Sometimes it’s hard to write.
To spill the words out.
Sometimes it’s too painful.
Too complicated a feeling to unravel.
Sometimes it’s hard to write.
Well, if anything I’d like to thank my manic depression for giving me the energy to clean my place tonight. Is it a deep clean? Absolutely not. But it’s neater than it was yesterday. A win is a win.
I did laundry. I ran the dish washer. I swept!
I’ve been pretty hard on myself the past couple days. And while I knew the worst anxiety would pass, as it usually does, it always feels lie a small miracle when the tide shifts. I actually gave myself more grace than I’m used to. I let more go and just flowed. Hmm. It’s almost like I’m breaking cycles.
On another note, my sleep schedule is fuckkkked. My sleep apnea is the worst. My CPAP is not CPAPping very well. And I’m frustrated. But someone is going to call me tomorrow to talk about it so maybe the problem has a simple quick easy solution *fingers crossed*
I will die on the hill that everyone deserves the best sleep always. Because damn it really fucks things up when it’s even the slightest bit off. Seriously. I spent years not knowing what good sleep was, and now that I do, I just get pissed every time I can’t sleep.
I boiled over today. Just a bit. Simmering over the edge into my deepest insecurities. The hard part of not disappointing yourself, is obviously, that you must disappoint others. And for the longest time, that, I could not abide.
I hate disappointing others. It has been an anchor of my identity for over 30 years. Don’t worry, it’s also why I’m in therapy.
So today it all came bubbling up. I fell apart, and kept falling apart, and kept falling. I realized, there is still shame in my brokenness. It’s not so much as before, but it’s still there. Which is why it has always been hard to ask for help. I’m supposed to be the helper. The healer. The fixer. The soother. So much so, that no one knows how to soothe me.
Today was different. I let myself cry for a bit. And then I sought connection. I demanded it. I asked for what I needed. And he showed up. It wasn’t perfect. But he showed up, and that’s a quiet magic. A moment of hope in the darkness of my mind. A glimmer of potential. I was brave and unapologetic. And I’m proud of myself for not shutting off, for not shoving down my feelings to serve another.
My therapist is gonna be so fucking proud of me.
It still fucking sucks. And I remind myself, it’s not the end of the world.
I am trying to listen to my body more. Listen better.
I have done a pretty shit job in the past. Taking it for granted for most of my life, until it started to groan and plead for rest. For love. For peace.
Today it said, don’t speak so much. Don’t strain to keep attention. It’s okay to lie in bed and just…not. It’s okay to just be. Without any of the preconceived expectations of the world. It’s okay to not fit into the mold of what others think. It’s okay to stand in the shower and let the water fall across you. To seek solace in silence.
And today, I listened. As best I could. It wasn’t perfect, but it was better. And that’s all I can hope for.
I wonder if I am destined for eternal melancholy.
It’s just a thought.
One intimate thought.
It aches and aches and aches inside me.
I haven’t been so good at this blog thing. I tend to put too much expectation on what I’m going to do, and then it doesn’t happen (because of course nothing is ever as I picture it, or wish it, or maybe I’m just consumed by idealism) and I’m riddled with shame or guilt or both for not following through.
So I don’t write. I don’t say the thing. I am afraid. After all this time, still. Maybe I should just accept that fact. And move through it anyway. I’ve said things before. The world did not end. Not really. Relationships did. Moments did. Chapters did. But the world kept going. It always does. Even if it feels very different.
It is odd knowing that what you say is of so little consequence in the grand scheme of things. And at the same time, it is monumental. It echoes through time. But mostly just my memory. maybe no one else cares. Maybe one person does. Maybe that’s enough.
I’d be lying if I said I don’t know how to do this. I do know. But I just want to be seen as humble and precarious. And whatever else interests people these days. In the end though, the truth is: I want to be interesting. I want to be seen.
It’s something to discuss with my therapist, the issue of feeling real. Because sometimes I don’t. That’s why I write, to feel real. To be seen, heard. To prove my own existence. To not go crazy.
And I think I have been crazy for awhile. Not in the literal sense (although that is certainly true also). I mean in the “wow existence is really unsettling and I don’t know what to do with my hands most of the time and everyone else seems to know what they’re doing except that I know they don’t because adulthood is a scam and I can’t believe no one is talking about how fucked up everything is all the time because everything is so fucked up but I don’t know what to do about it because we live in a hellscape that makes it so hard to do anything of real value without fucking up some other aspect of the world and I just want to sleep but also do all the things because you only live once and your life is so short in comparison to the universe so really why bother with what people say you “should” do, eat the damn brownie, nothing really matters but also everything matters and that’s why we’re all so fucked” sense of the word.
So who knows if this becomes a habit. Maybe it won’t. Maybe I’ll go viral. I probably won’t. And that’s okay. But I’m gonna keep paying the website fees (the internet is so weird) just in case I want to say something, to release a thought so it doesn’t eat me up inside. I need to feel real. I need to feel like I matter, even when I know nothing matters.
For now though, I do have to get some work done. Because we live in a society where productivity is valued more than rest (but that’s a rant for another time).
I wonder at the girl I used to be. How brave she was and yet so naive.
The intricate way in which we change like smooth seamless waves. You don’t notice it until it’s already done.
How do I carry on with all these feelings inside me?
You told me to write it all down. You told me it would make me feel better to release the grip I had on the past, to let it flow out of me in a stream of words, because words can heal. But like I said before, words have only hurt me so far. That’s why I have boarded up the windows that provided a glimpse into the wretched house I ruminate in. Too many have walked past in ignorant disinterest. Some have glanced in its direction with passive curiosity or a willful arrogance. A few have wandered to the front stoop to sit for a while in contemplation only to leave exasperated. One knocked, and I let him in. What a disaster we made of it. He left and the door slammed. I don’t know by whose hand. Maybe both. And I vowed I’d never share so much of my shelter again. So I stopped writing. I holed up. Anxious and adulterated. Stubborn in my solitude. Detached from the very idea that one could give anything without losing everything.
While we may disagree on this front I am obliged to give it a chance. You have not led me astray yet so it may turn out just the way you proposed, and if it doesn’t I’ll feel vindicated in proving you wrong for the first time in the course of our time together.
It used to pour out of me like a faucet, straight from the tap, unfiltered and pure. Constant and overflowing. It used to be easy. And now it’s not. I’m all clogged up.
But I will snake the drain. And maybe my congested memories will start to trickle out in words and phrases. I will gather them, piece them together, and make something of my pain, my worry, my hopes, my regrets…
My hands grasp at the memories, scared of breaking again.
There is a sacred place where steady trees cover graceful hills and unforgiving mountains. It is easy to be breathless and in awe.
It is hard to compromise where we do not belong.
This is a different kind of loneliness, even though I’ve felt it all my life. Just adjacent to connection. Watching others discover love, wishing you knew if it were true.
I feel all alone in friendly crowded rooms. No one seeks me out for solace, and no one stays to keep me warm. Some barely catch my eye and then pretend they never saw.
I want a best friend, a partner in crime. Who knows what I’m thinking before I say it. Who sees the small hesitation before I say I’m fine. Who grabs my hand and runs. Who nestles up to me when it all becomes too much. Who is thick as thieves and we do not care what others think.
But imposter syndrome paints a vivid picture of all the people I thought I was. And every single version doesn’t come close enough to what I think other people love.
It’s hard enough to live inside this body. Without the worry that for others it’s not good enough to be seen and held and free.