I can't stop crying. I can't stop crying. I can't stop crying.
Thursday, October 27, 2016
The waking world has its many horrors. There's aging, the anxiety of whether or not you're using your time right, the literally infinite number of things that could go wrong at any moment with every choose or action you or anyone else makes. Just spitballing here. The biggest nightmare is being woke, literally and socio-politically (but that my friends is another topic altogether).
So its no surprise that I unironically list sleeping as one of my favorite activities. I sleep so hard I actively sleep. It requires commitment. Dedication. A free schedule. Or at least a general disregard for whatever may be scheduled. Snoozing calculating has to be the most use I get out of my math schooling. Also, makesas a consequence, it makes me race against time so much I might as well put avid jogger on my Instagram bio.
But this lifestyle doesn't come easy or without a hefty price. Anything before 10am is an activity ill never enjoy, part of a world I want no part in but can't help but feel a little bit of go no over when friends post brunch pictures. I was supposed to go to that, but then again I did get an extra 3 hours of zzz's so...regrets? Call back later I haven't decided yet. Besides that, once I do actually get out of bed, its a constant exercise of will. Anywhere I am, whatever I am doing, there is a link between me and my bed and it pulls me towards it. Think gravity, but with pillows. And laziness-inducing. So really, its not my fault I'm yawning and not paying attention; there is a real force of physics dragging me back to my apartment and my eyelids shut. It's science. Trust me.
Now, god forbid I get less than double digits of sleep time. I know, I know. 7-8 hours right? Well why settle for the standard? Oh, because 'over sleeping is as bad as undersleeping'? I tell myself the same thing as I wake up from a 12 hour shut eye marathon. I tell myself, but I never believe myself. I've been trying to convince myself for years, with no success. Undersleeping is infinitely, infinitely worse.
And waking up to an alarm? Ugh. Good days are when I join the world when I damn want to.
In a conversation with a friend, he told me he needed a nap. He'd been up since 6 am. Gasp, shudder, and chills!
It was only 3 in the afternoon. He'd only been up for 9 hours. Granted, he didn't get the most sleep the night before. But who ever does? The limit cannot be reavhed, I think, is a good philosophy to adopt for sleep. But still, my friend was exhausted. He was in full nap time mode. No more can be done, until he takes a 20-90 minute break from consciousness.
Remember in high school and grade school? Where we woke up everyday at 5:30 and stayed awake and productive and learning all day? Often with just as little sleep (tumblr would often keep me up until witching hour and then if have to wait for that to be over cause I was too scared to turn off the lights). Every day! With no naps! How? Or am I so old already? I've accepted I'm a 21 year old who's hit social meopause, but has my actual body lost the very real physical ability to be awake for more than 5 hours at a time? Signs of aging!
I'm nappy af. Meaning, I take a lot of naps. I love naps. I wish I could be napping right now. I had a casting today and its over and all I can think about is rewarding myself with some shuteye. I got 8 hours last night. And yet, here I am. Thinking about whether the staff in this coffee shop will judge me for taking a quick snooze. Or if anyone will rob me. It ain't safe being a sleepy girl in a cutthroat theft filled world. It ain't safe anywhere but when you're tucked in at home.
Thursday, September 22, 2016
I've never been very good at keeping friends. Sure, if the strange lines and threads that pass between my life and yours so happen to intersect, we'll be fine, we'll do fine, it'll be fine and fun and dandy. But once those urgent reasons for us to know each other dissipate, so as well will our presence in each other's lives. Because I'm not good at keeping friends. That's the first sentence you read here and I don't know why I tried to elaborate on the point because it isn't even the main focal point of what I'm writing right now. Tangents and word wastage. So yes. I am not good at keeping friends.
Which is perhaps the reason why my brain and I don't get along very well. The gravity around me, the things that keep your family and friends and job and dreams and life in place, well mine is loose or weak or wonky or wack and I can't hold anything to me, much less get a firm grip on something so slippery as my sanity.
I feel like I've used a bunch of these sentences before. Rehashing, wrist slashing. It's a party!
Right, so, well, apparently the strength of my spinal cord and nerves is not enough to firmly anchor my head in place. Not that it's rolling on the floor, but it's definitely floating away. It's riding some sinking ship, sinking perhaps because it has an anchor much better at its job than my own, down down down under all the way into the far away and what I thought far buried land of depression again. And it's taking me with it, however I kick and scream and drag behind.
My brain and I used to be friends. I don't know when, my memory is kind of shot on this but I think I have pictures to prove it. In my baby albums, or maybe an ultrasound. We used to get along. Ideas would come and my fingers would create nice little diaries or knit things to give to my little brother or accomplish things that I could tell my parents about and everything would be good. But these sepia tinted memories are just that, long forgotten like my old myspace page. And as far back as needed to look to call this the norm, my brain and I, my moods and I, my mind and I, we have not been on the same page. Heck, we're not even reading the same book. We're in different libraries.
So now when my mind has an idea I let it sit because there is no messenger going from up there to down here and I don't get anything out of it but more disappointment in my own lack of action. Which leads to the action of more inaction and the misadventure of anxiety. Oh the places anxiety takes you. Ive only been out of the country once but I feel like I've lived 5 lifetimes full of worry.
My body is fine and my life is fine and my world is fine but for some reason my brain didn't get the memo so now I am crying and wishing I was dying and making morbid little rhyming schemes to deflect from the fact that for the first time in years things are dark again and I've actually gone all the way to square one. Like a game of snakes and ladders and you step on that one damn reptile placed on the square right before you win and slide all the way down to the beginning. And I was about to win I was about to be a depression survivor and not I'm just depressed again. I should add it to my calling card. If I could ever fight the anxiety enough to be able to answer my phone when people call.
I don't know where I'm going with this, except maybe to try to say that the monsters are back. In many more words though.
Saturday, August 27, 2016
It's a strange concept, love. And I'm calling it a concept because it feels even stranger to accept it as a thing. It's not tangible, though my aching fingertips would argue otherwise. It's not quantifiable, though the stories we have seem to measure it in some way. Is it a collection of memories, or is it a separate entitity to experience? Where do we find it? If we were to take the human life and dissect it like an orange, would it be found? Can we take the scalpel and point to it, teach the students, here we observe love.
It's stranger still the things it makes you do. I feel like a dog, running in circles, jumping in hoops, all for a treat. A kiss. Affection. Or maybe I feel like the typhoons that so plague this little country of mine. Because what's the point of all this rain? All it does is leak in through my ceiling and make the air moist.
I don't know where I'm going with this. But my father told me I should start writing again, even after failing to finish all my measly attempts at novels and failing to dedicate myself to my even more pathetic attempts at blogging. So I'm going on, without knowing where I'm going. Maybe that's love. Unsure what the next sentence will be, but labor ing over each character anyway, pixels on pixels making some sort of words to eventually make a sentence to let out these ideas in my head. Maybe love is building things from pieces so small that unless you view them macroscopically it's all just jumbled scribbles.
The tightening of my chest could be due to the fact that I'm losing weight because everything tastes like cardboard. Or maybe it's a reaction to the lack of air in the room. Since you left the gravity around me has loosened again and now I'm losing things I didn't even know I could lose. Like colors and oxygen. I didn't think these things were mine enough to end up not being. But apparently they are. You learn something new everyday.
Your pictures are still up on the wall. I never took them down because the burning my palms would feel as I lift them off their hooks would surely be worse than looking at them. I've even moved some frames closer to my bedside so I can see them clearly as I close my eyes, even with my terrible vision.
Perhaps loss would be easier to talk about. So let's try. What I know is losing you the first, oh, half dozen times? Has driven me to the ends of what I thought pain could be felt. I've been through mental facilities and rehab clinics and more emergency rooms for wrist stitches than I can count without my head getting dizzy from self pity, and yet the worst I've ever felt was you leaving. Talk about a lack of air! I've tried to kill myself more than half a dozen times and yet that was the only time I ever felt like I was dying. Because I found out I don't just need food aid sunlight water and shelter to survive, I also need you. And your leaving punched a hole in me so wide that those goddamn dogs could use it as one of their hoops. I've bled out through almost every major vein and artery reasonable reachable using a surgical blade, and yet I never experience losing as much life force as I did with your departure. Hence, the things that transpired after you left that I won't write down here.
I got my cat Salty because I had rabbits that all died. And I was sad. So my father said the best way to mourn is to pour your love into something new, otherwise it'll spoil like milk left in the sun. So I got a cat. When my cat Salty died, I got my dog. When you left, I tried the same replacement method to stop the bleeding but it didn't work so well this time. Apparently, human relationships don't work the same way as pet ones do. Because nothing could fill the hole. Nothing could plug it up. I was running out of blood and, heck, it was so wide my damn intestines were pouring out into the floor and it was all I could do to just try and scoop everything back into me. So I tried. Because I can't even describe this pain, and I've made myself an expert on writing about depressed shit.
Basically, I'm writing things down because my heart is broken. And my heart is broken because you're not here. And the absence is filling up with these goddamn scribbles we read, instead of being occupied by your much missed mass. Why is it I can't explain what stupid old love is but I can feel it, and especially its absence as felt through your absence, as if I know what I'm talking about? So now I'm writing things down to try and pick apart all the tangled threads of thoughts that are somehow masquerading as my brain. Whatever is in my skull definitely feels like gray matter.
Tuesday, June 28, 2016
I tried really hard to write down every day with you. I wish I'd tried harder. Then maybe I'd have more things to post mortem-ly dissect, more words to go over and wonder and pause and bookmark and suspect. Is this the day? Is this the moment? When exactly did you stop loving me? Could this be when the tectonic plates that made 'us' shifted enough for you to go from I will never leave you to I am at the airport. To yes, this is what is want. 'This' being us being over. This being nothing at all.
Honestly, I was happy. What a funny word, honestly. As if something as flimsy as human consciousness could ever produce an absolute truth. But I was happy, is what my flimsy mind is telling me. I was happy, so happy, when it started. It was like here, you are loved you deserve love. Look at this person who you made an impression on who is back now and look how excited he is to see you. Look at what you can do for him, look, you are good. You can be loved and love back. You have that ability, in your pouch of talents. The way you looked at me could shake the earth. The way it felt like a finally, a sigh of relief, of homecoming, the way you held me. It felt like that to me and I believed it felt like that for you as well. Holy high hells it was good. It was the pure excitement of wanting another person, me to you you to me is together. It felt, pardon my French, honest.
But I fucked up in a lot of ways. Big ways, small ways, in between sizes of mistakes. Somehow, somewhere, you didn't get out of the car to greet me anymore. I reached, you reacted but not so often anymore anything else. It felt lonely. I know why. I didn't help anything, especially with the big mistakes. Distance grew. Between us, when we were once skin to skin, lay all of these things that weren't us. Will she, will he, why won't she just. Why can't she just. Why isn't he. It all built up to put a wall, or a sea, or I don't know, some sort of barrier between us that stopped it from being what it once was. All of the expectations constantly being let down. All of the feelings so sensitive and raw, bristling at any touch. All of the things that weren't us. Because when it was just us, in your car, talking... It was as it was meant to be. Good. But even then, things -and bad things at that- , crept up and settled between us and they never left, I think. They just grew stronger. So strong the wall or the ocean or whatever dumb metaphor became almost physical. I could touch it as easily as hold your hand. It was there. That close. Real.
After having time to think, being stuck in my own head and locking myself in a room for three days now, this is probably for the best. Because the best wasn't us. We weren't that for each other. But how I wished and wanted and worked for us to be. I didn't give things up, not really. I just always felt that whatever it was I wanted, you were more. You were just more. More important, more valuable, more.
So many mistakes, but I always tried to fix them in the end. I'm a growing girl, so I didn't always get it right the first time. But I did eventually. Or tried to. And I'm proud of myself for that. Some shitty consolation prize for being alone now, I guess. We always tried to fix it. The understanding that we are different people, and the understanding I have now that we were fundamentally different people. We don't get the fantasies in our head of how things should go when we're with someone because we don't get to control someone else. How I think you should react is never more important than how you actually do. I tried to see what you thought and react how I could but I guess trying wasn't enough. From your end, I think you did the same. We both did, but it was just not enough everytime to stop the wall or the ocean from growing thicker and taller or deeper or vaster. And now it's so much we have a country between us. Me in my room, you in yours. We tried until you didn't anymore.
One day I will have a happiness just as real, so real I can touch it. One day I will have the safety from anxiety that assured love brings. One day I will have someone who can't stand the thought of not eating breakfast with me every morning. One day I will be looked at like I'm the only thing that matters. One day someone will be so excited to see me, everytime they see me, that they can't stand to have the steps between us take as long as they would for me to walk and they will cross the distance and meet me half way. One day I will have someone excited to hold me and feel excited everytime. One day I will have some one who says fuck it, I love you. One day. Not today.
Today I'm still not okay. Today I'm still in this room. Today I'm still trying to accept that that person won't be you.