God it’s been years since I’ve been so fucking… “inspired.” I look back at my senior year of college in both envy and sadness. I was plagued with one of the worst bouts of depression of my life, but damn did I write a lot.
I’m happy (ironically) to say that I’m writing more in the past few months than I have in years, but that, I suppose, is a sign that things aren’t where I’d like them to be for me, emotionally. Or maybe, they are. Maybe they place I should be isn’t the place where I gloss over my days in a matter of routine and happenstance. Maybe my emotional safe haven is sitting here at 3:51 in the morning, eyes glued to a glowing monitor, blasting something particularly gut-wrenching. At least right now I’m…feeling.
Shit is a feeling, right?
It’s so insane how I call these things in advance. A year ago I was blowing up my Instagram account with videos and pictures of myself in a happier place. I was doing new and exciting things, challenging myself in ways that I never had, and as the self-aware person that I am, I wanted to document every single morsel of it because I wanted to remember that it was real. I wanted to be able to to look back and say, “yes, everyone. I am capable of something better.” Even if “everyone” is just me.
I had a few weeks off from therapy recently, and it put me in this place of having to sort of think about things in a way that I’d expect to be questioned in a session. It’s a weird phenomenon to go through, really, because while your therapist is on vacation, your life and the problems that live in it don’t get that same break. It’s kind of how I explain to my family and friends why I work on holidays.
People still have Cancer on Christmas.
Let’s cut the nonsense. I’m not trying to write a cute little post that feels good on the inside. Well, maybe there’s hope for that at the end. But there’s hope for a lot of things at the end. After all, without that notion, what the hell are we even waking up for every day? If we had no faith that this shitty mess could turn into something great, we just wouldn’t do it. At least I wouldn’t.
Shut up, you wouldn’t either.
I’ve been listening to a lot of Sia lately. I can’t even begin to explain how she crawls around inside my head and writes songs about the exact thoughts I’m thinking and the exact pains I’m paining. I’ve described listening to her latest album as the same feeling as being wrapped in a warm blanket. Sometimes it gets to a point where saying “I’m hurting” just isn’t enough. Saying, “Looked me straight in the eye, you turned the gas on high,” however. That’ll do it.
Fucker.
I cried tonight. It was over something stupid that I’ve always known deep down could hurt me. It was something that has hurt me before. Someone who has hurt me before. Someone who will undoubtedly hurt me again. And every time it happens, it stings like it was the first time, but tonight the tears only lasted for half a minute at the most, and I’m not sure if it was because I was in such shock that someone could fuck with me so badly, or if my physiology had met it’s crying quota for this particular individual. I laid in my bed thinking about how this time had to be the last time. How I deserved better.
And then I got angry.
It dawned on me that I live in a world where I can bleed out for a guy, and he would use my skin to make a shirt to wear on a date with another girl on the night of my funeral. But the truth of the matter is that people will do whatever they need to do to get through whatever they are going through, even if it’s at someone else’s expense, just to come out on the other side. Casualties fucking everywhere. Survival of the fittest.
In this case, literally.
But something that has brought me some peace and comfort is thinking about the idea of removing myself from the nightmare. Looking at the offender from a distance, you have someone who is just a complete disaster. Of course a person like that is going to commit actions that are fucked up and uncalled for – it’s the nature of the animal. That’s like expecting a refrigerator to cook your dinner and then getting mad at it for keeping it cold. Why do we get mad when we know what we’re getting into? Denial? Hope? For me, it’s a question I’ve still yet to answer.
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“Boy, you draw me back in
I’m hungry for your bad loving
But will someone find me swinging from the rafters
From hanging on your every word” – Sia
The Four Eleven 