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Twig, Move On.

December 1, 2013

Fuck.

Nothing from MTIA at all today. Not a single word. It’s definitely time for me to pull away.

I decided to reactivate Facebook, but posted to say I’d be gone at least a week, blah, blah, I spend too much time with social media, blah, blah, I’m not angry with anyone or upset about anything (bullshit), blah blah, blah, blah. Contact me via email, phone, or the front door. And, really, if someone needs me, they should know how to get hold of me; if through no one else, then they should know to reach out to my mother. It’s going to be a very quiet week.

I shut down Facebook and Twitter notifications. My phone is on silent. I try to limit the number of times I look to see there are no new text messages, especially none from MTIA. I could go out and have a good time if I wanted to. I keep telling myself this.

I need to focus more on writing with TAC. This latest round of babbling on and on about MTIA and TLTL (and the photographer) comes to a close.

Oh, and the mystery girl I was getting friendly with while out with MTIA one night has apparently been heavy flirting with MTIA. Fucking bizarre love triangle. Fucking sexual orientation. Fucking gender identity. I wish I could just be ME. But that. Will never. Happen.

See? This is why I have to get away from all of that crap.

The ex is coming to pack some stuff up tomorrow. He’s giving a lot of it away, and offering it to me first, which I’ve mentioned before, I believe. It makes me feel like shit. And I even asked for the bass guitar if he was still offering it, to give to MTIA. I guess that’s not going to happen.

I wish I didn’t freak out about not being talked to for a day or two, especially since there is no “relationship.” Part of me knows I need to be rational, but there’s very little middle ground with me in this regard – everything is delightful or disastrous. Talking about my lack of middle ground is as middle ground as I get, and it’s just confusion and ambivalence, so a fat lot of good that does me. Perhaps in a week, I’ll be back here saying everything is just peachy. But I’m always waiting for the other shoe to drop. I’m always tense when I love someone romantically, because it just always ENDS. And almost always does it end badly.

Recently, I started prepping myself for destruction in my house upon return any time I leave, whether for an hour and seven. I mentally prep myself. I look in the door through the pain of glass before I unlock or open the door, even, to further prepare myself. I’m constantly terrified that the herd has had a shit fit while I’m gone and eaten the house, every possession in the house, or each other. When I open the door to find nothing destroyed, I have great relief. Hope for the best, expect the worst. But just like with dating, this sort of thing leaves me constantly tense. It’s not a good way to live, and I damn well know it.

But right now, I’ll be damned if I’m going to do anything productive about it. Instead, I’ll pry my claws from my phone, divert my attention from social media, and focus on work and home improvement tasks. If I’m going to be ignored, then it will be because I pulled myself away and made myself invisible, not because I’m just that worthless.

That’s how I work. I’m awful. Honest to goodness, if my family didn’t love me, and if my animals didn’t depend upon me, I’d probably be dead. There’s too much going on between work, the death of loved ones, my physical health, and fucked up relationships that I likely would just give up. Is that suicide ideation? And if so, is it the result of the new medication, or am I just so hopped on painkillers that I have no filter left and am just saying what I’ve always thought. I can’t always tell what was true previously. And the thing is, I won’t kill myself (or, at least, I don’t foresee that I would ever do so), because of the herd and my family. And then there’s the fact that I don’t really like the idea of someone having to deal with my dead, embarrassing body. That’s a serious deterrent, no joke. But the last reason is by far the worst: I won’t kill myself because deep down, I still have HOPE. I wish I was apathetic. I wish it just didn’t matter.

But I keep telling myself that things will get better. I will heal physically and emotionally. I’ll start enjoying my career again. The feeling of hopelessness will go away – how ironic. And please tell me I don’t need to explain the irony; I hope I’m making a modicum of sense. There’s that hope again. Goddamn HOPE. I will push through every day, waiting for the shitty feelings to pass. It’s always been this way, I know, because I’ve written songs about it, some almost two decades ago (maybe 15 years, give or take a couple). Hope is a thing that floats, right? I wish it would just sink and accept reality every day as it happens. Hope for nothing. Just live. Enjoy life for what it is.

Why can’t I have that?

I have to sleep. I just shut my eyes for a second and my mind wandered to a doctor inspecting medication, finding out that I haven’t been taking them (not true; I have been) because one pill capsule jumps out of the container while it’s open and starts bopping and jumping around at our feet, like a mutant Mexican jumping bean. The message is clear: the pills are so old that maggots have taken up residence in them. My doctor looks horrified. I tell him, with a point of my finger to the jumping pill, “And that is why I can’t take the medicine.” It’s horrible logic, but I say it anyway.

So given that the above is where my head is wandering within seconds of shutting my eyes, I think I need some sleep. I HOPE to dream about something that doesn’t leave me sad or angry when I wake up. I don’t want to dream about holding MTIA’s hand. That’s over. I don’t want to dream at ALL. I just want some sleep.

Maybe tomorrow I’ll take less pain medication. Final note: I don’t think pain medication makes pain go away; I think it makes us just not give a damn. Because even with extra doses, I’m still hurting. I hurt less, yes, but I’m still in pain. Right now, though, I just don’t care. Nor do I care that I now can’t see straight enough to keep typing or editing.

“I hope he doesn’t rip anyone’s arms off.” -Another closed-eye moment, far too bizarre and convoluted to even explain. I make no sense.

Sleep now. Right now.

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From → fiction, rants

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