Mama Susan is probably not going to like this. She’ll call me monkeygirl and tell me to buck up. I am trying mama, I am trying so hard.
She dislikes it when I think the sky is falling, it usually isn’t really.
Unless it’s in that good way where the clouds come down and fog wraps itself around me like angel wings and home and solitude.
I can’t stop crying.
I want to.
But right now, I don’t have a choice.
Tried to contain it. It is a beautiful sunny day in November. My car is working again. I am home, puppers is here. I am heading back to the ocean soon. I have been writing and writing and writing. But something is wrong.
Maybe if I could name it I could logic it out.
The closest I can get is I am homesick but I am home.
It’s no secret that I watched the Secret, probably 1000 times. Not exaggerating. I would put it on before bed and fall asleep that way. Like learning a new language subliminally. Eventually it worked.
I also believe in souls and chakras and energy and auras.
Something is fucky.
My alignment is off.
The Secret says to listen to your body when it’s in a state of discord, you are doing something wrong. But I don’t know what it is. I am not fighting but I can’t float.
“Tell me teacher what’s my lesson” (Gary Jules), fuck, please just tell me. I will learn it, write it 1000 times until my hands ache.
Anything but this godforsaken limbo.
Where am I supposed to be?
Am I supposed to fight for something? I gave up fighting years ago.
Maybe there is a balance I am missing. Somewhere between letting go and holding on.
I spent 7 years on and off married. Mostly crying. Out of the 7 years there, 5 years sad.
And fuck. I am back there again. No earthly reason for it.
I was on the porch, absorbing the sun, content in the warm and I just couldn’t contain the flood. I cried without trigger or thought. Panda told me to just be in the moment, just get it out, but it’s hours later and I still feel sad.
I’ve had a low grade depression since October 6th. I am not drowning in it, but I am walking through water. Except for the magical times I walked on it. Maybe that’s it, maybe I am having magic withdrawal.
I feel out of place out of time and like something is wrong.
This isn’t the time for it. I am not ovulating or bleeding. My hormones are as balanced as they ever are.
I keep thinking maybe if I masturbate I will feel better. But my bed is full of the clothes I dumped out of my suitcase against my will and something in me is refusing to put them away. And it feels like betrayal.
I need to make a list of the simplest tasks today, like plant the bulbs and hope that in 121 days things will make more sense. “I know where the cupboards are, I know where the car is parked, I know he isn’t you.” (Tori Amos) that reminds me, I have to pick up the car. Pay the bills. Take out my contacts, order new ones, these are full of salt and grit and they hurt. Everything hurts. I am tired even though I slept like the dead. This isn’t a sickness of the body, although my body is on board with my brain and the ache is somewhere in my soul.
Everything I am feels battered and bruised and I am lost as to how to fix it. Other than rest and write and hope. But I don’t even know what to hope for anymore.
I am enough of an empath to wonder if maybe all this angst isn’t mine, but I don’t have the energy to sort through. I helped a girl today and it was the best I’d felt in a bit. Same thing happened last month. Random message turned into bonding and soothing, and with it came some relief for me.
She asked me how I could be so calm. How could I let logic come through the rowdy tea party in my head full of wailing angst and feelings of abandonment and unworthiness.
I sound calm and I type these words and I mean them but inside my chest my heart is having a fucking 4 year old hopped up on mountain dew and pixie sticks tantrum.
Some of these men I have loved left indelible marks on me. I have a scar tissue paper heart.