Sunday morning: Wake up with a headache. Feed the cat. Make the bed. Order a bagel (again). Do all the dishes by hand. Twitch nervously at the keyboard. Get sad. (Always, it seems, I’m so fucking sorry.)
Put on the theme to Jurassic Park (again) and try to feel something good.
It is just now 10 am.
I know you already know this (mostly because I can’t ever stop fucking talking about it), but it feels important to me to check in again. To try to explain what it feels like. Not to make you feel sorry for me. I’m okay. I have a cat to feed and bagels to scarf down and John Williams to fill my ears, and I am really fine.
But all our “fines” are different, aren’t they? My therapist (I need to make an appointment, fuck) reminds me not everyone thinks the things I do. The things that are almost just a dull, everpresent roar in my brain, picking at me, screaming at me, urging me. I do not tune them out, I can’t, but it’s sort of like I can predict what they’re going to say? So, they can’t really get to me that way, you know?
That’s part of what this blog is, I think. It’s something like accountability. If I rush here to tell Someone all the scary things, all the sad things… I don’t know. It’s like picking at a zit, I guess. (Which I also need to stop doing.) It doesn’t feel good and I am oftentimes horrified by examining the results of what I have done, but it always feels like: THIS TIME I’m going to do it right. It’ll be a clean, satisfying, albeit disgusting pop, and then I will be rid of this grossness. An appropriate amount of blood will trickle down my chin and I will only need to wipe it away the once. I will leave no scars or bumps or pockmarks behind. There will be only smoothness in my wake.
(More John Williams on the playlist. “Hedwig’s Theme” this time. Forgive me, but I would do just about anything for a pumpkin juice in Diagon Alley right now.)
I’m really sad, but it feels like nothing is “wrong.” I fear often that I will always feel this way and that, perhaps, is the hardest thought to overcome. I can deal with the nails that claw down the back of my skull and snarl into my ear that I am a failure, a disappointment, that I am nothing, that I am worth nothing, that I deserve nothing. I have heard them all before. Like, you’re not even interesting, Bitchy Monster Voice.
But this voice of Forever? That voice still stops me cold in my tracks.
It’s 10:10 am.
My face is sticky and my hands are dry and I am hunching over like a goblin. My shoulders are up by my ears, my jaw is tense, and yeah, I know what to do, but maybe this is load-bearing anxiety? I’m sure I’ve swiped this metaphor from someone more clever, but I feel like a nervous Jenga tower. Poke at the wrong piece too carelessly and this whole thing comes toppling down.
(Man, fuck that last paragraph. Where was I even going with this?)
I pause for more iced coffee, which I basically allow myself the indulgence of every day now. It is confusing. To hate myself as I coddle myself. To look at myself in the mirror and, in the same breath, think, “Well, here we are again, you utter fucking disaster. Would a latte cheer you up, kiddo?”
Kiddo. I am not a kid anymore. I have a Peter Pan complex of which I’m not proud. I surround myself with sweets and stuffed penguins and excitement over dinosaurs, and I try to stave off the sharp edges of adulthood. Of being independent, of being self-sufficient.
If I don’t need you anymore, will you still be here, you know?
(I don’t know.)
I have this daydream lately, and I can’t tell you about all of it just yet. It’s kind of embarrassing, honestly. But it is a fantasy wherein I am brave. And I go on a long journey and I return home, I promise, smiling and full of happy stories, and you are proud of me. Everyone is PROUD of me.
I don’t want to go.
But sometimes staying hurts.
I don’t know, dear one.