I don’t have much time today… I slept too long, but we’ll (why we) try our best. I have a bunch of things to do today, most of which are manageable from here.
I still have the tightness of anxiety hurting me today. Two giant hands, thumbs pressed in hard underneath my shoulders, palms pressing in around my rib cage, fingers squeezing around to my sternum. As I remember to breath, the thumbs become more insistent, but at least the fingers relax. Why do I have to remember?
I have to stop thinking of the boy, thoughts of him do me no good, especially now. I have to get to the bank and give them money. Why is that always the hardest part to remember.
Somehow life always returns to normal, a new normal every time. Here I am amazed that the world can just shrug off so many dead people… one day it will be easier even still for them to shrug me off entirely. I wonder what will even happen to me when I die.
Eulo.gy was taken, and that’s why I’m here.
Somehow, my life is rolling along. My schedule is once again full, the men that plagued me so before my surgery have come back, like nothing happened. How on earth do they have the audacity to come back to me, to overstep their boundaries so, and still think that they can come and take more? The hands are back around my middle, renewed vigor in squeezing the life out of me, renewed panic at the thought of drowning in a room full of air.
I miss my brother.
How do these men think they can come back, I believe I made them fully aware that they were not welcome, do they have no self respect? Are they utterly oblivious to the social cues that solidly tell them to fuck the hard way off? I realize now that I have no idea how much of my real self becomes apparent through my fake mask, which I wear dutifully every time I see them. They probably think they’re helping me, giving me money. They probably are.
My ex took my money all the time, and hated me. I was utterly (utterly, again) bewildered. How could he take my money and still feel that I was a burden to him? I guess this is how. However (it occurs to me that people who can not fluently read english, or the American idiots who can barely read at all, can not observe the lilted clip of rhythm that my writing has today) I have days, weeks, and even this time a whole year of peace between these nights of soul sacrifice where I count the minutes, count the money in the back of my head, count my blessings, count my scars, count the threads on each sheet I grab and count the number of times that I could have easily killed them before they leave. What a miserable life my ex must have had. He can fuck the hard way off too. Why would anyone want to be around them if I hated them, and vice versa?
Once, when we were still together in some sense, my ex said something about that. He said that he admired me, had some lame praise which I clearly deserved in tenfold, or something. But the gist of it was that I didn’t understand even why anyone would care if I didn’t like them, who the fuck was I that my opinion of anyone else would matter? <=== I still fully feel this way.
He said that it would be terrible for a person to have me hate them, because I am wonderful.
I don’t know, I don’t judge other people’s worth by what they think of me, I am largely irrelevant.