Things I Don’t Do Anymore

It’s embarrassing to admit, but I used to dance in the shower when I knew I was getting ready to go and see you–sometimes, not all the time (I’m not completely deranged). I don’t know how I didn’t slip and fall and break something because I was into it, man. I don’t dance, not even when blackout drunk, but I used to when I had you to look forward to. I did it because often that was the only happiness I had.

I don’t dance in the shower anymore. And you don’t make me happy anymore, so I suppose that’s fair.

There are ten billion impossible words I could pin down that I’ve thought since December. I have written drafts of letters and dispatches and grossly overdone novelizations of every fleeting emotion I’ve experienced since then. I have gone in verbal circles with friends and loved ones, extolling the passions of a broken heart in the way you would expect someone to do over their first lost love.

Yes, I should have known all along that it was one-sided. I can’t think back on the past year without feeling taken advantage of, though I don’t think so cruelly of you as to assume it was your intent. I don’t think I would have loved you if you were evil, though love did blind so many of your faults that now I wonder how it blossomed at all. Alas there is no logic to love, despite my trying to cram it into the boxes I believed it should reside.

And I suppose, when I’m being honest with myself late at night, I¬†did know all along that things would Not End Well. I felt things in my gut that my waking mind refused to process until they were laid bare before me. I knew something was up.

I don’t wait for you to speak to me every day anymore.
I don’t base my entire mood on whether or not we interact.
I don’t feel crushing anxiety when we don’t talk.
I don’t go through periods of self-hate when things don’t “go right” and I fail to make you happy. To please you.
I don’t experience intense jealousy when you pay attention to someone else.
I used to love you, but I’ve forgotten how.

What were burdens have become gifts because I have finally been forced to face my biggest fears: rejection and change.

I’d be lying if I claimed I wasn’t still angry. I am, and I think the distance between us is necessary, though I know you’d like for things to be different. I don’t want things to be different than they are right now.

I am so glad that this mess has unraveled the way it has because, for the first time in my adult life, I feel free of the responsibility of worrying about you and your well-being. I feel free of the insecurity that comes with making another human being the center of one’s universe. I am free of the harsh self-judgments and negative thinking patterns that plagued my life for far too fucking long. I respect myself for perhaps the first time in my life, and I would go through what I’ve gone through over and over and over to discover this hidden reservoir¬†of strength that I never knew existed.

I don’t love you anymore because I finally love myself.

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I am frustration, I am impassioned, I am a fucking thunderstorm.

I throw every scrap of paper away, every scrawling I attempt goes into the trash because I can’t make good things. I can’t conjure transference. I can’t bring the mental image to life for anyone else. It feels isolating. All I want to do is synthesize a feeling to share it with you and I am left chewing my tongue, talking in circles about the fireflies slowly dying on my sidewalk three weeks into October.

I keep thinking back to that week in March when I tried to kill myself. I want to tell him. I want to tell him because I have told nobody, but the words swirl and die on the tip of my tongue like the fireflies. I used to use my sparse student loan refund to try and buy happiness, and I guess it was a kind of happiness to know that I had something to look forward to, a special present coming to me from me in the mail. But it wasn’t real because it didn’t last, and the black water welled back up as soon as I opened my mail box and saw a package slip. It didn’t matter how sorely I had been awaiting whatever meaningless and overpriced lipstick I had ordered; all excitement dried to ash and blew away as soon as I didn’t have anything to wait on.

I am addicted to the inbetweenness. Waiting for the other shoe to drop. The torment of the unknown.

I don’t want to kill myself but I’ve been thinking about how I felt when I did. I am sad right now, and frustrated, but I don’t want to kill myself. I am finally insured again. The little plastic card absolving me of future medical debt (and a portion of my paycheck) arrived this week, and that did bring me some relief. I will owe the government the healthcare penalty because I was not hired quickly enough, but at least I have this small safety net that, should something happen to me, or should I get ill, I won’t be left in financial ruins. I have been putting my mom off about seeing a therapist with my lack of insurance. That’s not an excuse now. I have no idea what I’m afraid of.

If I had to make a guess and shrink my own head (which I do recreationally, as you know), I would say that I still, on some level, don’t feel worth it. I don’t want to die, especially not by my own machinations, but I don’t necessarily feel like this fucked up body+brain combination is worth investing much in. The bald and ugly truth is that, yes, I am 25 years and 6 months and 5 days old and I still don’t like myself. I have positive qualities I’m told, and I suppose I’m pleasant enough–God knows I do make effort to treat others kindly, as someone who has been on the receiving end of malice…yet I find myself nearly wholly unsatisfied with every atom of my composition. I don’t feel nice when I automatically make snap judgments in my head about people or assumptions about their behavior. When I catch a glimpse of my body in a mirror, I try not to physically recoil. When I think about my accomplishments, I think about the things that I have not been able to achieve, and the mountain of failure eclipses the molehill of success.

I have wanted to be a writer my whole entire life. I have read books voraciously, I have studied grammar, I have taken the most challenging English classes available to push myself into honing some kind of skill with words, but I am not motivated, and that is all that really matters. I am not motivated to write much of anything these days, and while part of it is definitely due to the fact that I self-sabotage, and part of it is due to this feeling of disconnection I have with the greater world, much of it is because writing is so god damned hard sometimes. It’s hard and I tell myself I would fail anyway, so why even waste time?

But all I do outside of work is waste time. I used to play video games every single day. Religiously I would plug my headphones in and turn my brain off, if only for a few hours. I would focus as best I could on leveling up or completing sidequests or, hell, making a Sim resembling myself work her fingers to the bone so she could live comfortably in a large house.

I haven’t played any games in a while, but I haven’t replaced that time with anything. Lying in bed scrolling on my phone is less productive. I read Reddit threads about paranormal activity, cringey experiences, life’s nagging questions, but I produce nothing and return nothing. I don’t comment because I’m shy. I don’t write anything but lesson plans. Sometimes I’ll think of a line and write it down, but like I said before, it all ends up getting pushed aside because I invariably hate it.

My tongue feels numb and I’ve been crying just a little bit through all of this. I need to get out of this bed and do something other than dwell on my perceived personal failures. I’m just so unmotivated to change even though all I do is rake myself over the coals, even in my dreams. I don’t let myself set goals really anymore because I don’t let myself feel like I’m worth the planning.

I don’t think I’ve ever had a really strong sense of self-worth and that needs work. I need to want more for myself than base survival…to develop into a more full and whole person instead of so many fragments.

This has been disjointed. Welcome for a moment to my brain. And I’m sorry.

A good eyeliner day.

Look in the mirror at yourself and nothing’s amiss. You’ve learned how to plaster yourself with just enough foundation (and in the correct shade) to make you look less like a palette of colors and more like a blank canvas. Eyeshadows carefully selected to complement each other–but never neutrals because you find them dull. Eyeliner, replete with wings, extending out and up at the perfect angle, large enough to notice behind your glasses. And, finally, lipstick chosen to work with and not against your dramatic eyes. Completeness achieved.

At least, for the moment, because life is a string of moments and life is always changing.

You’re tired.

No,

I’m tired. Very, very tired. I don’t want to say I’ve thrown myself back into the arms of sadness or anything over the top like that. I know that I am run down emotionally, and perhaps (once again) expecting too much of the only person I could spend every waking moment with.

Living in your own head, completely alone, is pure torture to me at times. I value my independence and my agency, I value being able to function as a single human unit, I value my own thoughts and feelings, but I think about Genesis P-Orridge and Lady Jaye, and I think about fusion, and I think about that horrible unknowable lens that we have to view others through, and I can’t help but feel like there’s something distinctly missing. I am not enough for myself, for some reason, and I don’t know that I ever will be.

I feel fleetingly proud of altering my appearance to a level of heightened attractiveness, because I do not ever perceive myself to be attractive. Even if I were thin–and I am screechingly far from that–I still have a large nose, crooked and off-colored teeth, puncture scars on my arms, stretch marks aplenty, and a burst blood vessel on my right asscheek to contend with. And trust me, I could go on, but I don’t want this to become a catalog of my physical sins.

I don’t even know what the point of all of this is. I just needed to type at a screen. There are more important things going on that what I’ve chosen to talk about, but I think I need a little more distance to discuss it with any effectiveness.

Pour toi.

Much of the time, my mind is unquiet. Anxiety is the devil on my shoulder, keeping me occupied with what-ifs that never come to fruition.

But he is the blessed silence of familiarity, the dark comfort that gives me rejuvenative rest.

I would walk through fire for him. I would go to the ends of the Earth and beyond. I would sacrifice–beg–search endlessly if it meant that his life could be easier or better.

Undo the undone.

Keep pinching myself to see if it’s fake yet–if someone undid This Thing Which Has Happened–but I am tethered to reality, no matter how hard I shut my eyes and try to wish it away.

It’s not my pain, so I can’t write about it yet. It’s not mine, but I am trying to take on as much of it as he’ll let me so he doesn’t drown.