The Handbook for Handling Me

October 3, 2017

This blog is a few things.

A giant coffin.

A diary (darling).

A time capsule.

A place to vent and be myself unedited, for better or worse.

And a handbook of sorts.

I said to Panda on the porch yesterday whilst sipping our morning coffee and discussing a friend “I wish she would just let me swoop in and fix her life, like really listen to what I had to say and follow my instructions. Life coach you know? I am so good at seeing other people’s shit and giving good advice. My life though? No clue.”

She agreed, completely and emphatically.

Then off I went to the job I hate and got drunk again.

What was that law? Remove the mote from thine own eye before tending to the eyes of others

My writing has been shitty and sporadic lately. I don’t seem to have time to sit down and write, and when I do, I don’t know what to say.

I have stumbled on this thing that all other page runners figured out years ago wherein if I schedule my posts half an hour apart (instead of my usual rapid fire blitz posting) more people will see them. Broke my own record a week back. 3000+ hits on ye olde blog. It’s just a number but it did boost my lil ego. Not gonna lie.

Also, I have been posting descriptive blurbs, which means, I myself, must read what I wrote.

Sometimes I am filled with pride. I can’t believe how well I articulated a particular train of thought, or even the wreckage when the trains derail or collide.

Sometimes it fucking hurts, again, not gonna lie.

I feel shame for getting so lost in my idea of someone that I couldn’t see the truth.

I am still learning.

I’ve seen how much love I have for the Giant, the post count keeps climbing as I uncover more references and pontifications.

I don’t know how to tell him I have to go.

I have written proof of my ridiculousness, which should prevent future me from being ridiculous, but it hasn’t yet.

I had a Sucky as Fuck day yesterday.

And I was afraid.

You see dear readers…I met someone.

I am not in the habit of creating hoops for the new ones to jump through, or handing out tasks like Hercules was given. But maybe I should.

I do so enjoy just being me. Perfection is an unattainable myth, I know this like I know the lines on my palms. I am not perfect, sometimes I am a mess for no reason or all of them.

The Lumberjack would not entertain me on those days, he would not stoop to soothe. On a good day he sent memes about blowies and buttstuff and I considered this balm for my wounds, but it wasn’t. It was all he could give. He wasn’t enough and he knew it. Took me a while to realize this.

The one after him never left me alone long enough for me to have a day. So I suppose that was a blessing, until it wasn’t.

The one between those two got a post on how he handled me, aptly entitled Sucky as Fuck.

He let me dig my fingers into him until I could feel he was real. Where the others would choose fight or flight, he stood still. I needed that. Something to tether myself to when the world started to shake and me along with it.

But he didn’t stay long.

I should thank him for the memory though. At least I know what is possible. Someone that would let me hold on. Who would stay and sway with me. Who would kiss that spot on my forehead acupuncturists call the ‘reset’ button.

I am not ready to talk about the new one yet. Except to say, that despite a geographical inconvenience that puts him 5 hours away, he said the exact right thing yesterday. “I am trying to figure out what is happening so I can help you.”

That was all the help I needed.

I fell asleep peacefully, feeling wanted and cared for, and woke up smiling, way before the sun.


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