columbus.

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A strange thing happens when your trust has been broken numerous times by people you once thought had your back; you begin to follow your instincts and tap into your own shitty experiences instead.


I’m hanging in there.

I miss my mother dearly and I cry often. It hurts not having her to talk to and share news with her, good and bad combined. I’ll start to think about those last few days before she died and how she didn’t even look like herself lying in that hospital bed on comfort care. The sound of her breathing, erratic and desperate. Even while actively dying, she didn’t want to let go.

All I can do is continue to move forward. I want to make her proud of me and keep on living my life.

And that’s why I need to fight back hard to stay put on that teeter-totter and try not to fucking fall off.

Trying to Suck the Funny Out

When I first started blogging in 2012, I posted at least once a day. I think it was mostly because I needed something to do with myself that made me feel somewhat productive. (And not just a loser who couldn’t keep her damn job.)

I was waiting to be approved for disability and feeling extremely worthless.

But alas, the words stopped flowing. I realized that I just couldn’t keep up with such an insane pace. I started to write when I felt like I had something to write about, even if that meant days or weeks went by.

Or months.

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I wish I had been doing this whilst I was away, but alcohol me no likey.

It’s amazing that I’ve known some of you guys for almost seven years. Blogging seriously saved my sanity and gave me something to be proud of. I’m not even talking about my follower count or how many likes a post gets. Just knowing that maybe I cheered someone up or made them feel less alone lifted my own dampened spirits.


I’m naturally good at four things; writing, cooking, being funny and driving.

Everything else takes a bit more effort. Like, math.

Fuck math.

But I haven’t been all that humorous in what feels like ages. I can still bust out a joke and see the humorous side of things, but damn if it isn’t often just a cover-up to hide my emotional pain.

But, you know, most of the funniest people in the world are depressed.

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The more you know.

Yes, I use my sense of humor to distract people from seeing my damaged psyche. I’ll admit it.

I was told so often as a young child that I was hilarious, so I suppose I started getting a bit of an ego. For someone who has sketchy self-esteem, it’s way out of character for me.

Like, if someone tells me that I’m funny, I’ll just shrug.

“Yeah, I know. It’s a gift.”

Look at me, being all smug and shit.

If I completely lose my sense of humor, then there’s something seriously wrong with me. Please call the nearest comedian and then throw chocolate bars at me, while playing a video of George Carlin doing stand-up.


Life has desperately tried to suck the funny out of my bones.

(We all have our stories of sadness and woe, I’m aware of that, but this is my blog.)

I had mental health issues as a little girl. I saw my first psychologist at 8 years old. (I get a kick out of repeating that tidbit of info.)

I was an awkward and unpopular kid who attended a small, repressed Catholic school. The boys teased me relentlessly, the girls were all mean bitches and I was always chosen last for any team sports.

“You can have her!”

“No!! You can have her!”

“Oh man, we’re gonna lose. Thanks for sucking ass, Mer.”

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No problem, I hope you break a vital body part.

I didn’t have a real best friend until I started public high school, but I sadly continued to be teased. Even on my fucking graduation day, my two main tormentors for those entire 4 years um…tormented me.

I watched as my father died the day after I turned 12.

I was date raped at 19.

I lived with my 1st abuser, my offspring’s biological father, for 6 hellish years.

And on and on…you get the gist.

I’ve had good things happen. Great (real) friends, awesome parents, a beautiful daughter and finally a wonderful boyfriend who treats me so well, I wake up every day amazed that God put him in my life.

Life hasn’t been all shit on wheat toast and I’m ever so grateful for that.

But all of that bad shit, it loves to follow me around. It’s like having a slideshow of bothersome memories inside my head, on repeat. It doesn’t seem to matter where I am or what I’m doing. I could be out somewhere with my boyfriend Steven, having a lovely time. Just trying so hard to live in the moment.

All of a sudden, there’s a clip of my first ex telling me what a fat, ugly bitch I am.

Stupid, he whispers.

Kiss my ass, I whisper back.

“What?” Back in the present, my boyfriend asks me.

“You have a nice ass,” I say.


I’d like to end this post with some song lyrics, a little ditty by the great Tim McGraw.

One of these days I’m gonna love me
And feel the joy of sweet release
One of these days, I’ll rise above me
And at last I’ll find some peace
Then I’m gonna smile a little
Maybe even laugh a little but
One of these days I’m gonna love me