I don’t believe you ever loved me. The actions behind your beautiful words were empty, hollow and cruel. You did exactly what I asked you not to do, and it destroyed me. I want to forget the scars you left, but they open time and time again. And each time, I lay bleeding ready to die, and still you never come to save me. Love should not linger so long after such a horrific death. 

Sunrises and sunsets come and go. And I am left with a collage of beautifully painted skies that drew breath in vibrant colors and echo with the way they made me feel.

He was all calloused hands and midnight poetry dripping with the promise of bitten sighs, stolen kisses and filthy words.

Do not not settle for yet another relationship, where you’re sitting across from each other and there’s nothing left but disappointment holding its breath between you.

I like being alone, I enjoy my own company. I don’t need someone else to complete me. But there are times when I find myself longing for a quiet peace found in only another’s soul, in their laugh, in their passion and in the emotional safety to be held when I need to fall apart. 

Get off my lawn!

My internal clock does this horrible thing now; it doesn’t let me sleep in on weekends anymore.

I used to poke fun at my parents; how they were always getting up so damn early long after their youngest child left “the nest”.

They would laugh it off and shrug and say I am just wasting precious time always sleeping in, when I could be up enjoying my day and getting things done. Now I know better. They simply don’t remember how. 

And now look at me, I have a serious case of ‘adultitus’ (yes I just made up that word).

Why didn’t they warn me that years of doing the same exact thing, years and years of being a responsible adult, would also be my surrendering of any real sleep, when all I wanted was to catch up from the full work week. Why? Why didn’t they warn me? It’s pretty selfish of them. I cherished sleeping in past 9am on weekends. Now I can’t remember what it was like. 

Yes I know I should be grateful I am awake and breathing and blah fucking blah. As an adult with a teenager that could sleep until 4pm if I let him, I am up and angry about being awake. I’m conflicted with whether I should let him sleep or wake him at noon so he doesn’t ‘waste his day’ sleeping. 

I have literally turned into my parents. It’s all over now, I am sliding down that hill I just got over and there’s no way to turn back. I’m getting old. 

This isn’t the freedom I thought being an adult of a “certain age” would bring. 

I guess now I will start making afternoon naps and siestas a thing on the weekends, if I want to give in to my body’s need for sleep. Gross.

I started noticing this over a year ago. I don’t stay up until 3am instead I pass out as early as 10pm, on a fucking weekend. This is bullshit! Yet another thing for me to complain about until I accept that it is, what it is. 

Also. My parents didn’t warn me, and they knew this was coming and still they kept it to themselves. 

It’s 8am on a Saturday, I don’t have anywhere to be this morning and I cannot fall back asleep. I’ve been up since 6:15.

Adultitus sucks. (mumbling to myself) Everyone get off my fucking lawn! 

I think I really am alone now, but the beating of my heart makes a thunderous sound; it’s the tell-tale heart beneath the floorboards. It’s the agonizing hope that I won’t die alone, yet fully aware I will, die alone. It’s the serrated edge of a dagger I continuously thrust myself upon, just to bleed. 

It’s like ‘someday, sometime or almost’ are somehow the real motto’s to live serendipitously by, while sheepishly looking away and yet always looking within. Or is looking within and never looking away? 

I just want to stay here snuggled up in this silly surreal dream I keep having, where I am cherished and all is not lost on the idea that I am being loved by you. 

The dream that wakes and haunts me long after my eyes open and long after I’ve touched myself. The dream that is not lost swimming in the simplicities of desire and lust, but orgasming at the height of complexities cradled in the notion of being seen and felt. The safety of the intimacy in letting go, while being held lovingly in your arms and knowing I am the only place you want to be; today, tomorrow and all of your yesterdays. 

So many ghosts

I think it’s funny there are people who say, “if I get quiet it’s because I learned my place with you”. 

Maybe it’s just me or maybe it’s just perspective, but I believe if you no longer want to talk to somebody then you tell them; you swallow your fucking pride and recognize that the other person has feelings and emotions and you just tell them it’s not working out. Yeah it will hurt but at least you’re not ghosting them. 

Ghosting someone is not learning your place with them; it’s called cowardice; disappearing from someone’s life and abruptly ending any communication with them does not constitute you learning your place, and on the other side of that “knowledge” it certainly doesn’t give any clarity to the person left waiting to hear from you. I truly cannot stand the ridiculous shit people choose to hide behind. 

So many ghosts, so much bullshit.

 

Without regret

I’m just running like hell from one regret to the next. You know, because what is life if we can’t make a record of our own suffering. Regret is the poison my mind drinks often. I say I have no regrets but that’s what I have led myself to believe, it’s my disillusionment. I cherish the idea of no regrets but the truth is I am running as fast as I can from one regret to another, but never moreso than in my mind. My mind is rancid with regret and I am the judge jury and executioner. Have I become addicted to suffering? 

Why is the suffering easier to go back to time and time again? I have millions of memories of joy and happiness yet I cling to my suffering like it’s the only thing that holds me up if standing on one leg.

Have I endured? Yes. Have I survived? Yes. Could I write a hundred stories that would bring anyone to tears? Yes. But why is that more relatable to the people I want to touch than my exuberance or joy? Why is it more critical to the sustainability of my relationships to revel in depression and misery than sharing moments of emotional ecstasies? Why are the two so dramatically on opposite ends of the spectrum? Shouldn’t I be hyper focused on rendering my sheer elation and the pursuit of happiness? But then what is the pursuit of happiness? Can I even navigate my way back to the origin of what this means to me?

The surges of adrenaline and cortisol from emotional disdain and discomfort hit harder and resonate longer so my mind will actively seek out more. Dropping snippets of painful memories like I’m dropping hits of acid to continue down an introspective journey into the unknown. It keeps me afloat in an isolation chamber I created. I have become a recluse in my own mind, so much so that socializing with literally almost anyone outside of that isolation chamber creates waves of anxiety that keep me high and hungry for more. Self sabotage is a cliché in a world where I despise clichés. A hard eye roll and a palm to the face. But this is what I do, this is what so many of us do. 

These emotions keep me “alive” to the point where I feel I am thriving. The plausibility that I have survived all of this suffering, when the reality is I created it. And yet, I still crave touch and affection more than anything, even if I stand in my own way of receiving it. 

It’s no paradox, and it damn sure isn’t paradise. It’s no man’s land and I reign supreme here. I sprinkle it with humor and sarcasm to give the false illusion that I am alive and kicking. My go-to coping mechanisms when I can write it off as me being alive. As if all these moments of self awareness and introspection are going to lead me from the troubled waters of my poisoned mind. Is this the state of my mental health? Is this where I go to get off? How sad, how atrocious and apathetic have I become to my own mental health that I can look myself in the eyes in a mirror and know that I prefer the “hit” I get from shedding tears for my suffering; knowing I get off on running from regret to regret and never apologizing to myself or doing anything to help me. A vicious perfect circle of storms I can stay comfortably dry in. It’s as if I am naive enough to believe I am not hurting the people I love. 

But how do I stop pressing play on the nostalgia of all these miserable excerpts that I have become so fond of; these little scrapbooks of memories I nourish over and over so I can relive them and delude myself into thinking I am alive?

I have made myself inconsolable living on my own needless pain. Now I must break myself of this filthy habit this disgusting addiction; I must relabel it, fix it, transform this contrarian world I feed on and love myself. I can’t unsee it, I cannot erase the knowledge. I must embrace and build upon it. If I am to ever start loving myself I must shed these damaging emotional addictions and feed new ones into my brain, find new ways that are healthy to feed the adrenaline and cortisol fix. 

I must leave this place and travel like a gypsy to create a new world of collective knowledge and remembrance I can lovingly embrace. You know, and actually live without regret.