Why is it that all of these things happen simultaneously: the baby gets tired and throws a fit, the older brother and sister start hitting and kicking each other, and suddenly I have to run to the bathroom like NEVER before?
“You don’t ever have to feel guilty about sharing your feelings. It isn’t desperate or pathetic or weak. It’s self-care and there is nothing shameful about taking care of yourself by unloading some of the pain you carry. Your feelings are important and they matter — you matter — and if you’re hurting, you’re allowed to reach out. You’re allowed to be honest and use your voice. You’re allowed to take up space and talk about what you’re feeling. You deserve to make self-care a priority. Always.”—Daniell Koepke (via internal-acceptance-movement)
I had a dream where every person, at exactly midnight on new years following their 22nd birthday, they possessed the body of their soulmate and people ran around trying to figure out who they were so that they could find eachother, and they left notes for the body’s owner to find with their address. And there were some language gaps so people had to translate it and travel to different countries carrying the notes they were left, and it was great
I was awake last night for most of the night. I lay in bed tapping my foot and counting to 1,032- a kind of count-sheep substitute. Fortunately, it helped me to think of other things. Only then did I finally get some rest. Good thing I don’t feel like I got small amounts of intermittent sleep.
I was not sure how many days had passed. I’d been alternating between checking the phone, the window and the computer every few minutes. I’d found myself in a restlessness that no action, completed in the absence of others, could calm. So, I resorted to mindlessly running through the contact list on my cell to see who I could call to take my mind off of the silence; who I could imagine having a conversation with that might offer some solution. I’d deleted his name from the list so I wouldn’t have to battle with myself about calling him. He was the only one I wanted to talk to and the only one I knew I shouldn’t talk to, or even think about.
The last time I saw him was at his mother’s house.
He’d come in a rush, distracted.
He saw me, though, and I could see the frustration (and possibly irritation) in his face/body language. He wanted to be done with me, but I kept coming back. The temptation was too much for either of us. Only he had his head on straighter somehow. He was ready to exert some self-control. An addict wanting to kick the habit, but somehow the bottle or needle or whatever sprouted legs and found him no matter how many times he threw it away. He still wanted me desperately. And I him. He was struck for several moments after entering the front door. I’m sure he was wondering why I was there now. We had not spoken for a little while. Then it made sense…
His girlfriend came inside and ran directly upstairs. Coward I thought. What? She can’t face me? She was taking away the first man I’d ever loved. My everything at the time. The first I’d ever given myself to in every way I thought a person in love would or could. And I hated her. I would have been cordial had she scratched the bottom of her hollow figure for some shred of courage. When I looked at her - the first time I saw her (months before) with him - she was intimidated. I was pleased by this, amused by it really. I drank from her visible distress and I thought I could gobble her up. Devour my enemy, the very thought of her. He would never consider her again after that first day.
But I was wrong. He ended up marrying her less than a year from our first introduction. He’d changed or feigned a difference (and would pay for it dearly for the rest of his life: being married to a woman he cared nothing for; at least, I’d hoped this was the case). I suppose I was too caught up in him to realize that something was changing in me too. Something neither he, his mother, nor I could salvage. More than anything, I was attached to the sadness, the mania I’d experienced when with him.
His mother called upstairs to the new girlfriend to ask if she was coming down. “Sure, I’ll be down in a bit” the girlfriend replied. His mother had a feeling the coward was hiding. I could see it on her face. She looked at me for several moments. To read me? To see if I was cracking. Then returned to preparing the evening meal. I’d been in the picture long enough to know what his mother was up to by asking. She was rooting for me too. I suppose the new girlfriend stayed distracted, checking something on the computer. She never came downstairs. Not even to say hello to his mother.
Nevertheless, I was on my way out of the picture. We all knew it. Maybe even the girl upstairs. Nevertheless, I was there in the kitchen.
Of course, I was dying to see him though it was over. I knew it was over, but I wanted to drag it out for as long as I could. Hitch our love, our passion - anything left of what we once shared - to the back of my recklessness and drag it across my world - leaving a blood trail as far as I could see or remember. It would leave a mark. And that’s what I wanted. Some sign it was all true. Real once. Some sign I was still alive. Even if I had to obliterate it. It was something I could feel.
I have decided to share some of my old writings with you all. All stories or journal entries that were started for one reason or another and were never finished. Perhaps one day I will come around to it, but for now, this incomplete part of me is all I can spare. If you enjoy, great. If it was a waste of your time, my apologies.