You've all heard that one before.
Of cats. And cat shit. And food aggression. And roughhousing. And inhalers. And food pouches. And washing washing washing bowls. And shoveling shit. And the smell of shit. And the need because they come to me for that. I am the problem solver. The feeder. The cleaner. The attention giver.
Of losing things. Because I never used to lose things. Items. Tasks. Memories. Words. But now its like my brain is made out of a sieve, and someone is pouring cake batter into it. And its heavy and dense and yet nothing sticks to the sides.
Of remembering. Or not remembering. Or a mixture of the both. Appointments. Facts. Dates. Important information. Because im "remembering" so well im stressing cats out with ficticious appointments and remembering to pay friends back but then remembering wrong when I thought I'd followed through.
Of carrying this lump around. In my throat. My head. My eyes. My stomach. My chest. Because it won't come out and it won't be swallowed down. It sits bloated. Full. Heavy. I feel like im carrying a bomb around inside of me.
Of sleep. Or what consistutes sleep for me. Broken. Fragmented. Woken every hour. By cats. By kids. By the baby seagull on my roof who hasn't yet learned to fly and while its cute and mother nature, I want to go out and throttle it at 3 or 4 or 5 or 6 in the morning when it has slid once again from the top and stampedes around. And alarms. Alarms that ring every 3 or 4 minutes for over two hours and jar my brain like an electric shock BZZZZZZZ. Not mine. But their existence is denied.
Of my emotions being classed as just one. Anger. When there is a whole range inside of me. Frustration. Sadness. Grief. Stupidity. Low confidence. Hurt. Shame. Guilt. But its all lumped into one. The one that means something is wrong with ME and not my circumstances. My environment. But its me and me and me and my tone and my tone and my tone. Always. Eternally. My feelings are ghostly. They haunt. They stay silent.
Of forging communication with siblings who are there when they need me. But now they are ok they cease to remember that there is the potential that I need them. A grown up 34 year old baby who is needing. And denied. And maybe it would just be best to leave the GC because im sick of writing to ghosts within it.
Of wandering the house and cleaning. Picking up. Cleaning. Picking up. After people who can't remember to put things in bins in sinks in containers when they have used an item. Another ghost of me, wandering around. My efforts unnoticed. Is that what they mean by "invisible" load. Do others feel like ghosts haunting their own homes? Why are there so many ghostly versions of me? When did they become me?
Of nagging and nagging and nagging over things that should be remembered. That have been labelled as "not my task" but becomes my task because they are not remembered. And then I am called a nag for the nagging. See the point about emotion. It slots right in. Act 2. Coming after this short interlude.
Of not thinking about my Dad. This big black shadow that follows me around since the funeral. Choosing not to talk about. Confront it. Deal with it. Knowing at some point that shadow is going to crash into me. Clash into me. And I'll be forced and I'll be stunned and I'll be flattened. But its easier to ignore it. I don't have time to deal with it until it happens.
Of feeling judged. For my neurodivergent traits in a sea of neurotypical work "buddies". Who might not even be shaming me. But the little jokes about my sandwich. My typical lunch. My desire to sit home. Play games. My silence. NERD NERD NERD DIFFERENT DIFFERENT DIFFERENT. Of being surrounded by people who dont eat. Or eat half a sandwich because a full one is "bad". Or being surrounded by labels of healthy or unhealthy. This bell pepper and cottage cheese is healthy. That sandwich with tuna (protein) and cucumber that came pre-packaged is unhealthy only because of the pure fact it came prepared from a factory and was wrapped in cardboard. Calories somehow change from good to bad depending on where they were obtained.
My body aches. I walk slow. I fall asleep when I shouldn't. My body feels too heavy to carry at times. My bones feel like lead. My eyelids feel like metal shutters. My womb is reacting to the stress. Bleeding. Leaking. Cramping. When bleeding and leaking and cramping shouldn't be happening. I have never been so early. Why am I so early?
Of wondering what would happen if I ran away. Would it tick over. Would it implode. Would it fall to shit. Would a new normal be found. Would I be happy. Would I be peaceful. How would I run away. Where. What would finally push me to that point.
Sometimes I think about sending my therapist my tumblr link. Because im not eloquent when it comes to speaking myself out loud. I stutter. I divert. I avoid. I struggle. But I can write it. I can write and write and write. Fill up journals. Fill up novels. Fill up oceans with typed fonts of feelings and thoughts.
gracieabrams
dailybridgerton
areudirty
2087
