i don’t always know what this is.

Some days it feels like this is all I remember how to do. To start crying from that place of aching emptiness, from the most pitiful pity parties every thrown on this green Earth.

I start crying and then I come here to tell you about it. I can’t stop telling you. I know I was supposed to. You have no idea how hard and how often I have tried to stop.

I can’t stop writing. Some days/nights/whatevers it feels almost like a penance I am doing for all the wrongs I have committed. If I can write something Truly Great, maybe everything will have been worth it and I will feel something like free.

I haven’t written It yet, so I have to keep going. Have to keep exposing my bruises and veins and guts, have to keep digging around within myself to find something of worth or meaning.

When I start crying, there is a tiny, quiet, gentle voice that suggests, “Dani! Read a book! Watch a movie! Make some cocoa! Do something to feel better!”

I have it on an ignored Post-It on my bathroom mirror: You are allowed to feel good. 

I cannot heed the tiny, quiet, gentle voice.  They are complacent and lazy and they will lead me astray. You’re supposed to listen to your heart, yeah, but all I can think about is where mine has gotten me so far.

(Like I said, PITY PARTY. I’m sorry there aren’t cupcakes.)

So, I come here and I write. Hitting the “Publish” button, whether this is any good or not, will be instant relief. When you hit “like” or “love” or fucking anything, I feel less alone. I will ponder this later and I will feel pathetic, but it’s just where I’m at right now. I know it’s supposed to be quality over quantity, but fuck.

Real eloquent right?

Fuck.

(My book deal, please?)

I kept a diary in middle school. I wrote in a red pen always and I began each entry with “Mae Govannen,” because I am a nerd eternally. Back then, it was enough to talk to myself, to consider what it would be like to keep a secret, to hold on to a piece of me just for me. I don’t know when that changed. I don’t know when I decided my currency was my secrets, my deep dark fears, my insecurities.

It feels vain sometimes and I hate myself for it, but I just can’t stop. The relief, the sense of something like accomplishment, something like connection… I am hungry for it always. I don’t know where else to go right now. My eyes bounce around the page of the book I’ve been trying to read for months, I get twitchy during movies seen or unseen, fuck, I’m too sad to re-visit my favorite fanfiction even.

I go on walks and I drink too much coffee and then I come here.

I listen to a lot of music to try to drown myself out. A lot of Elton John the last few months, especially.

Don’t wish it away
Don’t look at it like it’s forever
Between you and me, I could honestly say
That things can only get better

(Can I honestly say? I don’t fucking know. Sometimes I feel as if I am going backwards.)

I guess that IS why they call it the blues, Sir Elton, but you were able to make something so beautiful out of it.

And while I’m away
Dust out the demons inside
And it won’t be long before you and me run
To the place in our hearts where we hide

I think that’s why I’m here all the time. To try to make something sad into something beautiful. It feels like a mission, maybe even a holy quest. I am hiding a little in my heart right now. I am scared, I am ashamed. I want to be able to tell you everything so that none of it ever catches you off guard, I suppose.

Well, it’s Sunday and I am an eternal Sunday-optimist. Tomorrow I’ll start doing everything RIGHT. I’ll be super good and productive at my job, I’ll exercise enough, I’ll eat all the right things, I’ll be good.

“Make me happy and I shall again be virtuous.”

(Thanks, Shelley.)

You know what’s probably going to happen, Team? I’m probably going to sleep past my alarm and then walk to the coffee shop around the corner and then beat myself up for not writing anything amazing. And then maybe I’ll take a nap.

Fuck.

Shelley again:

“Life, although it may only be an accumulation of anguish, is dear to me, and I will defend it.”

It’s going to be okay, I think. I don’t know. Obviously, I’ll keep you posted. I seem to be incapable of stopping.

You’re doing so good.

It’s going to be okay.

See you back here tomorrow, probably.

 

 

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