Burn the White Flag

“It’s only when the door is locked that nobody enters.” Benjamin Clementine.

I randomly picked “Cornerstone” by BenClem to listen to on my way home today. And when I pulled into my driveway, the last line he sang was “this is the place…I now belong.” Fuck yes. I know I’m still beaten down. I know I’m not yet myself. But, I do know I’m on my way. Single life in this shitty little duplex has gotten me back on the right track.

I had a facebook memory pop up today that led me back to the blog I wrote a year ago. It was the day I moved out of my latest broken home. It was a shitty day. It was a fucking painfully lonely day. But, what got me about rereading it was how strong my voice was. I had shit figured out. I made the right choice to walk away from that relationship. I was doing what was best for the kids and myself.

And then. I unlocked my door.

The strength I had in my writing voice, turned to weakness. The pain and lonely that I thought I’d been living was nothing compared to the shit that got unleashed when I tried to let her back in. I guess it was longing for the known or the comfortable that got me. Or maybe it was just one bad day of losing perspective on why I left in the first place.

Either way, the fucking chaos that was the next few weeks after I unlocked the door for her. Oh shit. It took the time it would have taken me to get over the failed relationship and multiplied it by a lot. I think I’m still pretty fucked in the head one year later.

And I think that’s what gets me down now. I’m way not ready to be in another relationship. And when “home” in the relationship sense seems so far away, it’s easy to get caught up in the unfairness of it. I actually had something to give in that last relationship. But, it was what was done to me, what was out of my control, that has me writing like a mad man one year later.

It feels like it’s taking me way too long to get perspective. To have a place to put how I could be such an easy target to be taken advantage of. How I could believe words over actions. There’s this desperation inside me for anything close to love that is fucking scary. It makes me question just how fucking damaged I am? What is back there in those blocked out memories from my childhood?

I mean, really, I guess all this means is that no matter how much I write. No matter how much I talk it through with friends, I need more professional help. I loved my old therapist so much. The reality that I’ve functioned at all without her, I guess, is pretty amazing. She used to save my life once a week. She saw all the shit I couldn’t see.

And probably the biggest gift she gave me was helping me see that I am in control. That I can take the power back. I didn’t have to be subjected to the version of “truth” that the ex-wife practices. I didn’t have to keep my dad around, just because he’s my dad. And she tried to hint to me that Sarita wasn’t for me. I didn’t listen.

My therapist would mention “pink flags” with Sarita. Things that weren’t exactly red flags, but should have been cause for concern. Like, “maybe she’s the kind of girl who needs the attention of more than one guy at a time.” Nah. I got this. She said the words “I love you.” God damn. Writing that out I feel like a fucking child.

And I guess that’s it. I was conned. The lies that came out when I left the door open for her to come back into my home…they undid me. All the writing. All the therapy. All the work on my mental health. And it took someone else’s thoughtless actions (or worse the very thoughtful, calculated lies) to completely undo my progress.

So…to that, I call bull shit. To that. I slam the fucking door shut. Yeah, it’s been a motherfucker to even get out of bed some days. No one has heard the whole story. No one knows what my past already makes me feel like and how much that influenced how the aftermath of opening the door feels to me now.

But, again. It’s control. Taking it back. I slammed that fucking door shut. Finally. For the last time back in December and I won’t talk to Sarita again, because every time I did she just threw more lies and chaos and shit at me that the kids and I don’t need. And it kills me to think I called being treated like that “home.”

But, hmm…this is crazy…I just realized that the reality is that the “pink flags” my therapist talked about, were, in actuality dark red flags. And when I opened the door for Sarita to come back, I waved a white flag. It was so fucking backwards, but I forgave her. I apologized. I came to her with a peace offering.

Ahhh…fuck. I love it that I can look back at it now and it’s a distant memory, instead of the emotions of it overtaking me. The point is, one of my favorite songs right now is Joseph’s “White Flag”. It says, “I’d rather be dead than live a lie. Burn the white flag.”

Fuck yes. Fuck those peace offerings. Fuck those open doors. The olive branch that I extended, ended up getting shoved up my ass. So the white flag got burned. And that moment.  Right there. Is why I fucking love writing. All the shitty feelings I have all the time. They can be replaced with an ahhh moment here or there.

I get another chance at life. I’m not living with her lies anymore. I’m not calling chaos “home”. I took my daughter to a show last night. And it was the cutest thing to watch her dancing and singing along. I took my son out poke-mon-ing the other day and he just wants to tell me all about how you do it and teach me the tricks of the trade.

Home. “this is the place I now belong.” And that’s the thing. The last time I was single I found contentment with myself. And loved being alone without feeling lonely. And that’s the mental space I’ve struggled to get back to.

But, man…look the fuck around matthewblake. your life is magic. Your kids are solid gold. I took my daughter to target the other day, which has always been our place to just chat about life. And she spent about an hour picking out items to give away to her youtube subscribers to celebrate hitting her 1000^th subscriber. She paid for that stuff with her own money and was soooo excited about it.

Giving. Not taking. Real. Not lies. That’s our home.

And knowing the confidence that both my kids have that I’ll probably never have. That’s it. I can be single. I can battle the lonely. As long as the kids are doing well, life is good. I have to do a better job of keeping our doors locked and burning white flags of people that throw chaos at the calm I’m trying to create for the kids.

but, holy shit…there’s so much more hope than there was seven months ago. This process has wrecked me over and over. but, I’m seeing signs that one day, I’m going to be all right. More writing. More therapy. More fucked up conversations with random people at a dive bar. Bring it.

And that’s the other thing I realized. I work from home. Which is great. But, when you’re fucking depressed a lot of the time, you need other people. I need a dive bar to replace the one that closed that was basically my fucked up version of church. I think I found one. I’ll have my shitty nights there. And my great nights, but man…I want to be social again instead of closing myself off and drowning in my sadness. Fuck yes. Another shot at life. Set me up, bartender.