My ex, the real one, really fucked me up. There are some things that I can blame on him, and some things I can’t, but as I try to schedule a time into my day to bring the final papers to my notary and for the last time let him siphon another $75 (exactly .01% of what he previously stole, ironically) from me, I realize how I have turned away from monitoring my money because I didn’t want to acknowledge how much he stole. It sickens me that I can be so blind.
I’m holding back, and I don’t know why. At the beginning, where I say that I don’t have time for this, I then frame my thoughts with that as the excuse for glossing over things, for rushing through things, and leaving the stones unturned along my path to whatever scrap of meaning that I scrape together out of my sleep dust. All that’s well and good, but I see that I’m still here, more than a year later, with the same problems, the same ex, the same boy, and the same headache. If I skip over the stones, if I turn over the stones, the same time was taken. There is no use rushing through this. This space, it’s not a path to somewhere, it’s a racing track. Everything that I run past, I’ll be running past it again on the next lap.
These were my thoughts as I looked down the steep sandy embankment towards the gathering waves… We were doomed, If not with the next wave, then the one after that. Or the one after that. Or we could run back, to where there was no water and we were doomed anyway.
I clicked away rather than think further down that. I don’t like repressing things, I like to know what I have in my mind and where, and that’s why I write here. However, some things make me scared to think of, and then I wonder what else I have hidden in here that I don’t even know about, hiding behind the things that I see but am too afraid to move.
I got a jab in on my left side, in front of the bottom rib, and so I got up to take a look around and lost a few sips. Moving should be ok. Why is so much of my productivity tied to sitting down? I have to change that. I have to really get some thought into redoing this apartment, which I will honestly probably leave as soon as I do.
He went outside to the parking lot, they were waiting outside, her in a white tank top and birthday tiara (I shouldn’t have to explain this to anyone). My girlfriend, the person who threw the whole party, was of course nowhere to be found.
His daughter, in the same weird outfit, was holding the door for him.
I then remembered that I’m no longer afraid of spiders, and decided to push forward (in my waking state probably not a good idea.) The panic of claustrophobia set in, and then I remembered that I was actually asleep and should probably just wake up.
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 am so mean to people when I try to protect myself. Like a fucking cornered animal. He is going to leave me, so I have to leave him. I can say whatever I want about it, and I will, I have, but that is the truth.