#feefees

was feeling emotional last night, but also I took my giant vitamins two at a time ¯⁠\⁠_⁠(⁠⊙⁠_⁠ʖ⁠⊙⁠)⁠_⁠/⁠¯

- Dr. D. Wadd & A. Sidd

I don't know why I feel so compelled to do this. I'm not looking for pity or attention or anything else. I just need to get this out in the world and off my chest. Endings are and always have been strange and difficult things for me. I have always tried to hold on to things well past any point of reason just because even small things hold great sentimental value to me. In a lot of ways I suppose I’m just bad at letting go. “Maybe,” I say to myself constantly, “I will want to revisit this in the future. Maybe there is a way I can fix it. Make it worthwhile again.” Everything in my life, even relationships, is treated very much the same. Even when I know it’s not healthy. Even when I know it’s killing me on the inside. Recently I made the decision to end a three and a half year journey with someone that grew to be very important to me over the course of things and is still important to me even now. Even when she looks at me, tears streaming down her face, and tells me she’s glad that this is so easy for me. It feels like I’ve been stabbed in the chest. She doesn’t know the truth. She can’t know. I won’t let her. I don’t mean to be malicious or cruel or hurtful in this; in fact, my desire to avoid being any of those things is why it’s taken me so long to come to this decision. It will hurt her, I know, and terribly. So as she moves through our home built together so carefully, gathering her things, I follow in her wake feeling cold and numb and empty. It’s not that I don’t love her. I do. I still feel strongly for this person that has been with me on this journey for all of its ups and downs. We’ve seen and endured a great deal together, through all kinds of highs and lows. I have wondered often lately if I am making the right decision, if I am doing the right thing, if I am making some kind of terrible irreversible mistake. I take time. I deliberate. I come back to the same conclusion. This is right. This is necessary. We have gone as far as we can go together and holding on to this any longer would ruin us both. So she stands, arms down by her sides, silently pleading for another chance. I stand in the hall, arms across my chest, expression impassive. How can this be so easy? She says, hurt more than angry. I say nothing. At long last, she has gathered her things and makes for the door. I open it for her as I have done so many times in the past. She steps through the threshold. She turns toward me, tears still on her face. She tells me she still loves me. I tell her I know. I watch her descend the steps we’ve practically worn a rut in over the last three and a half years and push the door closed as she starts her car. Like death washed over, I aimlessly wander over to the couch set against the sliding glass door and sit in the waning rays of daylight as the sun begins to dip toward the horizon. I sit, mouth dry and heart heavy, and deliberate on trying to work this knife out of my chest. It isn’t her fault. She doesn’t know. She can’t know. I won’t let her know. I never have. My whole life has been built on being the pillar of strength everyone around me can lean on. I have always endured, a smile on my face, a joke in my voice, a laugh in my chest, as a way of showing everyone else around me that it’s okay. It’ll be okay. I’m okay, I say to them through action, and you will be too. When my grandmother passed away, I didn’t cry. When my grandfather passed away, I didn’t cry. When my uncle passed away, I didn’t cry. When my girlfriend passed through that door, I didn’t cry. Not in front of her. When is gone, when I am alone accompanied by little more than the drone of a neighbor’s television and the setting sun, I finally break. I cry for the first time in a decade. Even then it doesn’t last more than a few seconds. I wonder, then, why I am the way I am. Never has my family told me that men don’t cry, that I should just bottle everything up and quash it down. That I should be this self-proclaimed martyr of emotions. I am shut-off. Closed. I have difficulty expressing myself to others, whether out of fear or stubbornness or just plain inability I do not know. I wonder then and still wonder what is wrong with me. Why can’t I just be open with people? Honest? Why do I always have to try and stay so stoic and upbeat? Am I broken? Is this normal? I don’t feel like it is. I don’t know. Neither does she. She can’t. She never will.

The viral marketing for Suicide Squad is getting out of hand

Is a Godamned enigma to me

i wish that shit didn’t matter.