I got stuck in Schrodinger’s relationship.
If I don’t see him, it can’t be over.
That is some seriously bad math.
Now I exist in the limbo that comes from unsolved equations.
Where is Good Will Hunting when I need him. Matt?
Neither Brad Pitt nor I really want to know what’s in the box.
Heart is hiding in her blanket fort, bearing her teeth every time she gets interrupted.
Logic dictates I grieve.
There are 5 stages of grief.
I always forget depression.
Fuck, I forgot I was depressed, but I was, when this whole mess began. I had pneumonia too, I was a little distracted, dying and all.
Although hauntingly familiar, this was different somehow. I was divided into Dark and Light. Light me was rather rational, kept saying things like ‘this won’t last, we can do this’ (pompom shake), Dark me was kinda doomed, in her gloom. Spent 21 days in the Bell Jar, with all the boogers and crying jags, body aches amplified with the sickness. I think I slept through 5 of those days.
I spent 7 years fighting, or my whole life depending on how you look at it. I no longer anger quickly or at all. I never learned how to punch a wall without busting a knuckle, I have man hands now. A few temper tantrums here and there, mostly in the privacy of my own home, a few online. I just really don’t get mad anymore, and No that is not a challenge.
The denial part of the program just became truth. I can’t lie out loud, but in here…I am still the reigning Queen of Lies.
So I bargain.
I entertained these thoughts, and for the first time I saw them for what they were, entertaining.
“What did I do wrong?”
What parts of me can I let go of to make room for him?
The answer before? All.
The heels and pole were usually the first to go.
This interesting dance I used to do. Like a waltz, but this time I was leading.
1, 2, 3 No.
The companion of ‘what did I did wrong’, is ‘how do I fix it’?
I KNOW I can only change myself and 1, 2, 3 No.
I lost some weight.
It will come back or it won’t.
Not going to try to control it.
I will forever smell like cigarettes and coffee or cigarettes and whiskey depending on where the sun is.
Can’t have babies.
Can’t help it.
I dress myself like Strawberry Shortcake meets Star from the Lost Boys.
Rings on my fingers and bells on my toes.
Already ditched 75% of my wardrobe the day I realized clothes are not happiness, and by saving my favorites for the perfect time, I never wore them.
Perfection occurs on ordinary days when you aren’t expecting it.
Wow, look at me avoiding the big one.
We need to add a sixth stage. PANIC.
Who the fuck is going to date me with my heart, guts and secrets splattered all over the internet?
Who the fuck is going to love me when they see the things I did?
I have no fucking idea.
I can’t stop this, until I run out of things to say.
It’s going to be a while.
Writing is the only thing I have ever wanted to do and I have 20+ years of doing things wrong I want to get out, see if I can’t bring some comfort and joy, have my life mean something.
This blog will dry up eventually, I know this, or morph into something else, and I will sit down and write a romance novel, or take back vampires from the sparkle people.
I could negotiate a Denis Leary compromise and not talk about the person I am with. Worked for him and his wife. They are still married and he is a bigger asshole than I.
I am not mourning old me. I am dancing on her grave in a red dress, smoking a cigarette and swigging whiskey from the bottle.
I am no longer negotiable.
Liberating and terrifying.