The Mexico Plan

In 2011, I was in a terrible, dark place.
Hollywood, to be specific.
I was on the raw end of a break up I didn’t even know was happening, and I was hurting.

Alone again for the holidays, I did what any sensible gal does when she’s bored on Christmas Eve, and called a Suicide Hotline. Not because I needed it. I just… needed to talk. To someone. Over the last few years, I’d developed a nasty habit of hurting myself and I had a sneaky feeling I might take it a step too far if left to my own devices. I just wanted to know someone out there cared.

The dumb thing is, I KNOW someone out there cared. Lots of someones, in fact. I’m lucky like that - I’ve never been at a loss for friends, and my family is incredibly supportive and kind. I knew I could easily get the love and assurance I needed from anyone I reached out to… But here’s the thing:
These supportive, kind, amazing friends and family who love me fiercely?
I love them fiercely, too. They’re the last people I wanted to burden with my problems. And not on Christmas Eve for God's sake. I needed an impartial stranger, who could hear me out, say what I needed to hear and tell me goodnight so I could continue making whimsical holiday magic for the masses at work the next morning.

I live in mortal terror of the Giving Tree Factor. You know the story about the tree who gives literally everything it can to make this kid happy, and the child just takes and takes and then one day *poof* the tree is used up. I’m always keenly aware of these invisible social bank accounts and scared shitless that one day I’ll need someone/something and it won’t be there.

"What's that? Another ride to the airport? Suuuuuure, no problem!"

There are people who have been Giving Trees to me. My brother. My mother. Tiff. Erika. Rissie. Greenwald. My boyfriend. Time and time again they’ve rushed to my rescue and I still feel the deep pang of a debt I owe and can never repay. It’s a unique kind of weighted shame, like a breezy-looking shawl that’s somehow heavier than it should be. Time and distance makes quid-pro-quo impossible, so all I can do is try to be the best friend I can be to whomever I can.

I could’ve called these people. But instead I dialed a stranger.
And that fucking stranger never picked up.

I called some easily-googleable Suicide Prevention Hotline and sat while it rang a few times. I felt those hot stinging embarrassed tears rim my eyes, and I was glad no one could see how weak I was. I look at the tiny tree in the corner of our apartment, and my tears obscure the lights, kaleidescoping them into a small rainbow. I think about how pretty it looks.

Then I realize no one’s picked up. I’m on the floor next to the couch (we still had furniture at this point) and listen to the Holding Pattern loop for a while. It’s not even Christmas music, just some crappy classical piece that’s been played to the point where it’s more static than Schubert.

I listen to the loop. I listen as drunken neighbors argue out in the courtyard, on a loop of their own. My tears dry and the tree looks boring again, and I remember that I hate that tree because Jenn gave it to us and I’m fairly certain Jenn is sleeping with my husband.

The loop continues and my phone beeps. I think someone might be about to pick up, but it’s just my battery letting me know it’s dying.

I think about how odd it is that my battery can reach out to someone and let them know it’s possibly about to die, but I’ve been on hold for 27 minutes.

I unplug the tree, cursing Jenn under my breath, and head to the bedroom to plug my phone into its charger near my nightstand. Then I lay down and just listen. I just listen to the sounds of Christmas Eve happening to everyone in the world except for me. It’s happening to my husband, wherever he is. It’s happening to Jenn. It’s happening to my shitty neighbors. It’s happening to whoever is supposed to be on fucking PHONE DUTY at the hotline.

I picture them having a big office party. Mistletoe, tinsel, eggnog. Whatever the hell figgy pudding is. They’re all there, stuffing their faces with figgy fucking pudding while the phone lines light up - well, like a Christmas tree.

"Keeping the Ho in Ho Ho Ho."

I’m unaware of how much time passes when I get into these states. This is usually the time I’d use to cut tiny chunks out of my skin with razors or scissors. It’s the time I’d use to destroy my finger nails so I’d be hesitant to write on bloody stumps, or cut into my toenails so walking the next day hurts. It’s a Lost Time, when I am lost. And when I felt lost, I’d hurt myself until enough blood was spilled that I felt I deserved to stop. It’s a loop of my own, just a massive negative spiral.

Some clatter outside (read: NOT Santa) jars me from my melancholia and I look at my phone. I’ve been on hold for 3 hours and 37 minutes. I hang up. I go to bed.
And I get up and go to work the next day. The toes of my socks are sticky from blood.

Over the next few months, I start to decide that I’m done hurting myself, and I’m done hurting period. There is no break from the sensation of pain. My entire body aches and I’m tired, and I can’t really let on to how bad I’m feeling. I don’t even want to tell my Therapist, because I don’t want to make him feel bad, like he failed to fix me or something. I sure as shit don’t tell my dad, or especially my brother or my mom. They can’t ever know - I am ashamed and it’s my responsibility to abate my hurting. No one else’s.

I tried to tell my husband. I desperately wanted him to fix me, and in some small way I am certain I allowed myself to get worse so he’d feel like he had to save me. Ha, turns out he had no such sense of obligation.* And so I came up with The Mexico Plan.

(You can’t steal this, by the way. It’s patented so don’t even try it.)

I wanted a fool-proof way to kill myself that wouldn’t burden anyone or make them feel sad.
I’d googled overdose recipes, and it turns out that it’s super easy to screw up and take too much or too little and wind up in a coma. Also, even if you do it “right,” you leave a nasty-looking corpse for someone to find. And that’s not nice. That’s not my style.

So I had to find a way to disappear without leaving a body, and I had to make sure people thought that I was happy and fine. I also knew unless I created a window of time, my family would come looking for me, so I figured out how to throw everyone off my trail.

I composed an introspective yet upbeat email to my mom, telling her that I was doing OK but needed to take some time for myself. I told her that I wanted to go camping up in Canada and do an off-the-grid thing I’d been reading about, and reconnect with nature for a while. She knows I’m a nature girl, and I think as worried as she’d be about me being out of reach, she would at least know how happy and excited I’d be about this upcoming adventure. I told her I just needed to recharge my batteries (see what I did there) and then return to Hollywood and work on my career and my marriage. I saved a draft to my desktop with only the dates left blank.

Then I started researching towns in Mexico. My plan was to tell EVERYONE about my Canada trip, then point my car South and cross the border. Once I was a significant distance South, I intended to file or use acid to obscure the VIN number on my car, and leave it in a bad part of town with the keys in it. I’d toss my ID and any passports in the trash.

I’d take a cab to the bus station, then take a bus South down the coast to this adorable seaside mesa overlooking the Pacific. I’d spend the rest of the afternoon loading my pockets with rocks, then leap from a cliff into the ocean and, with any luck, drown quickly.


"Like Casa Bonita, but Deathier!"

By the time my body washed ashore, it would be so messed up by the tides and the rocks that only DNA testing or dental records would identify me. Mexico is not known to be a paragon of Criminal Investigation Integrity, and a dead white girl is the last thing any town needs if they rely at all on tourism fallout.

Plus, remember: no one is looking for me dead. They think I’m alive. In Canada.

"Looks like this case...*removes sunglasses* is a real... CLIFF hanger. YEAOOWWWWWWW."

After I don’t come back when I’m supposed to, my family would start a search, but they’d be looking in the wrong spot and the only logical conclusion would be that something bad had happened to me, or maybe I was fine and just decided to stay lost. I knew they’d hold on hope for the latter, and any pain from my vanishing would slowly, over time, be forgotten.

See? No cleanup! No funeral! How considerate am I?

I sat on this plan for a couple of months, and when I was alone I’d work out the details. Which town? Which bus route? How much gas would I need?

At one point, my husband used my laptop for something and for whatever reason needed to delete his search history. Deleting his search history pulled up my search history, and even though he isn’t the most observant of people, “how many ambien to die no coma” was enough to rattle him. He and I had a long chat with our marriage counselor / my Therapist, and I told them it was just ideation, that I wasn’t actually going to to it.

‘Cause I wasn’t, right? I like to think so.

I took a trip home to visit my family shortly after that, and during that visit, my husband and I agreed to separate so I could “work on myself.” It was my idea, but he all too quickly agreed and immediately moved in with his girlfriend that I didn’t know about.
(Ready for a shock? It wasn’t Jenn! Merry Christmas to all!)
Later that week, on Valentine’s Day, he’d file for divorce.
3 weeks later, he’d tell me he’d been thinking and had decided to file for divorce.
I’d beg him not to change his mind. When he refused, I’d reach for a bottle of pills and try to lock myself in a bathroom. He’d jam the door open and wrench the pills out of my hand.

And in these two ways, I guess he saved my life. One in stopping me short of the cheap way out that night, and two, ripping open a wound that would’ve never healed if I kept counting on him for bandages. I bled and bled (metaphorically and not-so-metaphorically) and cried and crashed and burned for a thousand days. Then, by my own choice, I got better.

I’d like to say my recovery was an entirely healthy process, but there were tons of terrible, delectable mistakes that I needed to make. I had a lot to learn, and as my thoughts unhazed, I began to think about The Mexico Plan. I thought about how within 2 weeks of him discovering my dirty little secret, he was all too willing to let me go.

Maybe he thought I’d go through with it and it wouldn’t have happened on his watch.

*I should take a moment here and clarify that I'm not mad at my ex anymore. I was pretty pissed off for a long time, sure, but there are other blogs you can read for those stories. This isn't a story about what he did or didn't do, but he was part of this story and so he bears mentioning. Don't worry about him. He and I are square.

I don’t blame him for bailing. Having a suicidal wife is scary shit and he is a coward. I should’ve known, but at the time I couldn’t have. It was fine for a stranger to leave me hanging on Christmas Eve. But my husband leaving me (maybe to actually hang) gave me the rage. This rage provided the gasoline for the fire from which my Phoenix emerged.

In the time of my healing, my wonderful, kind, amazing friends and family showered me with love, and food, and safety. My body healed, my mind healed, and it took quite a while, but eventually my spirit came back swinging. So now when you see me smile, it’s the real deal.

When I’m grumpy, or butt-hurt over something, sure I’ll be grumpy and butt-hurt. I’m not ecstatic 100% of the time, and I have my off-days. But it’s been over 3 years since I’ve needed (or taken) antidepressants, and my feels, good or bad, are genuine and manageable. I haven't harmed myself (or wanted to) for 4 years.

"You wouldn't BELIEVE the money I'm saving on razors!"

It took a LOT of effort. It took a LOT of help. It took 10 days at a Buddhism Retreat, 2 days of a Landmark Seminar, and a night in a tree house. It took pasta, and motorcycles and ups and downs, but the point is, IT HAPPENED. AND I AM HERE. And I am happier than I ever dreamed possible. Bad things still happen, sure, but everything from here on out is baby town frolics compared to what I’ve been through.

I’ll leave you with this:
One day, about 6 months after I returned to Los Angeles, my friend Todd and I decided to have a picnic on a Malibu beach. We packed a healthy lunch, and laid the blanket down on the sugar sand. Eventually my eyes adjusted to the dazzling brightness of the sun dancing across the water, and I stared into the cerulean blue and felt the most intense gratitude that I was alive to enjoy it. That I hadn’t poisoned the pacific with my problems.
As we snacked on avocado and strawberries, I realized how immaculate everything is and I exclaimed “it’s the best day ever!” And I meant it.
Then, for the first time in my life, I’d see wild dolphins playing in the waves.
“It’s the best day EVER!” I’d shout, clapping my hands excitedly like a child.
A V-formation of pelicans swooped right above us overhead.
“It’s the BEST! DAY! EVERRRR!” I’d squeal as the rush of wings ruffled the beach breeze.
Later, shaking the sand out of the picnic blanket, my bikini top popped open, exposing my breasts to my roommate, who, without skipping a beat, shouted:
“IT JUST GOT BETTER!!!”
And that’s kind of how life has been since I decided to stick around.

"Like this, but more birds and dolphins and boobs."

Later, that very same evening, I’d go on my very first date with the love of my life.
(BETTERRRRRR!!!)

Boom. Easy, right?
OK, not really, but you have to stick around long enough to see.

I know for the rest of my life, whenever something really awesome happens, (like pelicans or busted bikinis) I will be doubly grateful because I’m aware of how I almost missed it.
So maybe you don’t want to call your friends when you’re going through shit. I get it.
And maybe you don’t want to sit on hold waiting for a stranger who may or may not pick up.
I get that, too.
But don’t you dare give up.

Besides, have you been on a bus in Mexico? They totally suck.

Writer For Hire: At Your Cervix

Ladies, ladies, ladies!
If you are the proud owner/operator of a vagina, I highly recommend you read this. It can save your life.
If you're simply a vagina aficionado, or have friends with vaginas, I ALSO recommend you read this. Because, vaginas, guys.
...Vaginas.

*************

I spent 16 years with the same guy, and when it started to fall apart, I spent a lot of time alone in bed, depressed.
When it finally did fall apart, I spent a lot of time also in bed, cheering myself up. But this time I wasn't alone.
(Shameless Winky Emoticon.)
My "number" is still in the single digits, but clearly I had some lost time I needed to make up for.
I got laid, got some great stories, and unfortunately, got something else:
...HPV.

A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: I don't have HPV anymore. I am healthy, clear of the disease, and Planned Parenthood has stated that my vagina is "so clean you could eat off it." So, hooray for me! I was lucky, but not everyone is - and HPV can be pretty dangerous. I was shocked at how little I knew about it, so here's what I didn't know and what you should be aware of, you hornball sexkittens...

"Page-ing the owner operator of the pink vagina parked illegally in the chair..."

HPV is something people don't talk about. It's not a glamorous or humorous STI, so it doesn't get much limelight, but it really should and here's why: IT CAN KILL YOU DEAD, LADIES.
-80% of sexually active adults in major cities have some version of it.
-Most of us don't know we even have it.
-There is no test to determine whether or not a guy has it - they can be carriers and never know. Totes unfair, right?
-There is, however, a test to determine whether or not girls have it - but it's not fun.
-Guys can carry it with no symptoms.
-Girls can carry it with no symptoms. I had it and didn't even know I had it - everything looked and felt perfectly normal.
-You can get it even if you and your partner are using condoms. (Suuuuper unfair!)
-HPV stands for Human Papilloma Virus. The booksmart part of me who aced all her sex-ed classes knew that it meant genital warts. But that's totally not it. There are dozens of different strains of HPV, all with different calling cards. Most of them have zero physical symptoms except for one, and it's a kicker: HPV can give you cervical cancer.
If you have a cervix, cervical cancer can kill you.

There is one silver lining - if you stay healthy, your body can "clear" the disease. It takes, on average, 2 years but it is very possible.
However, if you have an aggressive type of HPV, or you let it go unchecked because you didn't know to go get an annual pap test, you can die. Dead. And then you can't have sex anymore.

I'm a catastrophizer, so naturally, I was at defcon 1 upon hearing that I had HPV.
Everything I'd learned in school (condoms, condoms, condoms) about protecting myself had let me down, and here I was, newly divorced and scared shitless that I was going to die from snatch cancer.
I was terrified, because I didn't know the facts.

Guess who else didn't know the facts: the guy I was seeing at the time. Whom I foolishly called for comfort.

Let's call this gentleman "A."
Could stand for "A-hole," could stand for "Andrew." But to keep his identity (and callousness) a secret, we'll stick with "A."
I didn't have insurance, and this was before ObamaCare, so I went though a Christian Clinic to get an annual woman's health exam.
I had no reason to assume anything was wrong.
As soon as the clinic called me with abnormal pap results from what I assumed would be a perfectly routine pap smear, I thunderstruck to find out I had a stealth STI I didn't even know I had. I was extremely upset and the clinic did little to assuage my fears, telling me that I should come in for further testing but that if they determined that I had an STI they had to "report it."
WAT.
TO WHOM DOES MY VAGINA REPORT TO EXACTLY?
"Bullshit," I say.
Then they told me about the additional cancer risk. Ughhh. Gutpunch.
I felt like I'd been poisoned.

I called "A." for support and to tell him I probably had HPV, which most likely meant he had it too and would be a symptom-less carrier.
At which point he promptly freaked out and asked me where I got it. Because there's, like, no way it could've been him.
He's CATHOLIC, for fuck's sake. They don't get diseases!

Now, there were really only two sources it could've been: either my ex-husband had tracked it in off the streets, or it was "A."

"A." insisted it wasn't him. Since I couldn't exactly vent my frustration on my ex, and most guys never even know they're carriers, I told "A" to check his facts and get back with me. "A." is convinced Planned Parenthood is the devil, and gets all of his sciencey information from trusted Catholic sources.
"A." then has his roommate call me to be the voice of reason. "A's" roomie is a smooth-talking Englishman with a penchant for one night stands. As a self-diagnosed sex addict, the roomie is well-versed in matters of the genitalia, and called me back to console me with his adorable accent and inconceivable misogyny...

"You probably picked it up from a public toilet seat, love," he croons.
"THAT'S NOT EVEN POSSIBLE ARE YOU FUCKING SERIOUS" I screeched back.

If only...

Yes, he was serious. He swore I couldn't possibly have picked up an STI from "A.," his Catholic condom-hatin' roomie, who, unbeknownst to me at the time, had a girlfriend back home when he and I first started dating. Clearly he could do no wrong. Clearly I picked it up from a toilet seat. Because, science and stuff.
(This man is also an actual part-time Life Coach. Ladies beware.)

Eventually "A." got checked, and proudly told me it came back negative.
Of COURSE it came back negative. It never shows up in tests for guys, so unless he had visible symptoms, he'd never know if he was a carrier (or Patient 0.) At my urging, he told his (now) ex-girlfriend, who may have wound up sharing this with both of us at some point. I'm sure that was an awkward conversation.
She was tested and it came back negative. I told "A." that it can take several months to show up in tests, that it wasn't an instant-results kind of thing.
"A." grew really cold at that point, and although we'd ended our romantic relationship months before, this was the spectacular end to our friendship.

I felt violated. I felt maligned. I felt misunderstood. I felt tainted. I felt dirty and I felt stupid. Like I didn't deserve to enjoy my body anymore. I felt a deep sense of shame and worst of all, a pervasive sense of dread and fear haunted my love life.
I'm pretty sure that film "It Follows" is about HPV.
Never a single symptom. Never any warts, bumps, never any pain.
Just an all-consuming terror that my vagina would grow cancer cells and kill me. Probably overnight, in my sleep.

I told another boyfriend about it. I'm convinced this man could not have been a "donor" because of the nigh-virginal state he'd been in when he met me. He hadn't been sexually active for years, so even if he'd been a carrier it would've passed long before he had a chance to pass it on to me.
However, since there was a chance I passed it on to him, I had to call him up.
At which point HE freaks out and calls every girl he's ever hugged or cuddled. He looks up HPV, but he looks it up on WebMD and chooses to focus on the worst case scenario.
Sure enough, one of his ex-girlfriends (with whom he'd had a walk down memory lane after he and I parted ways) has cancer. But it's THROAT CANCER. And she's been a heavy smoker for years.
Tragic? Yes.
My fault? Fuck no.
But naturally, he blames me. Awkwardness ensues and I feel like a monster.

Cut to a year later and it's time to call upon the good people of Planned Parenthood Los Angeles to test me and see what stage I'm at...

They tell me this...
There are three kinds of "danger levels" from HPV:
1) slow-growing, non-agressive HPV THAT COULD CHANGE AT ANY TIME AND KILL YOU AT ANY TIME YOU WHORE
2) Medium-speed, Holy Shit Keep An Eye On This It Could Turn Into Cancer Any Minute YOU WHORE, and
3) Cancer, you're dead. Or if you're not, they have to cut out pieces of your cervix with a small chain-saw so you'll WISH you were dead.
Guac is extra.

Fortunately, there are ways to test what kind you have.
First, you get a pap smear (a simple swab-rubbed-against-your-cervix-test) to determine whether or not you have cancery cells.
It's not fun, but it's not too painful. You'll just feel crampy the rest of the day, no big.
Then you wait 2 weeks, and if they call and tell you that you have cancery pre-cancerous cells, they'll need to perform a culposcopy.

A culposcopy is when they take what feels like a serrated jack-o-lantern scooping tool and rake-scrape it along your cervix while peering up your cooch with a microscope. It's grand.

So grand, the first time I had one, I got up from the table, threw up on the clinic floor and passed out from pain.
I woke up in the chair I'm pretty sure they place girls in after they have abortions. A heated massage chair, pulsing with soothing electric waves. I struggled to keep my eyes from tunnel-visioning out again as I heard my roommate's name being called in the waiting room.
My roommate, an officer and a gentleman, came to the back of the clinic and scooped me out of the chair and carried me Whitney-Houston-Kevin-Costner-style to his car and drove me home.
(Fun fact: my roommate is not tall in stature, but incredibly strong. When he carried me, I had a bizarre vision of those mighty leafcutter ants or whatever hoisting dead bird carcasses home for food.)
My insides hurt like hell and I cursed "A." with every pothole we hit on the way home.
In keeping with the theme of unspeakable pain, I laid in a fetal position on the couch and stared at "Birdemic" on Netflix. I'm loaded up on Ibuprofen while my other roomie fed me coconut soup from my favorite Thai place.
My roomies were pretty freakin' awesome.
I felt better in a few days, but had serious cramps and spotty bleeding. Plus the blood and other goodies that came out were stained with iodine dye, so it looked like a load of coffee grounds were seeping from my vagina directly into my panties.
So not sexy. But better than not knowing if I was precancerous, cancerous, or just plain fucked.

Planned Parenthood called me in a week with the results, and I guess I won the HPV lottery: I had the slow, only marginally scary kind of precancerous cells. Unlike the Christian Clinic, Planned Parenthood took the time to actually talk with me about HPV, and assured me that lots of women have it. I was pretty emotional still and told the nurse that I didn't know anyone else who had it. There was a long pause, and then she said "I had it. And I cleared it, and I'm healthy. So don't worry."
She told me tons of people have it and just never know, but I still felt awful. Like I was being punished for something.

So, cut to another year later. Things are great and I'm totally in love. I met an amazing guy who I can see a future with, and oh crap we're having The Sex Talk. And here's the part where I have to tell him I have This Thing, and he'll think I'm a whore and leave.
He'll tell me to avoid toilet seats.
...But he doesn't. Instead, he does his research and finds out that oh hey, a LOT of this is going around. And he understands that even if we use condoms, he may become a carrier and never have any way of being tested for it.
He responds by immediately making a visit to Planned Parenthood himself, and getting tested for everything.
(Just ask for "The Works." It's on the Secret Menu.)
He's clean as a whistle. And I'm about to ruin that, because he really wants to put it in me.

Cut to ANOTHER FREAKIN' YEAR LATER...
I'm still in love! Same Guy! We're still doin' it!
I go to my annual Planned Parenthood appointment and get my pap. It's abnormal and I have to come in for another culposcopy.
Fuuuuuck.
I cry a little. I'm so tired and over it - I just want to feel clean again.
Boo. But I'm a big girl now, and this is the price I pay for having The Sex. I have to be responsible, it's just... why is no one else talking about this? Why am I the only person I know getting tested for this stuff? I know I'm not the only one who has The Sex, so why do I feel so alone in this? My boyfriend is amazing and supportive, but then, it's not his cervix about to face the melon-baller.

I suck it up and borrow some xanax from a friend and endure my second culposcopy with significantly less pain.
No vomiting or fainting. (I'm a pro by now.)
I'm making jokes about how if I get 10 culposcopies, my 11th should be free. That they should punch my culposcopy card with the same punch they just used to take a nip out of my cervix. I am loopy and delightful.
Then the receptionist who checks me out tells me not to worry, that she had HPV too and recovered 100% from it.
I am relieved to know that I am among at least 3 sexually active adults in Los Angeles.
Later, they call with the news. I still have it. I still have slow, slightly-less-terrifying HPV. They tell me I probably won't die from cancer in the next 12 months, and to come back in a year. I feel dirty and ashamed. God dammit.

Over the next calendar year, I open up to 3 girls about my HPV. One has it, one HAD had it. But we all shared this amazing AHA! moment where there's this wave of relief that someone else is going though a hell we thought we faced alone.
The third gal is kind of a slut and should probably go get tested, bless her heart.
I feel better. I feel... better.

And better, and better, and better.
I take care of my immune system, get rest, and load up on healthy foods and exercise, per the instructions from my doctor.

CUT TO PRESENT DAY:
I have my annual pap, courtesy of Planned Parenthood.
I bite my nails for a week, and then, they call with the results:
(dramatic drumroll, please)
I am 100% healthy and fine. My body has cleared it, I no longer have HPV. Clean, pure, healthy happy vagina. So clean you can eat off it!
And I am elated. I feel exonerated in some way. Like I completed some sort of punishment.
The last vestigial souvenir of my single days is gone and finally, it's just me and my guy.
The one who trusted me and never made me feel dirty. The one who stood by my side and loves me unconditionally.
The one who can put it in me.

Ladies, (and dudes who read this,) I can't even begin to tell you how amazing it feels to have this hanging axe over my head removed. This dark Spectre is vanished, gone for good. I feel foolish that I didn't know about it, and I feel lucky I had the "good" kind. I feel even luckier that it cleared my system and, if I stay healthy and monogamous, I'll never have to deal with it again.

But if I'd let shame or "A." or guilt stop me from being diligent about my own health, it could've gotten ugly fast. It terrifies me how little I knew about HPV - and I consider myself pretty educated. Walp, now I'm even MORE educated, and if this inspires even one of my readers to go get checked, I'm happy to share.
Yeah, it's kinda embarrassing. But so are half my blogs, so, whatevs. It's never been about maintaining some perfect appearance. Sometimes it's about sharing what we know for the greater good. I waited to share this story, not because I was ashamed, but because I really wanted to have a happy ending to it.
And I finally do.
And you will too, if you take care of your health and GO. GET. CHECKED. (you whores.)

Ahh I'm just kidding. You know I love you.

********************************

I got this amazing, exonerating, Governor's-reprieve phone call from Planned Parenthood the same day Will (my boyfriend) and I'd decided to go for a hike, letting me know I was healthy and fine. We'd chosen a hike with a specific purpose - I had a book to drop off. I'd long since burned the wedding promises my ex had vowed, then broke. I'd burned mine too. There were no words left to keep once my ex left. But we'd written them in this beautiful red journal, a leather-bound book our Officiant would hold and read from at our wedding.
I'd exorcised the offending pages from the book years ago, but still couldn't bring myself to destroy such a beautiful blank journal with so many clean, empty pages left to offer. I also didn't want to ever use it again.

Here I was, stuck with this gorgeous journal that I could neither keep nor destroy.
I lamented the situation to my boyfriend, and he suggested we leave it up on the top of a mountain overlooking Burbank - the home of the Magic Tree, which has become a popular spot for meditation and reflection for those able to make the strenuous hike, and the journals left and donated up there would become communal records of joy, life-lessons, heartbreak, triumph, despair and ultimately, love.
I was absolutely all for this idea. I loved the chance to turn a loss into a gift.
The call came as we were in the car on the way to the hike, so we stopped at a coffee shop and the very first entry in the journal is now my own story of triumph and recovery.
In 100-degree heat on one of the hottest days of the year, we climbed together.
The air was hot and the book kept slipping in my sweaty hands but we climbed on, sometimes only a few feet at a time.

Eventually, (one legitimately strenuous mile later) we get to the top and I add the book to the box of journals at the summit, at the base of a tree which serves as a living symbol of love and dedication.
I left the book there. I let it go.
When we arrived home, I hopped in our pool.
I was still in my hiking clothes and as the grit and grime from the heat left my body, dissolving invisibly within the crisp cool water, I felt clean for the first time in a very long time.

Best Served Cold: How I Bitchslapped My Ex at his Wedding

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This totally isn't my story. I would certainly never do anything like this. But I, um, heard it somewhere. Yes, that's it. I totally heard this story somewhere and I'm sharing it with you. In 1-st person narrative form. (WINK)
...

I'm not big on revenge. Overall, it's probably a terrible method of healing. However, when someone wrongs you and leaves you to die, even in an age of encouraged Forgiveness, some things are unforgivable. As for me, I was enjoying a brand-new backbone I'd just grown and I decided to go a little Samurai and reclaim my honor. This is not the best thing I've ever done. I don't endorse long-games or plots.
However, I did what I did and for me, it was exactly what I needed to heal 100%. I'm just not proud of it. (OK, I'm actually proud of it.)

When I found out my ex was engaged, I was elated- it solved a little problem for me. You see, I'd gone through most of the various items which accumulate from a 16-year relationship, and kept what I wanted and burned the rest. But what to do with those pesky wedding albums? Sure, they were great photos of us, but would I really ever want or need to see them again? I searched my heart- the answer was a resounding fuck no. And yet, I couldn't really bear to simply throw them away, either. It was, after all, a beautiful wedding, and I'm happy to keep my memories of that day- but burning it to ashes or tossing them out? Nah. That's what he'd done with our marriage- and I'm more of a "pay it forward" type of gal.

See, I kept having these nightmares where I was angry, and shouting or even trying to fight my ex and the girl he'd cheated with. I'd even dream that I was at their wedding, mad as hell but I could never DO anything about it in the dream. Throughout our awful divorce, I'd suffered tremendously, and he'd just blithely moved on, never expressing remorse or regret. I'd been without a home while he moved immediately into her bed, and started his new life right away. I never got to scream at him. I never yelled at him, never got to argue or stand up for myself, or so much as throw a drink in his face.
I'd just wanted SOME sort of REACTION from him- SOME way of knowing that it mattered, that he was even the slightest bit inconvenienced by his choices.

I never wanted to get him back, but OH how I wanted to get him back... I WANTED that reaction...

So, I set about with a bit of deviousness. First, I had to start my publicity campaign. I'm sorry to say, but I put on a bit of a show with a mutual friend, swearing though contrived tears that I needed to BE THERE because I had some UNFINISHED BUSINESS. I hated to be less than honest, but anyone who can straddle the fence and maintain an active and ongoing relationship with the man who literally left me to die has chosen sides whether or not they intended to. This wasn't an easy break-up, after all. My ex had lied to me, and immediately moved in with his girlfriend, the same week he found a draft of a suicide note. Then he and his family, well aware of the dangerous depression I was in, simply disappeared. Working two unpaid internship jobs at the time, I had nowhere to live and actually, physically starved. I'm rehashing this in abridged form, because what's about to happen next might seem a little inappropriate.
I received zero help with the rent I was left with, zero remorse, zero compassion and zero alimony. I was left with nothing but two cats and nowhere to live.
Revenge hadn't been just been crossing my mind, it had set up shop.

I'd had no contact with my ex since he came out with the truth, that he wasn't "taking a break," that he was, in fact, long gone and already living with his new fangirl. From that point on, we only communicated through email, and kept it clean and civil. I received nothing from the divorce, and he made no offers of apology, so my only source of venting was by writing out my feelings.

I chose a few select people and told them that come hell or high water, like the Frankenstein's monster he'd created, I WOULD BE WITH HIM ON HIS WEDDING DAY. After a very simple search on TheKnot.com, I found out exactly when and where their wedding would be. I'm surprised the happy couple was so public about the details, honestly- this, after all, was a relationship begun under the worst of pretenses and a proposal issued while the ink on our divorce papers was drying.

Me, on the day I signed, wearing my actual divorce papers. If I look happy it's because I just lost 180 lbs. of stubborn fat.

I was also surprised by the brevity of their engagement period. Six months seemed short, but my ex was never known for his patience. This gave me just enough time to disseminate some false information to people who would ultimately (unbeknownst to them!) act as my purposeful moles. (Thanks again guys!)

Then I got to posting about it, with increasingly less subtlety, on FaceBook. As the date of their ceremony neared, I would post photos of Vince Vaughan and Owen Wilson (from "Wedding Crashers") on my wall, with captions like "SEE YOU IN VERO BEACH" and "LOOKING FORWARD TO THE BIG DAY!" Eventually, I'd use photos of The Bride from "Kill Bill," wearing her bloody bridal dress and wielding her katana. The vengeful images were for a purpose: not only did I figure someone would "leak" these photos to him, I was counting on it.

Their wedding was 3,000 miles away, and right in the middle of a busy work week for me. Was I really going to spend the time and energy to go disrupt it? Fuck no. But they didn't know that.

"My my my what a glittering assembla- wait. You're really wearing WHITE? Tsk tsk."

For all the times he DIDN'T think about me, I wanted him to be thinking about me that day. For all the nights I spend riddled with anxiety, wondering what would happen, I wanted him to wonder what would happen. And for her- she's no innocent. She knew she was with a married man when they started dating. After all, I'd sent her an email politely requesting her to take my ex's dick out of her mouth long enough for he and I to attend marriage counseling. I guess she couldn't wait.

And so, neither could I. I let them wonder when and where I'd show up, and look over their shoulder the whole day while I sat pretty on a pair of stilts in the warm California sun. Dozens of photos of me, clearly in L.A., showed up on Instagram that day. Not a coincidence.

However, after all that fuss about BEING THERE and then suddenly unable to attend, I still wanted to send a gift... which brings us back to the Wedding Albums.

Sure, their wedding was (wisely for them) set on the other side of the country from me- but I'm blessed with a widely-spread set of friends. Friends who could easily have my albums sent to them. And place each one in a separate box. The kind of box you'd expect to find in a pile of gifts. I believe one was a panini press box. Another in toaster oven box. And for irony's sake, a photo album gift box.

Congrats! Three of these contain a personalized his-and-hers Bitchslap!

The toaster oven was weighted with a bit of concrete to give it the natural heft one would expect, and padded with a dirty sock to keep it from rattling around. (That wasn't MY idea, but I kind of love it.) Each of the three boxes was expertly, professionally, beautifully gift wrapped in different paper and ribbon, to make sure they'd get the message not once, but three times. Or perhaps they'd simply open the paper but leave the box itself for some matrimonial panini emergency, years later, and get slapped again. I really didn't care when it happened- I just wanted my message to get across.

And speaking of messages, I'll flash back just once to something my ex had told me when, (still unaware of the extent of his betrayal) I'd called him desperate for help. A roommate had recently returned from his band's tour and strangled his girlfriend, and she and I had to clear out of the apartment quickly. I'd returned to collect my things, but my back-up was running late and I was terrified this person would show up suddenly and attack again, so I called my ex who lived within a mile to PLEASE just come be in the same room while I threw my stuff in a bag. I was scared. I was alone. "Call the cops," he said. "You're not my problem anymore."

And so that was the card I chose to accompany the gifts. A simple message, stating my feelings towards the happy couple: "IT'S YOUR PROBLEM NOW."

And so it was! On the big day, my friend watched as my ex meandered back and forth between the holiday inn he was staying at and the resort where the ceremony would take place. Certain he wouldn't cross paths with the groom, my Avenging Angel stacked my gifts in his arms and entered the resort's lobby. When his elevator reached the floor on which their reception would be held, (thanks for the details, bride and groom!) he approached someone to ask where their gift table would be. However, the only person nearby to inquire with was a chubby gal in white- the bride. She gamely pointed him in the correct direction, and he made the dropoff and left, but not before he "checked me in" on Facebook at the restaurant across the street from the resort.
Thanks again, Social Media- you made it possible to be in two places at once.

It was my intention that they'd open the gifts privately, later, as their honeymoon was to immediately follow their wedding, but The Universe, it seems, had a bonus surprise in store for me! ...

This was taken from Etiquette Expert Emily Post's advice about when to open wedding gifts:
"A: It is [sic] unusual for the couple to open all their presents at [sic] a brunch. It is not a shower where the main entertainment is opening the gifts. There’s nothing entertaining about watching the couple open gifts."

It was NEVER my intention for my little gift to be made public, but that's exactly what happened. The tackiest of tacky, the new couple somehow, against all precedent, decided to open their gifts IN PUBLIC at a massive family brunch the next day. And, (and!!!) not only was that enough to make me suspect I'd gotten my message across, but my ex, who can barely string two sentences together, spent the first day of wedded bliss ANGRILY TYPING A SMALL NOVELLA ABOUT HOW UPSET THEY WERE.

Bless his heart, he wrote out a play-by-play of exactly how well my plan had worked. Finally, this was exactly the reaction I'd wanted.

Ahhhhhhhhhh. (the sound of me exhaling a breath I'd been holding since he left.)

He spent (knowing his writing skills) the entire morning typing a letter detailing exactly how much of a little bitch he is, and how upset they were, and HOW DARE SOMEONE SPEAK TO HIS BRIDE ON THE DAY THEY EXCHANGE VOWS - yeah, because CLEARLY wedding vows mean so much to him!- and going into great detail about how I'd completely made ass-hats out of both of them, publically.

He generously wrote that they thought I was actually there. He wrote about how he opened the "It's your problem now" card and read it to his assemblage. He wrote about opening each. of. the. boxes. in front of EVERYONE.

Basically, he gave me exactly what I wanted, and giftwrapped it.

After that, I stopped having those nightmares where I could never touch him. Because I'd definitely touched him. In fact, I'd managed to bitch-slap the both of them from 3,000 miles away. I Keyser Soze'd their wedding. I Killed Bill.

"Yep. That oughta do it."

My ex complained about how he and his blushing bride had been harassed since day one (which, I presume, was technically adulterous) but aside from that single email to her and, admittedly abundant blogging, I haven't interacted with, spoken to, or contacted them except to deliver some gifts. And it's not really MY fault if they don't like what I got 'em.

His little online rant got him all the expected cooings of sympathy he'd needed, and I'm fine with that. One girl suggested he get a restraining order, which is ironic because this is the same girl who tricked a guy into getting her pregnant so he'd propose. The same girl who I once witness pull out a concealed weapon and fire on a bluebird. (She's a single mom now in Colorado. Stand-up kinda gal- she knows about restraining orders because her reluctant baby-daddy put one on her when she snuck into his parents' house.)
Another person who 'there-there'd' my ex's bruised ego is an overweight, bitter old hag of a makeup artist who, in her heyday when she was slightly less overweight and only a little bitter tried to seduce my then-husband by crying on his shoulder about her own divorce. She'd call him at all hours of the night, needing "comfort" from a married man half her age. Again, sterling example.
Finally, the angriest man I know raged on about how disgusted he was! How furious he was! Yawn. What else is new.

In fact, since both the women mentioned above had tried so hard to hook up with my ex in the past, I say game on- go for it, since clearly being married isn't a dealbreaker for him. Also, to the angry gentleman mentioned above, why not throw your hat into the ring? My ex is no stranger to cheating with dick in his mouth.
(If you're curious -which, ironically, was HIS excuse - that's also in a blog below.)

Although none of his friends openly condoned my behavior, most folks simply expressed their condolences and hoped that now, finally, it would be over. It is, thanks. Out here in L.A., my friends and I celebrated The End Of It with hotwings and beer.

As for me, I'm happy. It's settled now. Honestly, I never expected this result, but I can actually wish them both well, as I'm incredibly grateful for the amazing adventure they set in motion. Yes, he left. Yes, they cheated. But it's all lead to where I am now, which is happier and healthier than I've ever been. And if they're happy too, all's well that ends well.

And this, my friends, ended SPECTACULARLY.

In Case of Suffering Break Glass

Tonight, we drove along the sunset-halo'd mountains headed home, and the twinkling lights below beckoned us into the twilight of the valley where we live. I held my hand out the passenger window, collecting the cool dusk in my palms, spreading my fingers, letting the night free, then trailing lazy digital contrails in the waning light. My hand. My bracelets, knuckles, long fingers, long strong healthy nails and sparkly glossy polish on manicured fingertips.

I flashed back on the time I'd pass the commute home by watching crimson blood trickle down my arms as I "fixed" my hands. Made sure every stroke I'd type hurt, putting tiny cuts in fingers and pulling, tearing my nails and cuticles to expose the raw white tissue beneath.

I remember swearing tearfully to my ex that I was broken, that I'd never write again. I'd never love again. I'd NEVER love myself.
I remember the hot sticky wetness of the blood as it beaded and ran. If the trails reached to my elbows I'd consider it "enough" and stash my toolkit until another time and place I allowed myself to spiral my thoughts that low. And by then, lightheaded and high from the scent of copper, my adrenaline had spiked and drained my energy enough that I no longer felt, no longer thought, and for the moment, no longer hurt. It felt like the only thing I could control. Maybe at that point, it was. But that was then.

Looking at my hands now in the sweet dying of the light, an L.A. sunset which has consistently kissed me goodnight for almost a year now, I can see how wrong I was. How everything has changed. I came to peace with my shortcomings, learned from them, forgave myself, and eventually learned to love the strong healthy person I became. Then I found love with someone else, and began to experience what a healthy, happy relationship feels like. Ah, Whisper-In-My-Ear 2010, THIS is what you meant...

It took a WHILE. It took time, a lot of work, 10 days of Buddhism, a night in a treehouse, lots of therapy, some fire, crying on many a shoulder, a little more fire, nachos, 7,000 miles and a long-distance nuptual bitch-slap, but EVERYTHING GOT BETTER. There and back again, but literally and figuratively in a different vehicle.

It took rebuilding, reframing, relearning, relabeling and relaxing. But it happened. And it totally got better.
So if you're reading this, and you're In It, allow me to be that whisper by your shoulder:
Trust me. I have been In It too. I have felt these feels, hurt this hurt. Hurt just as dark and deep as it gets- and gotten out.
I know you feel alone, like you have to hide whatever horrible thing you do to keep your hurt your own. I kept my razors in the center console and covered the rest up with a smile for as long as I could, until I broke. Stuck, stuck, stuck- in traffic and otherwise.

And somehow, same road, same hands- but there's no glass. There's night air. There's no suffocating heat. There's Santa Anna winds.
I dismissed any friend who ever promised me It Would Get Better, because I hid the extent of my hurt. They had no idea- they'd never hurt like I hurt. Like I hurt myself. So that should get me a little street cred. Listen up:

Whatever you're doing, decide to finish it. Wrap it up. Bandage that shit and start being gentle to yourself, because whether or not you're ready to accept it, you are so loved. And you may hate your skin or your job or the way your husband doesn't love you and not see a way out without blood. But if you give yourself a chance, you'll be on that same road later (it's always the same road) and dangling your fancy hands out the window while you let someone who loves you right drive for a while. And you will be so glad you hung in there- you're worth it. Get up. Fight. Every day. Whether or not you feel like it, you deserve the love you'll feel one day.

LA Stories: VeilFire

The best part of feeling a little heartbroken is that it's proof-positive that up until very recently, your heart wasn't 100% broken.
And if it wasn't TOTALLY broken before, and it was brave enough to reach out, then it's probably not irrevocably broken now.

So, like the Death Star, it will again be Fully Operational.

As artists, we tend to wear our hearts on our sleeves. This is a terrible idea, but Jesus I really think it's the only way I wanna be. Even though I'm strongerbetterfasterharder, I chose to maintain that character trait. I wear my heart on my sleeve. It keeps my other organs from getting sh*t all over it. Yesterday I was reminded that yeah, in terms of my ex, I got a little gut punch, but I also dodged a bullet. I love that quote from HIMYM: "I made the greatest Train Dodge since 'Stand By Me." ...Well, not that first kid, but the other kids."

And that's how it feels at this point. Of course it initially hurt to hear that my ex was engaged, but it was no surprise. He had to propose to her to justify what he did to me. ("See, it was worth it, right?!?") Someday I'll wish them well, but yesterday wasn't that day. I've been on an amazing adventure the last 2 years, but sure I'm still allowed to feel the feels I feel. That's because I'm not a f*cking monster. I'm allowed to miss the good parts. Then I remind myself that he definitely sucked a dude's dick. Keeps it really simple that way.

After a really good chat with a really good friend, watching the sun set through a thin sliver in the Universal Studios Employee Parking Garage, I cried out all my sad and felt much, much better. Getting past the raw emotion that honestly, I hope I always feel, because it is a spiritual rocket fuel, and listening to a rational voice asking me if I wanted him back after everything he did to me made it very easy: No. Aw FUCK NO. We made speculations about the success of an marriage between a homewrecker and a liar. And then I felt better.

I had a trio of besties meet me at my apartment, and, true to form, they came bearing vodka and incendiary devices. Aaron, Arica and Chelsea arrived and scooped me up. I'd been planning on driving my Celica to California myself, and as such had loaded it with everything I needed to Get Rid Of but couldn't simply throw away. Some of these items I'd already given to Chelsea for various art projects- I'd been on a big "let's do constructive things" kick, but this last item in particular was a Big Ticket Item and needed proper care and handling. And fire.

It was my wedding veil- which I'd found in a box at my mom's right before I moved.

It's been in the trunk of my car, waiting for something special. Fortunately, we had something very special in store. Aaron drives and spirits us away to Chelsea's Thotful Spot, in a recreational area hidden within the city of Los Angeles. We park at a distance and, already giddy from the night air, bound across the streets to an open gate. The heat of the day had dissipated, and the sleek coolness of the night breeze, smoothed even more by a brief skim over a green lake, greeted our flushed faces. I breathed. And it felt so good.

"Pair up," Chelsea said, and two by two we held hands and made our way down a somewhat steep hill covered in row after row of bright white rocks. Like layers of shark's teeth, they gleamed up in the moonlight. I smiled seeing Arica and Aaron work their way down, Aaron in his famous boots and Arica in a borrowed pair of my shoes. The shoes are a gift from my mother, who would have an instant coronary if she had seen what we were up to.

Chelsea holds my hand. "Sorry guys," she says, "I got dibs on the stilt walker." I laugh and we pick a path down, sure-footed as cats all nimbly pimbly and high off a moonlit adventure. We reach the bottom of the slope and a dusty dirt path awaits. I don the veil, which also luminesces in the magic night, and feeling the breeze blow the tulle behind me like a forgotten useless ghost, we walk down the aisle, staying hand in hand.

Eventually we arrive at the Tunnel- kindling is gathered and Chelsea lifts the veil from its position over my face and kisses me. This is the second time in my life this has happened. I was grinning like a fool on both occasions, but this time there were no tears. The filmy gauze is spread over the kindling, and I pour some extra flammable 3-in-1 glue over it as an insurance policy.

Sparklers are administered- the very same sparklers I'd entrusted to my friends the day I left California, promising to come back. They'd been kept, because my friends believed in me. Aaron takes my phone to document the event, and Arica, Chelsea and I each use our sparklers for a different sort of Independence Day.

The veil goes up beautifully, the flames glinting on the Swarovski crystals hand-placed by someone who also loves me.

I thought of the woman who made the veil as it burned. I thought of my wedding. I thought of my ex.
And I felt... love.
Giggling beneath the streets of Los Angeles with sparklers in my hands, I felt so much love.
The veil had to go. I had to let go of that last little piece to get past the emotional hurtle of the day, and I let it go in spectacular fashion.

The little pyre blazed, mirrored by the tiny fireworks on our hands, until not single scrap of tulle was left- even the bag I'd brought it in- everything burned, burned, burned until the hurt from the day was gone, replaced by the warm glow of love. Only the embers remained.

Hello Ember. I know you.

You are the same ones burning in my heart.

But the ones inside me aren't a brushfire threat, and eventually the embers became ashes. After a quick vodka shot, for the safety of the City of LA, and also because it was the right thing to do, we peed on the ashes. All four of us. So hard to do that while laughing so hard. It seems to match the same sentiment my ex ultimately had for our wedding, so perhaps that'll be my toast to them after all. Mazel.

By now I'm intoxicated by night and moon and breeze and fire and oh yes maybe a little vodka- we have a DD, but we also have the park to ourselves, so we plop down by an emerald green lake as the wild geese call out to one another. I can hear their sounds reverberate through our tunnel, reminding me that eventually every living thing, veil, goose, good intention or lie, eventually becomes ash.

All we have is the exact Now.

Someday I will be ash too- and I'm so fucking grateful for every moment I spent surrounded by the love I felt this night. We chat, we share, I am again blown away by the artistic talents of my friends as the most amazing pieces are shyly passed around on iPhones. A nosy turtle periodically pokes his head above water to listen in until our inevitable laughter frightens him off. No one looked at a watch, but suddenly we all collectively knew it was time to go.

Denny's to-go, a shared bottle of wine back at my place, and some sweet goodnights at my front door. It was a really good night, friends. If I am ash tomorrow, I will be thinking not about pain, or regret, but about how grateful I am to have been allowed this opportunity. And if someone pees me out, I hope they're having fun. It's only fair- and it feels AMAZING to have your giblets that warm.

Origin Story

This is the story of What Happened. It is not pretty, and it's very personal, but it is my hope that in getting this OUT and having an easy reference point or record of some kind, I can begin to let go. This is also the LAST TIME I wanna talk about it. I'm not avoiding it or repressing What Happened, but dredging up negativity isn't fun for anyone. So I'm putting this out, I'm releasing it into the ether, and this way if anyone wants to know there's an easy reference point. This is letting go of anger, This is What Happened. It's no longer what is happening.

So yeah, this is raw, it's ugly, it specifically mentions the time Jay sucked a dude's dick, and it's petty and childish and awful. I realize that. But tell you what: hold on to a) a secret like that for 12 years and b) have that person SERIOUSLY FUCKING WRONG YOU and you may allow yourself a little venting. I'm sure there's an alternative version of this story somewhere on the West Coast with it's own set of opinions and truths. You're welcome to cross-reference, but this is the last I'm saying about anything.

At some point, I will wish him well. Now is not that point.

I'm willing to be petty and small and air some dirty laundry if it means I can let go of it. In fairness, Jay is welcome to tell his side of the story, and all the awful things I did to him. All the times I yelled at him, or treated him unkindly. Oh, wait there aren't any? Oh, awesome, OK then. Moving on: I went into the the Seminar with a healthy amount of skepticism- after all, the first three pages of Google results identify it as a cult.

My friend Alex and I joked on the way down about all the BDGs (Broken, Damaged Girls) who would be there, crying about their breakups and divorces into a microphone in front of a roomful of strangers. We giggled as I envisioned myself making unsympathetic Danny DeVito "Penguin" noises after each sob story: "Whaaaank, whaaank whaaaank!"

After we got there, though, we could see a large variety of people- not just BDGs, but... just... everyone. And when the first few people spoke, confused boyfriends, adulterous newlyweds, bewildered single parents... it was touching, but later as it grew more intense the real stories started coming out. One girl in her early 20's took the mic and described how she'd watched as her father murdered her brother and mom. How she'd gone to foster school dirty and afraid, and was beaten frequently.

I looked over at Alex and held up two Penguin Hands and we both vehemently shook our heads no, eyes wide with horror at this girl's tragic origin story.

I say origin story in the same sense that every superhero has one- some defining rough moment or moments which forever seals their fate into who they must become. But as Iearned, Who We Become has NOTHING to do with anyone but us. I was convinced I'd gone to the Seminar to get over my Ex. I hated him, I wanted him to suffer as I'd been suffering- I blamed him for everything I'd been through the past year and a half and I wanted to get over my anger and MOVE PAST it. I realized that everything was 100% Jay's fault and I was fine like that. I mean, obviously! Look at me! "I'm fine, I'm fine, I'm fine," I'd insist, sobbing.

The Landmark Seminar taught us to differentiate between What Happened, like, what ACTUALLY PHYSICALLY HAPPENED versus the story we tell ourselves about what happened. What Happened was that Jay left me when he searched our computer's browser history and realized I'd been researching ways to overdose on perscription antidepressants and sleep medicine without causing a coma. I'd told myself that that meant I didn't deserve to live.
What Happened was that Jay said he didn't love me anymore. I'd told myself that that meant I was unloveable.
What Happened was Jay left me, sobbing and begging him not to go, literally clutching at his ankles and hysterical on the floor wrapped in a pile of electrical cables.
(The only thing he left behind as he vacated our Hollywood apartment.)

I'd been the one living like I never got off the floor. I remember staying on that floor for 4 hours. I couldn't move. I couldn't speak. I couldn't even see- I was experiencing hysterical blindness, and was terrified when I reached for my phone to call him and couldn't see the numbers- I accidentally called my mom, and scared the shit out of her gasping out some kind of desperate choking sound. I had cried myself out to the point of immobility. I don't recall how or where I spent that night.

I don't remember a lot about the next few days, actually. I look back and just remember darkness. I stayed in our apartment through the end of the month, because Jay and I were going to get back together- things were fine. He'd promised. We were just separated, and even though I'd suggested the separation so we could both work on ourselves (he'd been completely uninterested in our marriage for months and spending all his spare time out with other girls, at my exclusion) and I was curious what it might feel like to be wanted again. By someone, anyone, else.

Jay told me he wanted me to work on certain things- I needed to prove that I could completely support myself (as he no longer wanted the responsibility) and I needed to get healthy. No more crying all night and sleeping all day. No more tranquilizers and memory loss from the handfulls of pills I'd have to take before I could get any sleep. He wanted me to live on my own and get into a routine. Very reasonable.
For me, I didn't ask him to work on anything- After all he was flawless in my eyes.

I simply wanted him to miss me and love me the way I thought he used to. I had fallen into a terrible depression since we'd moved, and the 4 months I spent while he was in New York had taken a terrible toll on our relationship. Jay promised me before he left that he would continue to manage our bills and paperwork electronically, as he had done throughout our marriage. I was happy to let him do so- he'd let me down over the past year by avoiding paying bills because he wanted to file for bankruptcy and I didn't. He also told me he would handle getting some sort of compensation from the moving company which robbed us and vandalized our stuff when we moved to LA. A year had passed and he hadn't made any progress- I felt like he wasn't keeping his word to me about getting it done, and that he was failing to stand up for us. So I was happy to let him handle the bills because dammit he needed to do SOMETHING, right?

(I wasn't very big on the concept of "taking care of myself," Like, at all.)

I was convinced he was cheating on me in New York. When he returned, he seemed like a different person- all he wanted to do was party and drink. He picked up some Ecstasy pills from an employer and brought them home in his pocket. MY husband? drugs? This wasn't him! I demanded he return the pills, and he told me he would but then, at that point, he had checked out and was telling me whatever he thought would make me cry the least. He began turning lights off to rooms that I was still in.

He stopped talking to me- and the more he pulled away the tighter I clung- the more fearful and desperate I became, terrified that he'd leave me. I'd sit up all night with him watching while he played XBox games- we were playing together (or so I thought) until I came home from work ready for the final battle in Oblivion when he shrugged me off and casually announced that he'd beaten the game that morning. "Why didn't you wait for me?" "I didn't think you cared." He had forgotten I was even in the room at that point.

I never hurt myself before I met Jay, but I started to fairly on in our relationship. It began when I took him back after he cheated the first time. I HAD to forgive him, he said, or he couldn't handle feeling guilty and he'd leave. Since I couldn't be mad at him, I began to be mad at my body instead. Little wounds I could suffer, little outlets for pain I couldn't express to him, because it couldn't be his fault I was unhappy. In Hollywood, towards the end, I'd bring my "tools" with me to work, and sit in traffic on the way home til the blood ran to my elbows. Because it simply wasn't his fault I was so lonely. He'd bought me those self-help books a while back, hadn't he? See? He cared.

I tried drinking just to keep up with him so we could do something-anything together, but we were going through a bankruptcy and he'd blow $90 at a time on tequila shots. When I was too exhausted to play and had to get up at 5:30AM for my CSI Internship, he'd go out clubbing without me, spending more money we didn't have. Then he started spending time with other girls- some I knew to be homewrecking whores, and others I merely suspected. I was so desperate to just BE with him one night after I'd taken Ambien and Xanax to sleep, when he texted to say he was at the club across the street (with HER) I got out of bed, got dressed and stumbled across Hollywood Boulevard to join them on their date. I ordered a drink. He was not amused.

She spent most of the night laughing at me as I repeated myself, slurring.
Total third wheel.
They let me wander home alone that night I guess.
I woke up alone.

At some point I'd cut myself again.

After that, he stopped telling me where he was or who he was out with. I was only his wife- I didn't really have a right to know. He was going to marriage counseling with me, and we spent pretty much every session arguing over HER. I didn't like that he was out with her and not me while I was at work. He thought he had every right to do so and was sick of my depression. Witnessing the destruction of my Fairy Tale, I became despondant and began wondering how I should kill myself to get his attention, but still allow my mom to have an open-coffin funeral.
(Many overdoses and hangings create disfigurement. Totally tacky.)

My alarm went off at 5:30am. I'd hit snooze and assume some sort or prayer position, knees curled beneath me as I buried my face in my pillow. I'd then make my way to my closet, where I would sit and shake like a frightened animal, dreading the next 16 hours. He never once even reached out to touch me. I don't think we had breakfast together even once. Not that I was eating.

Our therapist suggested to me that we separate, and I pitched the idea to Jay who was ecstatic with the plan. Two months, that's it- then we'll get back together- I promised Jay to fix what was wrong with me and he promised to... well, there wasn't anything wrong with him, right, so... he promised to stay in touch. Somehow, though I had a baaaad feeling about it and told him I'd changed my mind. "Too late," he said, and packed up everything that belonged to him, and separated our phone bills and netflix accounts.

Netflix, Jay? Really???

I became terrified as I watch him pack- he took everything. He knew I had nowhere to live and no way to pay rent, so he took absolutely all of our belongings with him except for our bed, a pile of cables and the cats. He even took the refrigerator with him, and the ice cooler too so he could keep his tequilla cold while on route to HER house, where he would be living for two months. But just two months, really. Honest. My god I was stupid. To clarify: he left me with literally nothing but a bed and some wires, but that wasn't malicious- he knew I would be unable to pay rent with my unpaid internship "salary," so he took our stuff and put it in a storage unit to keep it safe for both of us. He also paid for the storage and gave me a key, which was nice.

But then, see, I thought he was telling the truth about the two months.

At some point I must've gotten up off the floor because I made it to work at my temp job at Newline Cinema and got offered a 4-month deal- steady employment! I enrolled in a free tae-kwon-do class and got myself in a healthy routine. I lived, supporting myself, with an amazing friend who allowed me to cry myself to sleep when I needed and to cry on her shoulder when I needed. My LA friends rallied around me and lovingly stomped out my flames, pieced me back together, took the pill bottle out of my hand and held me as I went to sleep on some nights. Over that period of time I did absolutely everything Jay had asked me to do.

He left me on February 12th- I had no way of knowing he'd filed for divorce on February 14th.

Happy Valentine's Day.

However, he didn't have the balls to tell me I'd been baited and switched until much much later. He came over and talked with me twice. He even killed a spider for me in my bathroom. He stopped by before I left the Hollywood apartment and found me curled up in a corner. (I had no furniture, remember?) He'd only been by to retrieve an HDMI cable he'd left by accident, but when he asked me how I was and I burst into tears because I was so hungry, he softened a little. I'd lost so much weight, I was all ribs and red-rimmed eyes.
"Here," he said, and pulled something out of his wallet.
He then stood over me and joked how he was "making it rain," by sprinkling down some Sharkey's Buy-One-Get-One coupons.

I blinked up at him. "What are these?"
"Bogo," he smiled benevolently.

I thanked him and told him I loved him and I was looking forward to spending time with him again soon. He got his cable and left, knowing we were already divorcing. When the door closed behind him I stared at the coupon and cried, knowing I had no way of buying one in order to get one. Later, I missed him and spent a rare break at work writing, and sent him a list of 100 reasons I loved him. He got the email and showed up my door that night with a lie, telling me he'd "decided to file" when he'd really already done it 2 days after he left me on the kitchen floor.

(HERE IS THE ANGRY PART:)
I emailed his mistress, Heather Ann Grall. (Cute initials, hunh? HAG? I know, adorable, right?) I knew who she was. I'd googled her, and sent her a facebook message along the lines of "Hey, could you please take my husband's dick out of your mouth long enough for him to get through this separation? We're trying to work on things." She immediately blocked me, and Jay called to tell me to "stop threatening his girlfriend." Wowwww. First time he shows evidence of balls and it's defending this dog-faced whore?
I kept asking him "is she prettier than me," and he'd never answer. Once I saw her, and realized to my surprise that the answer was an easy "NO," I wondered why he didn't just say so, But the fact is, she has money and he wants X and DJ equipment.
Also, she is dumb enough to still worship him and convince his fragile ego that he's any kind of a man.
At some point they'll most likely have average-to-below-average children together, and I can't wait till they ask for the classic story of how Mommy and Daddy met:
"Well, Daddy abandoned a really great girl when he found a suicide note, and your mom was a homewrecking whore in the right place at the right time!"

It is my hope that if they ever breed, their children will be born without the faculties for such a line of questioning, because the moment they realize what a fucking bitch-titted tequilla-bloated cowardly waste their father is, and what a weak, frightened homewrecking slut their mom is, they'll most likely be unhappy. Perhaps the money he'll never send me for spousal support can be put towards their therapy, or better yet, sterilization. Don't most bitches get sterilized?

But I digress... One day during our "separation" (when I had no idea he'd already filed) when I had a small meltdown from the stress at my internship, I drove by Jay's office on my way home. I'd called and left a message- I just needed a hug from my husband- it seemed like the only thing in the world that would make me feel better. I even called his mom just to have a sense of him. She told me to "grow up and move on, that he didn't love me anymore."

(She always was a cunt.)

But that sent me into a spiral of anxiety, because I didn't know he'd already filed for divorce and not told me. Having no idea I'd been Inceptioned, I walked into his office and asked his receptionist if Jay Barwick was available. She looked at me like a crazy person when I explained that I was his wife. "Oh," she says.
"I didn't know he was married."
She walks down the hall and emerges with Jay, who storms over to me, grabs me by the upper arm and marches me to the elevator.
"What are you doing here?" he hissed. This is not my husband...
"I- I left you a message- I just wanted a hug- your mom scared me so bad, I-"
"You are NOT ALLOWED to visit me at work!" (News to me.) He forces me out of the elevator and into a bright sunlit outdoor lobby.
It's crowded and I'm crying.
"You need to leave."
"Will you just hug me, please? Like a normal person?" I'm sobbing and tears are starting to come out my nose.
"No- you're embarassing me." He stands with his arms folded.
Like a fool, I tried to hug him and he pushed me away so hard I lost my balance in my work heels. I stumble back and people stare.
I start to cry harder.
"Go or I'll call security," he says.

I... I somehow make it back to my car and sob in a dark parking garage for an hour. What kind of horrible monster must I be if he won't even touch me... This man was my best friend- I've been by his side for 16 years! Over half my life! He promised to love me forever... I must be so worthless... I'm sure I made some melodramatic FB update at that point because when I arrive home, Arica and Aaron are on my doorstep, waiting for me. They held me until I could walk again.

I lost 25 pounds over that period. I got dangerously skinny, and feral about food. Any progress I'd made "for Jay" quickly became undermined when he finally told me he'd filed for divorce without even giving me a chance. I gave up on myself and began living just as a form of survival. My friends were the only thing that kept me going- I was determined to stay in LA until I could finish out my Writer's Internship, and I did. I lasted 8 months out there on my own, and came back to Florida when the show went on hiatus, to work, recover, and EAT.

So I found myself at the Seminar, wondering what was wrong with me, why he didn't love me, how could he do that to me, etc etc WHAAAANK WHAANK WHAAANK. And then came that awful assignment: we had to call "that person" in our lives, (obviously Jay) and appologize. Wait- I'm sorry- what? Appologize? But I don't WANT to appologize- I WANT Jay to get face AIDS and die. I spoke this aloud before the crowd- the Seminar Leader said make the call- she could not help me if I didn't. I struggled with it all day, and finally found what I needed to appologize for. I called and there was no answer. Shocking. I texted, and a few hours later, he called me back.

The conversation went something like this: Me: "I'm here at a Get-Your-Shit-Together Seminar" and we have to make these phone calls, so please bear with me- do you have a minute?" Him: "Um, yeah, I guess." Me: "OK, here goes- I want to appologize to you for blaming you for everything. For everything I've done to myself, tried to do to myself, and been doing to myself throughout our divorce. All you did was say things to me- I'm the one who believed them, acting as if I was unloveable simply because you said you don't love me anymore. All you did was leave after you found my draft suicide note- I'm the one who took that as proof that I wasn't worth a rescue effort. You left me to die, but you didn't kill me- I'm the one who chose to die. I am sorry I blamed you for this, and I feel bad for you because you are a coward and seeing me in that stage of depression obviously scared you. I'm sorry I put you through that. I'm sorry I overburdened you with our paperwork- I should have taken equal share with that. I'm sorry you felt so much pressure. I understand now why you left, and as part of this recovery process, I have to create a possibility for a new relationship with you." Him: "Okayyyy..." Me: "So I'd like to create the possibility that we could somehow be friends again- I... I love you and I want to somehow be OK with you."

(Holy shit THAT came from nowhere!)

Him: (looooong pause) "What am I supposed to say to that?"
Me: "You don't HAVE to say anything- you just had to listen. And you did. So thank you."
Him: "Well I'm out with Heather now, so I have to go. I don't wanna be rude to her." Me: (shattering into a million jagged, poisoned flaming fragments) "Of course not. Go. I love you." Him:
(clik.)
........................

At 10PM at the conclusion of the day's discussions, students swarm the Seminar Leader for questions, suggestions, personal coaching, etc. It appears to me the same scene as when Lepers would crowd Jesus, begging to be healed, touched, something ANYTHING. I became a Leper that night, after somehow managing to walk back into the hall and take my seat, an ashen ghost of a shell. Finally I got my audience with the Leader. "I made the call- I poured my heart out to him and he left me for her. AGAIN."

She looked down at me, all big Texas hair and pristine perfection. "Jaime," she says. "You have got to stop torturing yourself or you will die- do you understand?" My mouth hung open. "You can die from this," she reiterates. "Just let it go. That's all you have to do." She turns to another wounded victim, all Florence Nightengale. I stare, completely hollow and feel the vacant chill of another hollow hand on my arm. A gentle empty squeeze.

"It's OK," another Lady Leper says to me, reassuringly. "My husband cheated on me 6 times and I took him back every time."

.............................................

"But I'm not LIKE her! It's not LIKE that! I'm not some BDG here because I have no self esteem!" Alex arches an eyebrow at me- we are back in our hotel room trying to do our individual homework.

It's 1 in the morning after two 16-hour days of listening to people pour their hearts out, and somehow Alex is still giving me his full attention."

"How is it not like that?" he asks. "Because I don't have PROOF that Jay cheated on me- and if he did I'd never take him back, I just FELT like he was, ya know, because-"

"Wait wait wait," Alex says, closing his notebook. "That's not true- you told me when we first met that Jay had cheated on you with a dude."

"Well, yes, he did blow a guy when we were first together, but-"

"No, so he cheated on you then- and didn't you tell me he cheated on you with an ex-girlfriend while you were in Ireland?"

"Well, yeah- he told me he went down on her in a school playground. He told me he had to take her tampon out first- why would he even TELL me that Alex?"

"Because he's a douche. Listen- how long were you guys together?"

"14 years. It'll be 15 in June."

Alex holds up his hands. "OK, so 14 years. I'm going to run out of fingers, but he cheated on you twice. At least. Let's think of 14 other shitty things he did to you."

"Um. Okayyy. He spent $900 on a Spiderman costume after I begged him not to spend the money, and never even assembled the pieces. He did the same thing with a $900 Scooby Doo costume- never once booked it, and yet he gave me shit anytime I'd spend money getting my hair cut and colored. Told me it was a waste."

Alex puts down a finger. "Good- what else." "He also never told me I looked good after a haircut- he'd make a face and tell me he hated how it looked when it was blown out straight- OH! And he told me I wasn't sexy... that I was 'cute' but not sexy- and I was 19 and I have believed him ever since and it's fucked up my sexiness!"

Alex puts down another finger. "Keep it coming."

"He left me when I needed him the most- he didn't care that our cat was dying and said we should 'make a decision' when we needed to fucking save him! He pressured me into oral sex before I was ready as a teenager- I didn't want to but he made me feel so bad- he didn't help plan our wedding- he never stood up for me- he forgot my birthday- he doesn't know how to spell my middle name- STILL! He asked people to call him Jay when his name is Jaime and I hated that! He..."

As the list went on and on AND ON AND ON. Alex ran out of fingers, then I ran out of fingers, so I started writing down this fantastic list of things I'd flat out FORGOTTEN. It turns out I had overlooked, ignored, glossed over or pretended around TONS of little betrayals and wrong-doings. I was so desperate for my Fairy Tale I'd been blind.

No WONDER I was so depressed- I thought this amazing man had walked out on me, and instead a selfish coward finally freed me up to live on my own. Jay had convinced me that HE was the attractive, talented one in the relationship, (just ask him!) and as long as I was still bedazzled by the Jay Barwick show, I was fine- but the moment I stopped showering him with adulations, he became disinterested. He needed constant fangirlship, and once I stopped worshipping him, his very conditional affection withered away.

He stopped paying my health insurance. He stopped caring what I thought. If I wasn't going to adore him, I wasn't worth his efforts. Ho-ly fuck. Wow. I was so busy pouring my love and attention into him, and he was happy to reflect it back at me so I FELT love- but I was only feeling what I was putting out. The reason we had so much fun together is because I'm fun! The reason we got along so well is because I'm easy to get along with! Jay was the "real actor" in the family, and never once asked me to improv with him- but even I know the first rule of improv is Yes And. I Yes Anded the shit out of that relationship- oh, and the second rule of improv?
Make Your Partner Look Good. And man, I made him look spectacular- he's amazing! He's wonderful! He'll tell you so himself! I wasn't losing a great husband, I was losing a self-absorbed cheating douchebag. Jay didn't "mutate" and become this horrible person because we moved to LA- when he'd gone to New York, he was free for the first time in his life to make his own decisions, and be who he truly was- not a son, not a friend, not a husband, but a club-douche shot-pounding ass hat.

And that is how he returned to me in LA- in his true form. There I was thinking I'd lost my husband but no, that was who he really was- who he WANTED to be. It makes total sense now... And the girl he's with, his new fangirl, she'll find out soon enough. Preferably after they have fat ugly kids (who take after their mom) and resent their dad for being a cocksucking dick. What is it I heard? You can ride a thousand horses and never be a cowboy, but you suck one cock... Jay never loved me- Jay loved Jay and I loved Jay enough for the both of us for a long long time- but when I really needed help his true colors showed and he bailed.

And Thank God he did- because I survived it. I survived him. I survived starving in LA and I survived enough to get my ass to that Seminar and have the realization that for the first time, I would be OK. Jay leaving frees me up to be ME, and eventually, to be me with someone who gives a shit about someone other than themselves! To find someone who loves ME, not just the way I love them- to find actual love, with others, with another partner, but first and foremost in MYSELF!

...I found myself panting and out of breath, having just exploded all these epiphanies onto Alex and his homework. Grinning, he rose from the table and took me by the hand. "Where are we going?" "Come with me." Alex takes me down the hall into the tiny yellow tiled bathroom of the curry-scented Poulouse Inn in Dania Beach, Florida and flicks on the lights, positioning me in front of the mirror.

"Look at yourself," he says. "Look at how beautiful you are right now- you have color in your cheeks, your eyes are sparkling..."

"Holy fuck they ARE sparkling!"

To say the least- they were radiating. Alex hugs me from behind- I instinctively turn to hug him but he holds his arms fast around my middle. "No- just keep looking. I want you to see how you look." I have no idea how long we stayed in that bathroom, me dazzled for the first time by the sheer love I could reflect AT MYSELF, him marvelling at my discovery.

.......................................

The next day at the Seminar, the change was noticable- in fact, a few of us had had a Breakthrough. The girl from before, with the horror story about her childhood? She walked in and was hardly recognizable- she'd morphed into this siren of confidence and beauty. That day in the Seminar we talked about Metamorphosis- and I was quick to grab the mic. People could see it before I even stood to speak- I was glowing. "My whole life I've been trying so hard to be a greener caterpillar, a fuzzier caterpillar, a more spinedy caterpillar, and I was never happy. I was constantly trying to be these things to please others- but now I realize- I don't have to be any of those things because I'm a fucking BUTTERFLY. Butterflies don't worry about that stuff. I'm gonna be OK."

The other Siren and I nodded to each other. She knew what I knew. I took my seat as 145 of my new closest friends just watched me be born. And somewhere in that moment, I began to Let Go.

When Jay first served me with Divorce Papers in February of 2011, he hired some K-mart attorney who spelled both of our names wrong and requested for me to pay for all of Jay's attorney fees. The papers also stipulated that any of my belongings should be returned to Jay, and that I could pay him spousal support if he asked. I'm giving my ex the benefit of the doubt and assuming this was simply an oversight and he had not taken the time to look at the papers. What did he want- my 1999 Celica? Half of each cat? No, this was the man who left me working 2 unpaid internships, so, virtually jobless and homeless. This was the man who refused to harbor our cats for me for a night, and had no issue with me sleeping in my car.

Because the divorce was entirely his choice, he told me he'd be responsible for the costs of the legal fees, since I could not afford a lawyer. I ignored the first round of papers, and eventually he got it straightened out and to his credit, kept his word about paying the expenses. I assured him I would in no way contribute to the destruction of our marriage, and refused to spend so much as a stamp on his cowardice. He very generously stole stamps from his employer and sent them to me. At one point, even his own divorce attorney realized what a douche Jay is and fired him.

He blames me for this somehow, but the truth is someone has to be a complete tool before a lawyer will quit taking their money. Or she grew a conscience. Either way, by then the final papers were drawn up and he filed them, not requesting any money from me and paying my California appearance fee on my behalf, since I was forced to move home. The final papers arrived today.

He hadn't even looked at them before he mailed them- there are three papers in there from a divorce that isn't even ours, but I assume when you're stuffing envelopes drunk or high, these things happen. My favorite clause in the paperwork is the one "holding him harmless and unimdemnifiable for the extreme hardships lack of support will cause the Respondant." That's me. There's also a clause in there acknowledging that he realizes how depressed I was, and that if I commit suicide my family cannot sue him.

Again, such a classic romantic.

Before I signed, I singled those paragraphs out and gave him a choice: He could either spend the extra lawyer-money and have the paragraph altered, or he could write me a hand-written letter stating that he was fully responsible for his choices and sorry for the harm he has already caused me and for the harm his choices cause me in the future.

No fucking way would I consider him "harmless," legally or otherwise.

I got the letter, worded verbatim to my request. Ah, well. I keep forgetting Creativity was only a quality I'd projected on him- not one he actually had. But the point is, I got the letter, and I felt like a lion that day.

So I signed my married name for the last time, Jaime Kathryn Barwick, to the papers.
He signed his new douchey DJ name to the papers.
A judge signed his name as well.
And just like that: 16 years undone.

I have MY name back- I am Jaime Jessup again. I kept my promises, I kept my marriage vows, and I was a fucking awesome wife. I WAS. I'm still a promise-keeper. And I'm still fucking awesome. But now I'm MINE.

We cling so desperately to what we're comfortable with. I was absolutely willing to overlook some pretty awful stuff so I could have my Fairy Tale. But the funny thing about Fairy Tales is this: they typically come in large volumes- huge collections of Fairy Tales, one right after the other. And if you're brave enough to turn the page, there's a whole new story waiting for you. You just have to keep reading to find out what happens next. I stopped taking antidepressants and antianxiety medicine shortly after that Seminar, in the spring of 2012. It's been a year. When you have total clarity about the world you're operating within, there's really not that much to be anxious about.

I'm still battling insomnia. That's a tough one. I have a hard time most nights, but it's better to be off sleep meds and firing on all cylinders. I thought I'd lost the love of my life, but instead I just lost the love of THAT life. If he really wants to be who he turned out to be, we could never have truly made each other happy. I blame myself for not being fun all the time. I was needy and codependant, and I didn't have confidence in myself. I should've taken the reins more, done more, been proactive instead of waiting for someone to save me. I wish I'd done his laundry more. I wish I'd done my own paperwork. I wish I'd taken responsibility for my own happiness, instead of blaming him for failing at the impossible task of being my Everything. I'm sorry I let Depression swallow my light. When I stopped shining, he left.

BUT: I've learned more in the last three years than in 33 years combined. I've had more laughs, more truths, more discoveries and more actual personal victories than I ever could've had living for someone else. I'm writing more, I'm healthier than I've been in years- ironically, in spite of this and BECAUSE of this, I am the exact independant, self-reliant, confident woman he always wanted. And he's no one I'd even want to be friends with. In the last 2 years I've been taken on a trip around the Mediterranean, fed dinner at the top of Four Seasons, danced on stilts for Millionaires, been spoiled rotten with some very beautiful men, (and a couple beautiful ladies,) finished writing my novel and had more fun as a fucking Phoenix than I ever could've imagined.

He did kill me. Rather, I did wind up losing that life. And I couldn't be more grateful. The world, his world, that world, ended, and something better began. From now on, my life is what I make it. I have my Origin Story, and I'm only just begining to discover my powers.

Watch me shine now.