Some Prose and Cons

How is it that I can't remember what I went into the kitchen for but I can remember so many times I've been embarrassed/sad/wrong/overwhelmed/angry/emotional?? Seriously. So done with this.

At the end of the day, even though I am so done with your bullshit, I still want to open up a winery/sandwich shop/psychic detective agency in the south of France with you.

I've been sick for ten days now. Eleven if you count the day before when my stomach was bothering me abnormally. Seventeen if you count the week I was pretty consistently lightheaded. I am fucking terrified of going to the doctor's office. I haven't been in almost 6 years, and before that it had been 8 years. I am so incredibly afraid that either a) nothing will be wrong or b) everything will be wrong. I am tired of telling my stories: the ones of my mind and the ones of my heart and the ones of my body. This is how the devil wins.

Let’s just get married. We can always date later.

I do not want a thick skin. I just want some tissues and a funny movie.

My shame demons win because I am so tired of telling my story. And even if I was not tired, I lack the confidence in myself to own my story, with all its highs and lows. Since I can't see its value, my story feels irrelevant and useless to me, and if it feels that way to me, I inadvertently follow a logic that tells me my story is irrelevant and useless to others. Following the same logic, if I feel my story is irrelevant and useless to others, I will naturally keep it locked up so as to politely and quietly go about the world. Admittedly this is all wrong, it's very damaging to my being, and instead of going about the world politely and quietly, I am going about the world very fearfully, if I manage to go about at all.

Nights are the worst. I'm wide awake, everyone I love is asleep; the demons prowl and the ghosts haunt. The pain of yesterday, the stress of today, and the worry of tomorrow come together and unleash all their hells at once. This is quite dizzying and ultimately leads to me becoming overwhelmed on many, many nights.

I squirm so badly when I think of how bad it used to be, and how bad it is becoming...when I can feel my inner self pushing against my body...when my inner self trashes about and tries to dive to bite my arm...when the demons yell...when God whispers but it feels like he’s yelling...when I stare at the mess I have made and pull the blanket up over my head...when I forget everything on my to do list...when I need you...when I feel like you hate me...when I miss him...when I hate him...when I miss everyone...when nobody misses me...when three months go by so fast and so hard...when I can’t help but think of the end of goodness...when I feel no pride and all shame...when they keep calling...when I don’t hear back...when nothing seems right...when I’m at my house and I want to go home...when I want to be left totally alone...when I am so deeply lonely...when I’m mad at you...when I’m madly in love with you...when I think I should tell you...when I know I shouldn’t tell you...when everything spirals into everything else...please make it stop spinning...

I keep things that you say to me. I copy and paste them here and there so I can look back at them when I need you. Sometimes, I forget how wonderful you are until I read them. Oh, I know you are great, but I just forget how wonderful you are, in the truest sense of the word. I stare at the words in wonderment, wondering how I got so lucky to even have you as a friend, wondering how I’ll ever survive without you bringing me back to earth from hell, wondering how much longer I’ll have to wonder if you wonder about me too...

I miss kissing. But I don't miss being laughed at for crying at the movies, sooo there's that.

I feel overwhelmed, to the point that I feel nothing. (Unless I start thinking, of course.) I feel empty, with no drive to be filled. I feel lost, with no motivation to search. It's hard to keep swimming when nobody taught you how.

Dear March, Please be good to me. February has robbed me, and I am so very raw. I am so tired, and I do not know where to go from here. I am trying to find myself, and I am afraid of what I will find. Oh, March, I need a miracle. I have spent so many years hiding and mourning, and I need some celebration.

February has...a lot of baggage. Baggage that does not leave until September. Ghostly baggage. The kind that makes you silently writhe on the bus, and wish you'd never gotten so attached to anything. The kind that makes you contemplate therapy, and wish you felt no shame. The kind that makes you ache. The kind that makes you pray. The kind that robs your faith. The kind that robs your hope. Ghostly baggage. The kind nobody can see. The kind nobody can know.

(When you tell me about your dates--) When you tell me about your dates, my heart stops. One of these days you'll find a dame who will love you like I do, but unlike me she won't be quite so...so...broken. She'll either be more feminine or more masculine. She'll either love football or shriek at spiders. But no matter what, she won't be so...so...needy. See, I'm not afraid of someone falling in love with you, because I know for certain just how one can fall for you. I'm afraid of you falling for her. I don't know her, but she's in my way. Hell, she might even love you more than I do. I won't deny the possibility. You will find someone better than me, this I know. But I don't know that I will find someone better than you. I think you are my Harry, and I your Sally. So, my darling Harry, are you going to keep dating around? Or will you look this way to find me? When you tell me about your dates, you make my heart stop and my mind race.