goddess

i moved into my first apartment on February 8th, 2020 -- in the middle of the world going crazy.  I gathered all of my stuff out of my four pink walls, cried my eyes out, and moved.  

the most important thing is that I did just that, I MOVED.  I completed a series of action-motivated tasks to get to this point: not just in my own apartment. 

I’m alone, not lonely. They are two very different things.  

the pros: 

- I have 710 sq feet with my name on the doorbell, the bills & the rent checks. I receive no assistance in providing for myself.  A lot of people who *think* they know me would be shocked at this -- which shows they in fact, do not know me. 

- I have an adorable little 9 month old munchkin tuxedo kitten named Inky Alfred Pennyworth. He thinks he is my fuzzy son because he is. He loves cuddles and he talks to me as if he can speak English and I can speak Meows. He has bright green eyes and a cute pink little nose. I was NOT into cats until I got him. My amazing friend Katherine gave him to me as a housewarming present, 

 Saturday, at 11:45pm in summer and I’m out looking at the moon and wondering how I’ve survived this long without driving myself crazy.  I haven’t taken the time to process that I have gone from one trauma to the next in under a decade.  I’m not sure how to process it, I guess. I haven’t found the right thought process to start, or stop the dissertation on my own psyche -- it would be too painful.  

In my few years of life, I’ve realized that I haven’t had the time to reflect on things that have happened to me.  

Each time I encounter a new trauma, I feel like I’ve molted a skin.  Like... still me, just new -- a worse kind of new.  I’ve yet to comprehend why I feel like I receive a new brain after another horrible experience.  I think I feel cheated. I want to be able to say I’m happy that I’m me but I just feel like I keep turning into a new, hardened version of myself.  I wish I wasn’t another new me.  I wanted more for myself... I want the chance to value myself as I am for a while before I live long enough to see myself become the villain, in the words of the incomparable Harvey Dent...

I think I’ve already turned into the bad guy.  My auto-response is “fuck it, I’ll do it myself” because I hate the feeling of waiting to be disappointed by people.  I know I trust myself. Everyone else, not so much -- if at all.  I expect people to fail me, betray me, use me, anger me, lie to me.   

I’m taking my time to block people. I’m becoming more protective of my energy, and how or who I choose to project it on. I’m more protective of my own space, and I fully acknowledge the importance of leaving people (everybody, if necessary) the fuck alone. 

Being alone makes you strong. 

So, this is how it ends. Sharp, painful, sudden. I wasn’t aware of how many emotions I’d feel (because I’m an expert at staying unbothered), or that there would be stages to those emotions.  I”ve never went through a “friend breakup” before. I’ve never actually had friends -- just people who know me an think I’m friends with them.  i’ve never been cared for by someone who wasn’t family and obligated to love me for being myself (except by my baby’s father, but he isn’t the subject of this log -- he has his own log on the way.) 

I always wanted a best friend. I had one, when I was little. She left my life when I was 9, only to reenter it when I was 19 and try to kill me. It seems, throughout my formative years (and a good chunk of my adulthood) I’ve found myself envious of people who have best friends. Or people who have brothers that weren’t murdered. Or people that have grandmothers who didn’t die of cancer.  Or people who were born normal and could play with regular kids and enjoy friendly bonds.  I wanted to establish a connection with someone other than my family to love, because I have so much of it to give, and because I always wanted friends -- I felt that I deserved it, almost as if I was entitled to gain friends immediately because I was born differently.  

Well into my adolescence (17 & 1/2) I found my best friend. He was incredible. He was a living, breathing light beam. He would do anything for me, for nothing but my love in return. He was supportive, loving, ambitious, caring, intelligent, and always down for a dare -- a natural born badass much like myself. I did not realize until after his death that I was irrevocably in love with him (to quote the emotionally vindictive Bella Swan, unfortunately). I would give anything to have those few short years I spent with him, and relive all the moments I took for granted, now lost.  I’ve also realized that I haven’t let him go. I look for him; for pieces of his spirit in other people. I understand that I am not honoring who he was while he was in his body and who he is as spirit by doing so. For this, Pablo, I apologize.  There was only one of you, and I, sadly, will not find you again until I reach my next life. To say that I miss you would be the farthest understatement I could fathom. I ache for you. For Saturday mornings when you would sneak me off campus to head to the tiny breakfast spot in the tiny town where we went to school for cheesey egg sandwiches and bullshit at the square. For the runs we made -- and the dangers we faced while making them.  For the time I spent loving you, and not informing you of how deep it really was. And most of all for what happened when you figured it out on your own and tried to do something about it, wherein I stopped you. I shouldn’t have. I hope I find you again, in another dimension. Maybe we can do it right then.  I love you. It will never be past tense. 

After I suffered that heartbreak, it still felt fresh. I tried to develop best friendships in other places, with new people. Two years after he left me, I met someone that I was instantly drawn to - she felt like a big bright spot in the middle of my grief, my darkness of missing what I had - a best friend.  I attached myself to her. I picked her. She was going to fill my Pablito sized hole (or so I thought). Absolutely incorrect. She made her own hole in me -- fresh, new, filled with fandom references, starbucks dates and so many giggles with a brand new matching set of tattoos to top it all off... And it felt warm and fuzzy all the time. I wasn’t aware of how much my friend was hurting, from forces outside our little friendship bubble. A mess occurred, which was small and not communicative, but showed me how depressed and upset she really is. It makes me sad, and I felt lost without her for a long time. about 13 weeks have passed since our senseless falling out, but more time will heal this, I guess. 

For now though, I’ve learned to love myself, and be my own friend. I’ve learned to trust my own instincts and be my own best friend, because searching for one -- or another one like Pablo -- will only prove insufficient to my emotional health.  

“ Everybody knows that the boat is leaking Everybody knows that the captain lied Everybody got this broken feeling Like their father or their dog just died... ”

_ October 25th, 2:18PM. The ship is picking up water rapidly at this point. The lower deck is completely flooded. Passengers have all been evacuated safely, although there is one passenger in critical condition; albeit alive.

We are well aware that the Captain is angry, and not in the right state of mind to stop steering the boat, we are sinking. The Captain says we are only going to sink if the ship says so. We attribute this to the Captain's lack of sleep and proper nutrition, and possibly more than the recommended amount of acetaminophen. This has been an official report. 

Godspeed. -- _

So. We’re here. We’ve hit a huge iceberg, and there’s no coming back from this...

There’s a lifeboat about two miles out in the opposite direction. We have just enough fuel to get us there, and just enough room for the Captain and immediate family. We can’t risk losing the Captain for the sake of the ship.  If we try to save the ship, we all drown: the staff, the kitchen crew, the maids, the Captain - all left at the bottom of the sea.   How will we report the loss?  Is there a better way?  The lifeboat is the only option.  

so, as of now it’s 7/7/18. 5 days until my birth anniversary... and then my brother’s birthday is 4 days from mine.  He isn’t here to see it; hasn’t been in 17 years. I have more than one issue with this. 

First: 

Everyone reminds me how badly my mom is hurting during the months of July and August (his birth and death, respectively)... and of course that’s to be expected. She lost her child; her only son... but she still has my older sister and me.  My  birthday is 4 days away from my dead brother’s birthday, and I’m ALWAYS extremely sad on MY birthday because ever since I’ve been an adult my birthdays have been incredibly shitty.  

18th birthday: Mom & Dad went to some wedding, and expected me to go with; and when I declined they made it seem like I was in the wrong

19th birthday: stuck inside, recovering from surgery. 

20th birthday: stuck inside, recovering from surgery AND a breakup. 

21st birthday: plans were ruined, I couldn’t wear my dress because everybody slut-shamed me. Mom said she couldn’t wait for the day to be over. 

22nd birthday: boyfriend was nowhere to be found, family didn’t want to take me to Chili’s for dinner, and they acted like they really didn’t wanna go. 

23rd birthday: spent the day with assholes that I’m not even friends with, fell 4 times, ripped my jeans, cried all day and no one knew I was pregnant. A month later, I lost my girl. 

24th birthday: spent the day with another asshole that isn’t my friend anymore.

25th birthday: I waited on everybody all day. My cake was pretty; my mom told me that was her gift to me. A fucking cake. 

26th birthday: I had cupcakes, no candles, socks were my only gift, and my mom gave me $26. I spent it on weed and a pint of Jack. 

27th birthday: everyone, including my sister, LITERALLY forgot about me because my dad was in the hospital. no one sang happy birthday, I got no gifts. my boyfriend didn’t show up until 1:30AM, so my birthday was already over. I spent the day running errands and housekeeping because everyone was preoccupied with Dad. 

I’m expecting this year to be even more shitty, because I’m starting to think it’s a recurring theme in the fucked up screenplay that is my life...

I’m not sure why it upsets me so much. I just know that I can’t get over the fact that my big brother doesn’t get to celebrate his birthday - we have to do it for him - because someone stole him from us.  

I want him to know that I miss him, every second of every single hour of every day that has passed and the rest of the days I’ve borrowed. I hope he knows that I send him a balloon every birthday.  I hope he knows that I love him. I hope he knows that I’m not bitter about my birthday being shit now. I kinda use my grief (and everyone else’s) to not celebrate myself. I feel guilty that I get to keep having birthdays, and he’ll be 28 forever. I feel guilty that I’m here, above ground, and my heart is 6 feet in the ground. I don’t think I’m supposed to have “happy” birthdays without him. I don’t think I’m supposed to have happy anythings without him. I know that’s not what he wants but, geez... 

How am I supposed to be okay without him?

How am I supposed to not need him now?

How do I find the love he always told me I was worthy of, before he left me?

How am I supposed to be strong when he wasn’t here to protect my innocence from the evils of the world? 

How am I supposed to be okay with my birthday when there’s always the excuse that everyone else can’t celebrate for me because they’re sad? 

Don’t they understand Im sad as well? 

His birthday is 4 days from mine. 

We had our own little song. We had a birthday dance.