random ramblings of a nobody

I should wake up. It’s well past noon and the sun is peeking through that small gap in the curtains that will not go away, no matter how many times I’ve moved the damn fabric. I’m not really asleep per say, just laying here in a mass of blankets and warm lighting. My body overheats and I have to kick off the covers, but then I get too cold and have to retreat underneath my solitude of gratuitous sadness again. It’s a vicious cycle, though I should be grateful as currently it’s the only thing keeping my attention away from the self-pity that swarms inside my chest. 

There’s no reason I should be so depressed, is there? I’m not sure anymore. It’s like some weird monster that’s found its home within my throat. It keeps quiet for the most part, but it likes to jump out to remind me its still living within my bones. Not that I’d be likely to forget at anytime. You don’t just forget something that makes your stomach dry and your brain to become fuddled in darkness. Is fuddled a word? Sounds British. Maybe a shortened version of befuddled. That was probably a better word to use. Ah well…not like I majored in English…or writing…anyway. Depression! Whoo! 

Interesting what triggers such an annoying mental block. It’s a slippery slope really and I don’t have any snow shoes. Though I always enjoyed sliding down a snowy hill. There’s something freeing about giving up control and possibly smacking into a tree. Maybe the force of impact will jolt the monster out of me. 

But the sun on snow can be too bright for my eyes. I squint and turn away and when I open my eyes again…somehow I’m back in bed. Back to sleeping in until 3pm and then hating myself because I wasted a whole day. I should be more productive than this. I can be more productive than this. I do it every weekday. I actually do shit that helps and isn’t useless and pointless. But being awake means I have to leave my dreams, which are almost always better than real life. I don’t have to worry about getting a job or feeling as though I will never amount to anything. Ugh, let’s not go down that rabbit hole just yet. 

No, I enjoy sleep because it gives my over active, anxious brain a break. I can finally get everything to shut the fuck up and I can create my own little self-insert fanfic within my head. There’s been a few cute romances lately…though that’s another rabbit hole there. I swear it’s a fucking maze at this point. Cause romance leads to wondering why these moments never happened to me, but of course they can’t happen if you don’t leave your fucking bed you idiot. But what if you’ll never be loved because you’re so afraid of being hurt? The pain of being alone is a lot easier to deal with than the pain of being unwanted…though one could argue those go hand in hand. Also, is that what you really want or are you just lonely and depressed? Also you’re not lonely, moron you have people who care about you. Really cool people you make you feel valued and important. Then again, what if they’re just being nice and polite and don’t want to tell you to go away? You could just be an annoying nuisance who doesn’t really add anything. No, shut up! We’re not doing this. 

I often think about the “almosts” in my life. The “could’ve beens” that sadly turn into “never was”. The beginnings of beautiful moments that stop dead, as though its writer met an untimely end. Piles of unfinished stories, stored away in a box, locked away because the remembering is too painful. Trying to finish these doomed pieces is too painful. Coming up with endings that never happened, in hopes to soothe this anxiousness of incompleteness. But no ending is good enough because they’re lies. They’re pillows to cushion the blow as reality catches up with the fall. Because it never happened. Because it never will. Because...we never made it. We almost did. I was almost your love. There was no “She was your love” and no “She is my love”. Just that damned almost.

 And it’s the almost that kills me more than the end. What is it people say? “It’s never the end, only the beginning”. That optimistic bullshit.  But what about the almost? What happens then? What happens to the blank pages that I flip through, trying to fill the lapses in my memory? The gaps and holes that can never be filled? How can I find a beginning when there was never an end to push me in the right direction? 

It’s the almost that leaves me feeling like a failure. Because I couldn’t even fight to see it through. I couldn’t even string together a half-assed ending. I just...stopped. But it wasn’t my fault. Looking back, almost five years later, it wasn’t my fucking fault and I was a fool for spending so long convincing myself it was.. Because it took two people to tell this story, but it only took one to settle with almost.

I’d rather be left with an “It was hard, but I learned from it”  ending. It makes for a more intriguing, tragic backstory. At least I’d be left with my pride. Instead, I was left with shame, throbbing inside my skin, clawing its way through the epidermis, demanding to be seen. To be validated. To be acknowledged by you.  So you can see what you did...what you’re doing. See me. See me you fucking coward. Face what you did and what you put me through. Even though you’re looking right at me, you see nothing. At least you would if you’d even look at me. Acknowledge my presence. I am screaming at you to see me, but you refuse. Because seeing me would mean admitting to the pain that has carved itself into my irises. The pain you caused. The pain you’ve turned your back on. The pain you admitted you’d do again if you could have her back. The other her. The was...not the almost.

I was always going to be an almost. But you made me feel like a was. Treated me like a was. Held me like a was. Then you kissed me like an is and fuck...I forgot that almost was even an option. I had never been an is. I’d been an or, but never an is. There were signs. As loud as the sirens on an ambulance screaming down the highway and I turn away because it’s so fucking loud and flashy. Looking back, I was so stupid for turning up the music so I couldn’t hear them. Closing my eyes to the red, white, and blue lights..

You treated me like an is only when we were alone. Never in front of others. I could not tell anyone about being an is. “It would complicate things”. You hid behind your religion that preached togetherness and unity, but not with someone like me. Someone who didn’t drop to her knees every Sunday. But I prayed. My god, did I pray. You were my religion and I was completely devoted. I had taken my communion, your lips the wine and your skin the bread. I wanted you to consume every part of me. And you looked so heavenly when I was on my knees.

And then we hit almost. The place no one understands until they’ve been there. Until they see it come out of nowhere and you have to slam on the breaks, but it’s too late because I’ve crashed, and now I have to get out of the car and try to apologize for something that I don’t even understand. And I turn around and it’s gone. Everything. Those moving pictures in my mind that seemed to always be leading me  towards something are frozen. And I see you, but you’re far away. You don’t look at me. And then I realize, I was never an is. I was always an almost.

So I’m stuck with all these stories, cut by a knife halfway through. They seem to appear on my bookshelf the more I reflect. The more I realize that almost was always going to be my ending with you. And it’s the almost that kills. At least with endings, I get a definitive stop. I get the closure everyone says is so healthy, even though it hurts to know it’s over. There’s no way to rewrite the story because for some reason the edits disappear as I write them. But the almost...what do I do with those? I’m left with the kisses and the touches and the whispers. Those goddamn fucking whispers that keep me up at night. They mock me. Laugh as they watch the hope drain from my body and pool at the ground. Their derisive voices forcing me to remember. And then they force me to remember as the whispers smoke out anything that isn’t you. 

I’m left with the pathetic hope that maybe, just maybe I can convince you that I’m are an is. That maybe you still think I’m an is and you’re just afraid of those feelings. Because there was no set end. There was no rolling stop and mutual agreement. Just a crash. And you can fix those, right? Call your insurance company, swap cards...but there has to be someone to blame? Is it the one who came out of nowhere? Without looking to see if someone was there? Or was it the person who didn’t stop in time. Who was so caught up in the ride they didn’t bother to look at what lied ahead? Either way, the damage was fixable. Take it to an auto shop. Replace the parts. But why did you come out it unscathed? Where was your scar? Where was your trauma? Why were you fixed? Maybe you just had better insurance. Either way, I was left with almost. You were almost mine. We almost made it. You almost chose me. I was almost good enough. You almost loved me.

I’m left with the memories. Flipping through these pages, never reaching an ending. I’m left with remembering how my heart raced when you had me against the wall. How my head spun when you kissed me so hard, I forgot how to breathe, but it didn’t matter because you gave me your breath.. When you held me so tight, I thought your palms would be imprinted on my skin forever. I’m left with thinking about the day where your insurance might lapse. Where you might realize that you fucked up. Not me.

But that was five years ago. And almost is a pattern of life.

I almost fell down

I almost forgot my phone

I almost didn’t come

I almost made it.