Tell it in haikus.

I wrote catchy poetry about rape and incest today when it was slow at work. I am one fucked up chick. I feel like I finally relate to Clementine’s quote. Maybe I should see that movie again.

It snowed all day, and I was frozen once I got home. I was tired and hungry, and I had just fought with Matt. Well, as much as we ever really fight, which is to say we weren’t each other’s favorite person in the moment. He never yells. It’s nice. I don’t even expect him to anymore, I just know he won’t yell. I’m sure he is capable of yelling…but he doesn’t yell at me. He’s good to me. Like Nathan Bear and even Steve, despite Stephie’s persistence; lately I date men who are generally good to me.

Anyway, I got home and instead of showering off the day and resting with hot cocoa and my first bag of mini-marshmallows for said hot chocolate, re-watching GoT and fading into sleep, I turned on a video game I’ve beaten a dozen times and didn’t move for four hours. It’s probably safe to say that I’m avoiding.

But maybe not-I couldn’t avoid my loud, annoying thoughts. I kept thinking of what-ifs and hows and whys, whys, whys. Why am I this and not this? How do I blank but not blank? Do I give any fucks, really?

I must. Although my field seems barren, I must care. And people care about me. They might not understand, and I might be bad at explaining, but there is a solid foundation. I was convincing myself of this concept as I finally showered about 35 minutes ago, also thinking that 3:15am sounds like a good time for dinner. Upon exiting the shower I noticed my laptop had gone to sleep, fucking up my game and making me a sad bunny. I restarted and checked the Internet, which I have been avoiding since I got home for the night.

Lo and behold, waiting as heralds of hope, two messages from angels of mercy presented themselves to me through tubes of cats. I have the love of amazing people. Because I am worth loving. I’m not Jim.

You know, people did love my father. Or at least they seemed to love him. They sure as fuck just knew that he loved me. Once I said to Ma-Ma, when she told me that he’d loved me, something just terrible. I told her that he did, sometimes twice a night.

It was Preston who first commented that Jim hated me. I’d never thought of it that way, but it must’ve been true.

If people around you have to remind you that you’re loved, are you really? When you’re loved, you know. It envelopes you like the air is made of down feathers and billows you upward to lighter spaces. It’s very Gertrude when everyone has to repeat someone else’s love.

Everyone in my family distrusted my father. Aunt Kathy and Uncle Dan sat me down when I was 16 in MO, and told me how sick Jim was, and all the reasons they weren’t going to let me be alone with him, ride in the car with him driving, or let him stay overnight at their home while I was in town. Kathy would be Jim’s sister. Pa-Pa taught me how to lock the bathroom door with I was 17 in Metairie, not an hour before Jim showed up. When I told my grandparents about the abuse, Ma-Ma’s first words were, “I always wondered.” They all distrusted him. They all knew he was sick, tormented, had demons-whatever. The man was awful, and they knew it. They all knew it. And the minute he dies, he’s sainted in the order of He’s-Dead-Now-We-Better-Be-Nice.

How does that not fuck a person up? How can I not be fucked up?

I’m yearning for the rational side of myself, which must have drown in recent melds. Maybe it’s the end of my period, or maybe it’s the lack of regular sleep, or maybe it’s the constant radiator clicking that is boring into my bones, but I can’t be rational. So I shouldn’t be making decisions or judgement calls. If I’m gonna freak out, then fine. I’ll play some mindless games and go in those old, familiar circles. Who needs sleep? Or food? Or feelings or rational thought or calm processes? Ha ha! I will keep going until I collapse because then I will have to get help!

I partly blame my mother for this pattern of self-destruction to get help. She used to tell me how she took illness (broken foot/ankle? I forget, and pneumonia) as her only time to rest. And I adopted that policy, whether it was intentional or not. I’ve since broken free of that unhealthy pattern, but damn if the habit doesn’t die slowly. It’s so much easier to blindly destroy than to nurture and care. And I’m already tired.

Matt loves me, and Jared loves me, and Dean showers me with wishes that come true. I have clarity and happiness in spades. Sometimes it gets rough, but I’m gonna breathe deeper that brutal burning smell, and just try and calm…and eat. It’s peanut butter jelly time. Comfort foods make me feel comforted.

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