Caution- This post is a freewrite that I will not be going back and editing for content, grammar or style. It is a stream of consciousness rant that only a shitty complicated human being could produce, flaws and all.
I don’t care if you like it or approve.
This is one of those mornings where I have woken up small, pathetic and broken. Tears are streaming down my cheeks freely as I type this and I will allow it because my eyes do need a good wash from time to time. I’m perpetually sad, I always will be at the core of my being and I have to say, I generally do a pretty good job of coping, or avoiding, or channeling all my moody melancholy into some community service of some kind. I’m supposed to be too old for this shit. It’s a perhaps if I do good I am good sort of thing. But moments like this one, when the inevitable undeniable truth kicks me in the face and I can’t keep hiding the darkness all around me and I’m aching to share the pain with someone, I let the emotions flow out of my eyes and instead of doing what I would have done about this just a few short moons ago, I say my prayers to my keyboard, I post about my humanness to avoid reaching out to other humans, unfortunately, who I know deep down don’t care, have bigger problems, and can’t see the abyss I can feel anyway. I’m clearly not too old for this shit.
The only person I know in real life that knows what this feels like, is someone I’m not allowed to talk to because when I speak to him, the therapeutic nature of release gets morphed into a sick version of loving and neither of us are genuinely capable of keeping that going with another person, without manipulation, and even if we could, we can’t be vulnerable for long, and both of us have surrounded ourselves with people who see what they want to see in us, and although its not all of our nature, it keeps the kind parts of us tethered to the “real” world.
This is all in my head.
Its all in my mind,
The emotions coursing through my body, stem from my brain. My fucked up little brain. Its been hurt so terribly, so early on that now it doesn’t know if it craves hurting or being hurt. Hurt is the baseline. Sadness is the melody. I can’t get a new brain and even if I could, I wouldn’t. I couldn’t imagine living with boundless hope and ignoring feces and death. I welcome death all the time but she never comes. I tried so desperately to tempt her into my arms when I was younger and she never fell for my charms. So I sit here, comfy as one could be if they were from nowhere and related to nobody, with no real money or anything the masses consider valued. If I go stand in a crowded place ten people I never met will tell me their life stories without me asking. Another five will ask me for directions or help, even if I clearly don’t work there and am not smiling or holding a map. The only times I have ever been approached or asked to dance or engaged in any flirting is if my cleavage, which I can’t do anything about, is on full display. I’m not complaining, I’m just saying, how do you stop being a bloody romantic? Why am I not too old for this shit yet?
How do you stop throwing temper tantrums if you have never been loved?
How do you stay vulnerable and willing and open in front of people driving corvettes, belittling their spouses, cheering on organized athletics, memorizing musician sales chart stats, never voting in elections and sitting comfortably in church pews with kiddie porn on their phones?
I hate mostly everybody and they can’t tell. They ask me how to get out of the car park in Ikea anyway. They tell me about how inexpensive houses are in my home state because they have friends who moved out there and they wonder if I know them.
I feel like screaming but I’m not sure what good it will do. Like all feelings, I know this will pass, it won’t last long nothing does. Knowing this, you’d think I’d happily go back to being drunk off my ass for days on end, or on dating apps, curled up at night with someone who is just shell of a person wrapped around Pokemon cards and ChatGPT but I don’t feel good afterward so I’ve left all that alone. I was too old for this when I went to bed last night, I swear.
I want my favorite person of course. My teddy bear person. My filthy little disobedient bitch to sit at my feet and listen patiently to me whine about nothing. None of it matters. None of us do. No one has. No one will. The earth will clear us off the board eventually. Millions of little self righteous self absorbed shit kicking flickers. The tribe I hail from. I’m going to work today, like one of the normal wage slaves. I’ll obey traffic laws and not purposely veer my vehicle off the side of the overpass. I’ll cry all morning with my gold face masks on, typing up the shittiest blog post ever, just to prevent myself from pulling up the monster’s number in my phone and sending all this nonsense to him, knowing he probably wishes he could tell me to fuck off but he can’t because I’m crazy and will probably ruin his little domestic bliss play he’s staring in right now for funsies. He thinks I would, I really never would, but I do like very much that he’s afraid I might, or at least, pretends to be afraid out of deep respect. Regardless, I can’t talk to him. I can’t talk to anyone I’ve ever known in that way, again. I can’t carry any people from the first 4 decades of my life who haven’t consistently been kind to me forward into the 5th one, and although I can’t share all this with the two friends I did carry forward, they keep me connected to earth and others so why burden them with more than having to know me at all? I want to be different sometimes. To be dull and dead eyed and a Cardi B or Taylor Swift fan, just a zombie shell human chasing celebrity stories and listening to true crime podcasts wearing Mickey Mouse ears. Don’t get me wrong walking around with my Darth Vader tee-shirts and reading my comics and planning a Doctor Who Christmas for my 25 year old isn’t much better but at least I know its corny and am therefore in on my own joke. Too fucking old for it, all of it, I promise.
Its the vacillating because deep down I don’t really believe I deserve anything and I just don’t know how to make it stick. DBT is great, its gotten me this far, meditation is awesome and helps me work, weed come on, without that I promise you I would not be sitting here whining today, and maybe, just maybe, all the dumb ass humans who exist feel this weight on some level, they just don’t belly ache the same way I do, I suppose. Little Stoic Flickers I guess. I don’t care. I just want a hug. It tends to be the only medicine that I can’t get insurance to have delivered. And its not the same when its forced, or its from a stranger. Be still my stupid Montague heart. I have to solidify.
I want to melt into someone else, be someone different but everyone else is fucking lamer than me which is part of the reason I’m crying. All my idols are dead. All my heroes are gone. Whoever is left is just as evil, simple, empty and devious as I am so how the fuck can they help? Nothing to be helped, really. I’ll be dead soon and no more need of a good cry before the sun rises. No more need of an affirming hug from another flesh covered skeleton nearing atrophy too. Maybe I am not too old for this shit what the fuck do I even know?
Thankfully I have a safe quiet place to bitch and moan about feelings. Thankfully there is cannabis in my possession and in about 14 minutes and a little Tai Chi practice I’ll be smiling like the rest of the automatons I’ll encounter today. Nothing resolved because nothing can be. Nothing is inside me but a big hole where there should have been love but there isn’t. Hey, I should have had 20/20 vision too but I don’t and yet, I have to keep going, blind, every day. I hope the monster died in the night quietly and I felt it in my soul or something so these random tears make sense. I’m intimidating, untouchable and the person complete strangers ask for directions from. I’m here and I’m still in an alley in Indiana staring at my mom’s broken jaw while she is laying on top of glass after her then husband trying to stomp her into the ground and she stayed with him after than for 18 more years. I haven’t spoken to her in over a decade now and I can’t think of any time she had ever hugged me when I wasn’t suicidal. It’ll be okay. What else is there to be? The tears will dry, I’ll forget this even happened until it happens again. I’ll do my job so I can afford to eat of course and since it is Thursday and my chat with my adult child day of the week, later on, I’ll get to speak to my offspring so he can tell me how his week has been- and he will carefully leave out anything to painful for me, let I go into a murderous rage and kill all of the people who have hurt him, and bless him for that, Then I’ll crawl into bed, unhugged but, I didn’t contact a man who I have idolized and has idolized me but we’re only cruelly using each other when we do, and that is progress. Acknowledging that other people who I seem to think are worse or better than I am, cry too. The goddess of fortune shakes her head, I know. I have more than anyone deserves and I seem ungrateful. I am not. I’m old enough. I’m just Victor’s Monster and I want him to make me a pretty boy to love, you bastard. Selah.
My Mind, My Mood, My delicately poisoned pen... 