I was so looking forward to writing here today. I missed my chance yesterday, almost broke the rules and wrote last night, probably should have, and now I’m sitting here, I woke up so late, and I have nothing to say.
That’s not true, I have a lot of things to say, but I guess I don’t feel like they are important enough to take the time to say them. I feel like I’ve felt that way a lot. All my life maybe.
Actually, that’s a lie. As evidence by the fact that I talk way too much.
I have to acknowledge what’s going on, in this whole plague situation. I did take a much needed break from everything, and everyone, but now I feel like all that is ending and I *really* don’t want it to. I don’t want to go back to work, back to this insane breakneck speed of putting on one fake personality after another, changing lingerie and life stories to go into what honestly felt like a meat grinder of pretending I like these people.
Even when I do like these people.
Even my boyfriend.
Even the boy, honestly.
Just everyone who doesn’t understand exactly how hard it is for me to even get up and fake a smile for them.
It’s here I realize that there’s something fundamentally wrong with me, and while I’m sure everyone assumes that I should just go to the doctor and get on some antidepressants, I assure you that I have collected enough degrees into exactly everything to do with that issue to know that it’s not worth the risk. It’s basically just a good way to put a bullet in your brain without making your mom sad, which for some people is enough. I highly recommend antidepressants over suicide. However, I do not recommend them over actually trying to live a life.
I’m not that bad, I am not ready to give up yet.
I haven’t called my side dude in weeks… I want to but I don’t.
Characteristically, I found myself up and walking around rather than confronting my feelings. I’m totally allowed to have feelings. I’m totally allowed to say no. I’m totally allowed to say, I like you, but I like you as a friend.
And so I rolled back to the beginning and reread all of this.
Is this exercise losing it’s impact? I don’t think so, I think it’s exactly the opposite. I think that I’m out of practice here because I haven’t been back. Because I’ve been waking up in one bed or another, because I’ve been ashamed at my actual progress, because I’ve continued seeing the same men that I hate even though I know that they are not worth dying for, the money is not worth dying for, it’s not worth killing everyone I love for, and even in good times it was killing me, and I’m going back into the meat grinder for a a second run through.
I could have done anything, and I’ve done nothing but waste that last few months of my life developing yet another fake relationship, and for free this time. Tricking people into loving me just to prove to myself that I can be loved.
I am not stupid, I see exactly what’s wrong with this. How on earth can they love me when it’s all a lie. If they fall in love, it’s a lie. It’s not love, it’s a lie.
My ex loved me outside of all that. How, I don’t know, I never knew. Maybe he didn’t. I thought I loved him but maybe I didn’t. I can honestly say that I have never loved anyone else, and honestly I don’t think I ever will.
I’m in the process of finally getting rid of him, by the way.
I don’t want to. It’s like the only part of my life that was actually real is gone and the rest of this is all just stories that I’ll get to tell someone who I desperately wish would care. Who can’t possibly care. Who can’t care enough to replace what I thought I had.
I clicked away. There’s still coffee here, and it’s still warm even. I’m torn between considering this post done in one big gulp, or sipping my way through more of my psychosis.
This mug is empty and so am I.