I was writing to Jared, and then I cried, and now I’m raging internally and can’t go to bed. I am screaming silently at the sky, wanting it to rain down answers, time, or at least a signal of understanding; a sign of empathy from the vast beyond. But no. “My god’s the biggest dick who never existed.”
That dripping is going to make writing tomorrow difficult.
I had a rough week that went over into a bad weekend, during which I was triggered again while driving, and I’ve been lost. On Tuesday I rallied a bit, but within hours I was back to less than motivating self-talk. I’m fuzzy about the world.
There’s this guy that I’m flirting shamelessly with, because there is no possible future there, and it’s consensual and fun. It’s exciting to have those crush feelings again. I miss Niki.
Over the weekend, I explained myself as having “severe PTSD”. Over the last two weeks, that has been the case. It makes me realize how much I take for granted now. I wish I still knew Ryan Gaston, and he could tell me that I’ve grown. I feel like I’m on a fixed track, cycling over and over, older and none the wiser.
Personhood should resume in full force on Friday, when I have an appointment and errands. Saturday is supposed to entail rope class and a party, and Sunday should be when I attend a leather workshop. This is, of course, assuming I am not living on the ceiling, as I am apt to do as of late. I wake up from one nightmare into another, and wander alone through the caverns of my mind. Some of it isn’t real anymore. I can’t always tell until I reach out, and feel the lies break away like ash, staining my fingertips.
Sometimes, I miss the serenity that came with the idea of God. I am more grateful for the biting sting of reality, but it’s cold in the dark. I remember the warm light, the glow that people said the Lord shone through me, denying my own power and giving all to Him. I was like David, said Pastor Stan: one after God’s own heart.
My mother likes to say that I’m angry at God, and that it’s ok. That’s when we discuss God, which we don’t. I don’t ask my friend Annie about it, because she’d tell me what she thinks, and I don’t want to know. Honestly, I probably already know. I think Annie’s core values are around the same as they were when she was my mentor.
I am angry. I am fucking furious, most of the time. But not so much at God. If anything, I am disappointed, and possibly apathetic towards God. I’m angry at people, and at society, and most of all, at myself. Being angry at God invests in the idea that there is a being accepting those feels, taking in my anger, and I just don’t buy it. I think sending my anger out to some invisible sky daddy is a waste of my hard-earned anger, and I’ll be damned if I’m gonna throw away my efforts. I bled for this anger, and I want every drop.
My childhood cycles around my family. My siblings and my parents. My mother and my father. I feel like I could really use Gary’s insight on Freud, because he says the thing about always being in bed with your parents, right? Although I don’t think he’s talking actual incest. I feel like I was constantly trying to use one map of fucked-up to navigate a whole other world of fucked up. Unmedicated bipolar and child molesting alcoholic are two different things, and they are not to be treated in the same manner.
And then there comes a point in my day, and it’s oftentimes sooner than later, where I’m just done. I’m so over myself, and my crazy, and my whole fucked up nonsense book idea. What does it matter anyway? I am certainly sick of hearing about it. And I’m never gonna get to writing the happy things, and the healing things, because it’s just a never ending stream of shit memories and there isn’t enough pot in the state to make my childhood a happy story. It’s not a happy story. That’s ok, and I’m a happy person now, but the story kinda sucks.
In unrelated news, my boyfriend turned 30 and I’m gonna go to CA and see my brother graduate college in January. In a little under three months, I’ll have Jared again, and I’ll have GoT to greet me in April. And Indian food exists. Life isn’t that bad. But I should probably work on getting out more.