Some boring tidbits that I scribble down whenever I feel like it, usually when I'm on the verge of crying. Nothing much of interest here.
Sometimes, it feels like she's standing over there, and if i reach out, i can almost touch that essence, but distance is such an effective wall. so all i can do is line our fingers up and hope a blown kiss can make it where words can't.
[20:40] Lent Somnolence: didn't expect her to read my journal. well i thought she might and i thought maybe i should put in some heartfelt something about her in it just in case. but then if i had to think to do it. then it wasn't meant to be there. so why? but yes there were heartfelt moments, but they aren't in there now, it'll come months later when the memory of her is forgotten and i'm shocked into some lucid moment with her. and then the writing will come
-- from an AIM conversation with a friend.
i don't miss people. not right away. i cried when my grandmother died. for perhaps a day or two. i numbed for weeks later. i numbed after you, after the days of crying, the prolonged, break-up, get-together, break-up cycle.
the day that a thaw comes and this particular part of my life is revealed is when the words will flow.
i'm sorry for stomping on such a beautiful flower, but i never meant to take it home with me and put it in a glass of water to be admired each day and smelled and kissed, but slowly withered. i took you to a place too far away to keep anything alive, and not much can grow in the inside of my heart.
-- from an email to S.
I'm sorry S., for stomping on you, breaking you, hurting you, and everything that happened in the course of our relationship. I hurt for hurting you. I ache for pushing you away. I can't say much else, other than, I've shut myself down in this regard, and one day, I will face these feelings and the tears will flow like a flood and your name will be whispered on my lips, and the memory of your voice will echo in my ears. Thank you for the memories that I don't want to open right now, but they are locked up like a treasure box, waiting for when I am ready. The good and bad, it all comes together. Remember, memories are always dirty.
Sometimes I feel like a slave, one who's been stripped of any meaning, personality, heritage, past -- everything. Except I'm my own jailer and taskmaster. I take these things away from myself, throw them away into some distant corner of my mind until I'm ready to deal with those thoughts, that person, that experience, that other life. Whatever it was, or whatever it might of been that had composed me up until that point. When I'm alone, alone with just myself, and none of these exterior qualities, I feel so empty, so barren, so dead. I feel like sun-baked earth. Outside appearances don't go for much, they just let people assume that I'm something I'm not and give a measure of safety. Most never really bother to get close enough to touch the skin and feel the cracks in my self, physical and in my soul, to know how easy it is for someone to slip inside. And how often that happens to me. How often does someone come inside and stay awhile. How often do I let this happen on purpose. Self-torture, or is it a pathetic way of explaining away how I can shed something and let something else inside? Crawl inside me and die, or crawl inside me and try to be something else. I need some kind of warning, take care my darling, my love poisons, my touch hurts, and my emotions come with two meanings. I'm your double-standard and I'd love to get to know you, or is that hurt you? I never intend for the worst, I never intend for the bad, but seeing patterns of it happen again and again should make me stop. I do try to stop, but I just can't feel alone, and someone, without even meaning it, there's something inside me again. I never am sure how it happens. It's always a surprise. I'm always surprised. I'm my own jailer, and with these feelings I let myself feel. I lock myself up and throw away the key. Knowing full well what the consequences might and could very well be. Self-torture and self-hatred through letting myself feel good. It makes me wonder what kind of person my jailer is, and if he enjoys this, but we're lifelong friends, even if we never speak to each other. He takes care of the things I can't take care of, and I give him the feelings that he can't feel. Slave and jailer, we both love each other.
"Forecast is insomnia, chance of tears"
me, chat
"I miss the awkward moments in life. And yes, I said that. I miss the awkward moments in life, the times that make your heart flutter just so, and your face flush, and worry to climb your spine as the feeling builds."
me, email
"Why can't memories ever be clean? There's always something in there to muck it up and tar it up. My memories are always dirty."
me, email
What else. There isn't anything else. A few days ago a friend died. A few days ago I worried about needles and a friend. I can't really express much, or say much, it doesn't feel like much, it feels compressed, like it's all inside me, squeezing me tight and at some point the pressure will be too much. Until then, it's under control. Lock and key, all that and all those words. The day to day worry, sometimes it's not there. Sometimes it's right in my face. Sometimes I hear stories of someone telling me their close scrape of avoiding an ER visit; of a botched job banging a new substance, their face turning blue, inside of their throat swelling, anaphylaxis to the dot. Lately I hear these things from a detached point of view, my head really isn't here anymore, my emotions are still around, hurting, locked up. Lock and key, all those emotions and words. Or, my resolve and facade are non-existent, and the shock of a blatant hurtful suicide attempt (hang yourself in the front door for your wife and son to see -- lovely, you asshole) sets my mind spinning, the loose ball bearings that I was resting on, my platform of stability, have been knocked away, and I'm left gasping for breath on the floor. I'm not even standing anymore. Just fill me with whatever is left and I'll stand up, no thanks, I don't need your hand. Those aren't tears, it's just rain, like the excuses we all give each other. I'm okay, whenever someone asks, because really I'm okay. I'm not in the ER, I'm not trying to kill myself, I'm not swallowing bottles of pills to not feel the pain that I endure myself and to not feel the pain that others feel. The only thing wrong with me is I'm crying. I'm beginning to think that crying is the only thing right with me. So tonight, I will cry more, and let some tears fall down my face, because it's dry and it's time this weathered land had a storm. I feel a storm coming each day, I just hope it's one of those I can survive.
In a few days, tomorrow perhaps, there will be a storm. A storm of worry and indecision, frustration and fear. Anxiety, anxiety, anxiety. P A N I C. I wonder what has gone through her mind while gone. I wonder if she missed me. I wonder if I wonder too much. Those that wonder dream too much, or is it, those that wonder too much never get their dreams because they have so many? And those that do not wonder, do not dream, get exactly what they want? Why am I getting into dreams at this point or stage, when there's nothing more than mutual, what? Mutual mutualness? Mutual like and concern and worry. Endearing, K. brings tears to my eyes at some of the most simple of phrases, or the most simple worries that I can brush away with the back of my hand, soft and gentle, but firm, telling her it will be okay, and there is no reason to worry about that with me. And vice versa, we play the same game, but she gives me warm tight hugs instead, when I have a worry and it goes away. Hugs facilitate the communication, physical sensation convey through channels what vocalization cannot, what writing cannot. I miss her and want to hold her.
I'm going through withdrawal again. Yes, another relapse. A stupid relapse. A friend telling me they needed to move on and be away from a certain place, and I was part of that place, so I couldn't be there. I could understand that. Not being able to see that friend hurt me. I didn't realize I could still cry so much over such a thing. It was a friend, who I wasn't especially close to, but had some shared moments and understanding, but to be told, sorry you can't stay with me and visit, in such a cold and detached manner (to me), broke my feelings and whatever fragile walls I had. I was invited there, asked there, impusively, and I said no, and scheduled a later date, and I'm fucking angry for not going early, even on 4 days notice, even if it would of only been for a couple of days. I lost the chance to meet a wonderful person. It's just one more thing to put on the scale of failures, and it's already so weighted against me.
I miss K. I miss the discussion we had, I miss the hours and hours we spent each night just talking, about anything in the world. I miss the worry and anxiety we both had over meeting each other. I miss her. She will be home in a few days, and it's been a few days without talking to her. Will she have missed me the same? Will she have cared the same? Is there equality is this feeling, or will one of us be shortchanged again?
A couple more days of this. This is what I'm feeling. The withdrawal of people, the withdrawal of chemicals, the messy mix of feel goods and feel bads mingling in my head and making it ache and confused. I just want a fix, and that fix right now is K. My "emotional supplements" aren't working well, and are being changed around, so my head just feels strange and I can't make much sense of anything. Just a lot of confusion. The one feeling I can make out, is that I'm missing someone, and I wish I could share this feeling with them, and make it into a good, warm, comforting feeling.
