Saturday, January 14, 2017

Joke's on you! It never gets better!

Sometimes I miss being sick. On a related note, I would hide my pills and paracetamol to delay the relief from a fever until I absolutely couldn't take it anymore. Being sick was better than just being, and I seem to be doing a lot of the latter lately. But yes, and this I will whisper so no one can hear or judge or notice, I do sometimes miss my old buddy, mental instability.

Maybe it's just a sign of growing older. Or rather, despising growing older. Maybe I just miss saying my age and ending with that cheerful syllable, teen. Now it's all numbers, a counting up to, or down to, the time when I'm no longer young. When the real learning to walk starts, not that (excuse me for how stupid this next part sounds) child's play of toddlers, but actually learning to stand on my own two feet because my face and body and skin, all once filled with glorious collagen and blasting elasticity to make a rubber tree weep in jealousy, they will all be gone. Someday. And someday feels sooner everyday.

But my! When I was a teen, was I a kook! Maybe that's why I miss my debilitating mental disorder and it's frequent visits and former residency. Doesn't make sense otherwise. Because aside from being unable to do anything fun legally, the greatest symptom of my childhood was a mental volatility that could've earned medals (if there were awards for crazy, which there aren't because would that be insane!).

Things have gotten all mixed up, shaken, stirred and wobbled about in my head and I think what I mean is I hate growing older. But my age and my breakdowns have melted together so I can't help missing all those days of misery as well as my skin's lost collagen. One and the same. Same pot, all mixed up already and ready to serve to your dinner guests. That isn't normal, is it? What even is normal, and how the fuck did I somehow end up there?

Downwards is still a direction. And falling down a rabbithole still leads you from point a to b, where b is not bills and adulthood and responsibilities and working and being a competent and functioning member of society. I'm feeling more and more like I'd rather be rolling to the bottom to my sweet spot low point, than marching forward to a steady, stable life where my mood sits still instead of having field days. Because where is the fun in that?

Thursday, January 12, 2017

for when things are too good, the things you were almost kind of okay at leave your skillset

Most of my life has been spent wishing for better days, but as the sun rises and sets, or so it seems to from our gravity-anchored perspective on this little blue planet, I'm finding that these days are pleasant enough to live in the Right Now.

Scratch that, white out and erase that. These days aren't pleasant. They're a dream. If this is what happiness is like, why on earth did I spend so many nights buzzed and about, holding insomnia's hand like I needed help crossing the street? Oh yes, because I'm an idiot. Still am, but now I'm an idiot who's fallen into a pile of luck stacked so high a leprechaun would shit its pants.

My god! Why is it so hard to write about happy things? Give me a breather from my mind, a good bad breakup, and a series of unfortunate events then just sit back, watch how I could light up the sky with words, words, words, pages and pages of misery and verbal vomit. Or speach diarrhea. Never shutting up or stopping the flow of puke and shitty ideas. Endless jibber jabber of how my mind is rattling around and my mood swings lower that the crotch on MC Hammer pants (because oh of course, those are the most important topics, lend me your damn ears). But no, not now. No happy fun time ranting and raving and reviewing. I'm left speechless and dumb with joy at the thought of this person who thinks of me too (I think he does, he says he does, exercises in trust breathe in breathe out). Should I live in the now, or complain instead? Hard choice, considering right now I'm trying so damn hard to write anything worthwhile. But who needs art and creative outlets when instead I could turn my faucets on full blast and spill onto his skin, drip drip drip down to the floor and puddle at his feet. I've never felt less of an urge to be creative and I'm not worried at all. But here I am, still typing it out. For that, my friends, I can't offer any explanation.

Don't you hate that narcissistic feeling you get when you read through what you've written and you realize your sentences and paragraphs all start with 'I', 'I', 'I'? For someone with such low self esteem, there seems to be much too much wind blowing through my own sails. But it doesn't just stop with punctuation, the thoughts continue on to bleed into every aspect of who and what my life is. Say, with this here, this happiness I've somehow found myself in possession of. I trust the world and Mother Earth and the deep rumble in your voice when you say you love me one last time before the night's scheduled unconsciousness whisks you away to DreamLand, but I don't trust my own hands to hold a glass without shaking. Tell me then: how can I trust them to hold this all together? I'm watching myself from my own peripheral vision, whispering over and over, don't fuck this up. Don't. Not this time. Don't fuck this up for me, me.

"I may be a fuck up, but I'll be damned if I fuck this up" is the daily chant, recited in front of the mirror. Though maybe this chanting isnt the best idea. It doesn't sound particularly encouraging, nor anything like a victory lap around and around my past, haha, I've found a good one and I swear I'll make it work. That sort of thing, not that sort of thing. The ritual might actually summon my fuck-uppery. Backfire on me, and I don't think there would be any points for trying then.

Ever feel like you're flying too high and just realizing it drags your ankles to the ground? The fuller I feel, the more worried I am that these thoughts will turn to lead and drag me back to the bottom of the ocean. Wouldn't that be a chore for my eyes, already poor from genetics, to adjust from the sunny bright atmosphere of the Big Bright Up Above back to the bathypelagic zone? I don't think they'd be able to do it, if they're as lazy as the rest of my body. And the worry of that threat, and the worry of me ruining things... well wouldn't you know it? My feet are stuck in the mud! That was fast.

Things are going too well. They have to be. Things this good/great/golden can't just be! What if this headfirst fall into bliss ends? What if we're just racing to the end of my personality and when we cross the ribbon he realizes there's nothing else? Just stares into the big wide open empty spaces within me and hears himself echo off my ribcage? Then what? I am tensing all my muscles in the vain hope that something this good can be sustained, cursing my inability to be anyone else or better than simply me, and thanking my lucky stars that I am carrying a baton with such a lovely human being. He truly is. A human being, flaws and pores and all, and lovely.

There are many things I want to say about this, him, but I'm not sure of the exact spelling for this stupid smile on my face.

I'll continue on more when I'm more miserable, or find something better to say or find a better way to say what I want to. I'm not used to articulating positive feelings, so excuse the dip in my already low standards of output. Say what you will about anxiety, at least it gave me something to write about! Or at least, the almost ability to. I think the problem is that I now have someone to blow wind into my sails when I am in need of a breeze, a task I used to have to do myself. With all this rest for my lungs now and the lack of hyperventilating, I've stumbled upon the horrible realization that my mind isn't all it's cracked up to be. I mean, I always knew it was cracked, but now I know that without oxygen deprivation, it's really not all that special (with the last few paragraphs/wastes of time as your examples!) And so, here. Take this shitty post and leave me to bask in my happiness for as long as I can.

Tuesday, January 10, 2017

Reviving the art of smiling

It seems the only time I find this space to be of any use to me is when I run out of real estate in my cramped skull. Oh, I'm sure there's more than enough space in there, but with all the clutter, the corridors I refuse to go down and so just board up, the blood clots that at this point it would be silly for me not to have, I mean, really, I barely have enough room to open the door much less put down all this anxiety! It's been months since I've seen the floor.

Either I'm sad, or in love, or heartbroken, or writing poorly. There is no in between. For here, at least. Because the in betweens don't inspire anything, the in betweens are forgotten. 365 days in a year and it would be silly to pretend they're all worth remembering. Even the good ones (or maybe especially the good ones). It fades from now to a while ago and now we're here, which was then, and it's exhausting keeping track. Imagine having to live without forgetting. I couldn't live like that, not that I'm living that well now and forgetting is my favorite hobby!

So where am I now? What's the point of this all? Sad, or manic, or happy, or in love, or heartbroken? Either way, the writing sucks, the punctuation is wrong, and there will be typos sprinkled like salt all over this because you know I don't bother to spell check.

I am in love.

Oh, boy, does that sound silly. Who am I announcing this to, and for what purpose? Maybe for myself, as a reminder, a note, a piece of proof to go back to for when (and if, and I hope not) this goes to shit. A testament to the State of Me Right Now. Because the days are good, too good, and I don't want to forget them, not this time damnit. I've lost enough of my own timeline. Maybe that's why I'm 21 but act like a child. I simply don't remember growing up but now I have to deal with the fear of premature wrinkles! If there's no space in my mind for the memories of these moments, I'll jot them down and keep them in the cloud. I'd rather get runs in all my stockings and tights or even run 10 miles, than run the risk of forgetting how happy I am at this moment.

Plot twist! Yes, happy! I am happy. I am a cup filled with foam and badly balanced on a tray and I am sloshing over the sides, just spilling over. My heart and my head are so full, but thankfully I keep my stomach out of that state often enough that my modeling career is going quite swell (more swollen than my own breasts, but don't get excited it's more like a shy B-cup of success).

For a long time, writing things down, how ever badly and error ridden, was a way to process the funny processes my mind goes through. But now there is someone who understands and I don't have to whine online and work through things all on my lonesome. Not that he takes the plow from my hands and does the tilling, rather it's just existing in that (this? my?) lonely world with me that's all I need. I'd say I'm not making sense, but when have I ever and also I'm giddy with happiness and love so buzz off. Partners aren't therapists, but goddamn does it feel good to kiss someone who understands the strange ticking and loopy, wonky thoughts that are part of me. And I try, boy, do I try, lips to mind telepathy to communicate what my clumsy tongue cannot. I love you, feel it, I love you, feel it.

And the idiot still likes me, despite having had several conversations with me. Despite seeing the skeletons in my closet and the spiderwebs behind my eyelids and the scars that form constellations on my wrists, he still looks at me and l-o-v-e pours out from his lips. The words are in the air and he can't take them back now (well, he could, but let's hope he won't).

Maybe I'm writing now, only to get back into the habit. Maybe to give myself some proof, some solid thing to hold to remember that this little blink in time here is happening, has happened. Maybe I just want to brag and say I have a wonderful boyfriend and I am in love. Either way, it's all typed out already and I might as well hit publish.