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I'm so disappointed I can't even finish a month's batch. I've been working on this over a year. I think if the base of your skull has been depriving the nerves oxygen, you have an excuse. I have compassion on one hand. The other, get your shit together. I know how to type, and fast. I've been depriving myself of the vices for so long, I can't be myself. I heard a podcast of a lab researcher who began to study addictive substances just to find a way to continue taking them to find her own balance. My spirit animal.
I should back to my original alias. The young girl in her 20's who was a fucking mess. I loved her so much. I understood her. This married fucking desperate housewife, not so much. I can blame him all day, but I chose to be there for him and whatever short circuits ail him. It's me. It's this disease and all the co-morbidities. I didn't choose them. As healthy as I lived, and dieted, and exercised, I could have never seen this coming. Who knew I was suppressing rage and fear since the moment I came out the womb?
Don't befriend a therapist who doesn't see her own therapist. They're always right, and they're always psyching you. She'll insist she's not, but she's guiding you because you're fragile. She underestimates the fact that I can charm you all the way to Wisconsin (I have no idea what that means, but it came out. Tequila!). I am giving her what she needs as an introvert whose mission is to save the world. There is no saving me or this world or any of your clients. You've got it all figured out, haven't you? We've read the same exact books, bitch.
What I like about 100 words updating their website at a glacier pace, years in the making, is that it makes me feel better, more human, and more accepted. I don't give up on my goals, but there is multiple strings of life happening all at once, in different dimensions and vibrating at different frequencies, but I can only live in one of them at a time. I have never given up, but also sometimes you move parallel through time, not straight. And those that hang in there with you, believe in you, never doubt you, are your gold stars.
I like to write when I'm altered, loaded, or caffeinated. In some way not in my natural state. My natural state is deficient. It doesn't add up one second to the next normally. It skips, hence my tendency to always jump to conclusions. When I'm slightly, just slightly on the up, just minimally on the down, I am whole. The camera lens focuses. Literally, I see better. I can almost see the fabric of the universe in binary code, Neo style. I am zen. This does not last long, for the imbalance comes quick and deescalates at a hyper speed.
My cat stands to my left like a statue, a champagne citrus drink of my own invention to the right. He is trying to reconnect with me. Even since I introduce the canine to our home, my attention to him is limited. He is not resentful, which hurts more. He is patient and not judgmental at all when regret plagues me as the pup wreaks havoc in our home, our schedule, our quiet time, our sleep. The other felines, they purr louder when next to me. They are not pleading for affection. They are reconfirming their unconditional love to me.
I'm getting a corgi!I'm getting a corgi!I'm getting a corgi!I'm getting a corgi!I'm getting a corgi!I'm getting a corgi!I'm getting a corgi!I'm getting a corgi!I'm getting a corgi!I'm getting a corgi!I'm getting a corgi!I'm getting a corgi!I'm getting a corgi!I'm getting a corgi!I'm getting a corgi!I'm getting a corgi!I'm getting a corgi!I'm getting a corgi!I'm getting a corgi!I'm getting a corgi!I'm getting a corgi!I'm getting a corgi!I'm getting a corgi!I'm getting a corgi!I'm getting a corgi!
VULNERABILITY: It's all the rage now. I have painted my soul onto a print I digitized and have been selling on Etsy. And some DMs. Only one has loved the painted of my skull and spine, healing with the bloom of flowers, the growth in shocking watercolor colors. But the print is not in perfection, part of my disease. And I haven't received actual online positive reviews so my imagination can runaway with itself and self-proclaim to be disgusting, horrible, reviled by my clients. But is that the healing I promised them? Is that the hope that I painted?
At any given point in time there are problems. Real life, social dramas, things I could put off, things happening in our head, problems relevant only to others. Today, I want none. Regardless, I ruminate on something because it's like a twirling hair or a warm blanket. So I will focus on a stupid problem. My back fat. It's disgusting. It's not 'Merica sized. It's an I used to be so fit problem and now I have less control over certain things so there it is. I love how that used to be the most mortifying thing in the world.
To get out of the fear of discomfort, our body sends us pain to flee. How very inconsiderate that it translate into physical punishment instead of asking us if we prefer the signals of emotional pain first. What a presumptuous bitch that is would send me violent nausea instead of kindly asking me, "Hey, the brain wants to know if maybe you would just rather stay home and avoid this group of crazies that you have a strong distaste? It knows you hate pretending that smile is natural." Instead it sends you sweats, twitches, and to the inevitable porcelain god.
I'm going to have to start telling you about my torturous pain because it's tearing us apart. I don't feel too bad for him because that lack of empathy is beyond me, and the symptoms are clearly beyond my control. This is happening to me, not him. I can be silent about it, but with suppression comes more muscle tension and physical suffering. I don't know if he's Asperger's. There are narcissistic traits for sure, but he wouldn't be clinically diagnosed, I don't think. Then again, an empath like me attracts those who need us and drain us to oblivion.
In North Carolina, where I experienced my first native real life campesino Mexicans, I took them for granted. Their Spanish was so different than min, it was offensive to them. But they were kind, humble, smiled excessively, and, not maliciously, talked about you behind your back . Then one freezing cold day, my tropical body was trying to acclimate, and the wrinkly pygmy-like matriarch served me a steaming yellow corn atole in a styrofoam cup and melted my soul with the sweetest singe on the way down. That would be my first and my last cup. I miss my Mexicans.
Goodness. How to be original without training with and limitations? How to have spontaneous creative thoughts without compromising the immune system or healthy neuronal pathways? How to practice and persist when the materials deteriorate your healing mechanisms. I rely on the nightmares and semi-lucid syncope episodes, the hypnagogic dreams. Unfortunately, I don't suffer from hallucinations or synesthesia, so it's very 3 dimensional, very 5 sense. If I were an cephalopod with a brain throughout my limbs, three hearts, and an ability to change colors and textures, who knows what I could sense in me and portray for your experience.
I've properly outgrown a friend, adult woman, who uses the word drama in every text following, "How are you?" At first, I fought to bring awareness to this ... to no avail. After subjecting me to some passive-aggression, it was time to move on, but not without loving reminders of how hard I fought for us and what our shared history means to me. But she hasn't let go, has she? In fact, she likes this drama, we've established. Suddenly she seeks validation, following up. I've not the heart to do what the modern friend does in this situation: ghosting.
I watch my dressing room body in disgust. I've always had some disdain toward the dumpy look of my fat layer without being too harsh on myself, but as I get older, even though I know I am limited in physical activity, I judge harshly. I should know better. I should avoid sugar 100% of the time. I should never indulge if the goal is exterior vanity. I should be in complete control of end game cell distribution. But I'm not. I cave, I give in. I want some escape. I also want taut skin. Where is the fine line?
This world is fostering our apathy. Just completely canoodling it into a warm numb zone. I just don't care. I don't want to fucking care for the triggered and sensitive baby millenials. Mind you, I'm an elder millenial who landed in the nobody really cares about you era. We give you GMO goods and experiment with your mental health for shits and giggles. Terrified of the upcoming generation Z. Don't even like approaching those too much. How do you love creatures being designed to only love themselves and lifestyle? I don't want to care because it hurts to love unconditionally.
The overachiever in me wants to apply the knowledge of the book before getting half way through. It won't work. How do you deal with suppressed rage so it doesn't manifest as a clusterfuck in real time? That's probably not something it'll cover, but here I sit, trying to breathe through my desire to kill someone who is inadvertently, unintentionally causing me emotional pain. My id has feelings it would like to irresponsibly unleash. Before I repress it into oblivion, welcoming a harbor of resentment, I would like to address it. Without the full story, this Kraken would self-destruct.
Everything I do is fear based. Correction, everything I don't do is fear based. I can't take a step without having to address the paralytic freeze that numbs my actions. What if? What if I fail? What if I waste my life away? What if this isn't for me? What if I get hurt? What if my ego gets hurt? What if people find out I'm a fraud? I'm of that millennial generation where my parents can risk their life to cross a border, have three kids before 30, but I can't make a government call without a nervous breakdown.
It was about 18 years since I had been back to my state. We lodged in gentrified Brooklyn. Knowing my intestines would disintegrate as soon as I had a drop of gin, still we walked down the hollow sounding historic stairs, walked into an open air dimly lit corner bar and I ordered my bee's knees. I know why dad pulled me out of Manhattan when we were toddlers, but I wish he left me there to live in the city. I still feel like I could heal when I'm there. Heal and grow into who I should have been.
Where my dad comes from is what I know. His stories about lashings for dropping a bag of sugar or having dirt floors was real to me. You don't buy a dog. A stray trots by your house, you decide to give it your last morsel of chicken, even though the family is starving. It's yours now for life. So … to fathom scraping up two grand for this entitled ball of fur, plus buying its bed, and kennel, and giving it a doctor infuriates me to the highest degree! But that's the American way. And my soul needs that dog.
Saying my truth, as the idiom goes, is harder than I thought. I thought I was already brutally honest. Turns out I think I'm only speaking the ugly truth that people are already thinking, but not the one's they're not thinking. I withhold a level of controversy and challenging thoughts, feelings, and views. What? Do I have to be an offended millenial just cause the cool kids are doing it? Do I need to stir it up? But I suppose I have tolerated some bullshit too long and I am no longer staying silent. At whatever cost. Viva la resistance!
You can't heal in the environment you got sick in. That has been burning it's way into my mind. I'm letting go of people and habits that I was never able to pull out of before because of that sense of undying loyalty and hope towards people. I understand now that sometimes we have to move on, even if the ending is abrupt. I've never given up on anybody, and had I even let go of a little boyfriend or something growing up it was excruciating. Now, the guilt almost bubbles up from just phasing out of someone's life. Almost.
To effect the positive change of a new neural pathway, I have to believe in the new one. I can't hang on to a record that has played relentlessly for 30 years after this trigger or that. I have trusted that route and grown comfortable in the pain signals it sent. It was desperately trying to protect me. It was desperately wrong. It was depriving me of oxygen. That's cold, brain. That's heartless. Now we're going to fire up new confident roads, take to the skies, have infinite flight paths available to my heart. It's always been ready to go.
I'm feeling isolated, lonely. Just a feeling. Emotions is energy in motion, and they don't have to be static. We should not support the thoughts that trap them deep into our cell memory. It's just a feeling. It might not be a reality based on how many do reach out to me or display love time and again. I will breathe it forwards and let it make it's way out. I shall not fear it. I shall watch it try to settle and lodge itself into my heart, but I won't allow it. There's new energy motioning it's way in.
I have to finish this one. I swore 2019 was the year and I don't have one month completed. Just copies and pastes into this April here. This is the life of the self-employed and unmedicated ADHD autoimmune Instagram built millennial product who loves mimosas and watercolor. Have I been built? Did Google make me? Was this the design since before Monsanto? The experimental kids are now grown adults who leave their 9 to 5's to have a full live experiences of brunches in foreign countries? Nah. That's not me. They missed a few variables. My secrets to keep.
The friends I attract are similar to me, the opposite of what I'm trying to invite into my life. I like self-assured laid back women with wit and an off-beat cynical sense of humor, which essentially, I guess, is what I am , except with the innate security and relaxed qualities. Unfortunately, I think I favor the neurotic side a bit more and I've been fighting it too long. But I trend toward the broken, the tender, the outcasts. Then they flock to me and I can't shake them because I care. I don't want to care. Get off.
What I mean is I want to care about me. Hashtag self care, they say. Don't apologize for being you. There is a selfishness coming our way, I can taste it. It'll be built into the system. I realize I have put others ahead of myself unhealthily and too long, but the power of humility is not recognized. Humility is poorly defined these days. People are back door praising themselves for being so helpful, so kind, so awesome. Excuse me while I take a selfie helping a poor person. Nah, people are meditating and still lost in their cushy world.
No one has searched me out. I have, in the past, reached out to summer flings, my favorite mistakes, the one that got away, the guy I should have approached in high school. What does it say about me that I'm wondering why no one has checked up on me and said, "Hey, found you on such and such platform? What has become of you?" Not even a smidgen curious? Granted, it would be a harmless and boring flirt that leads nowhere but a fantasy. But when people enter my life, fleeting as it may be, it means something, motherfucker.
Have I made it? I'm still in! I'm gonna make it. One month for the whole of 2019. I checked in enough, I sat in this yellow lit room long enough. I had enough substances that mimic a mild truth serum. I just read a 2009 writer who lives near Kerala, the ultimate subversive goal of mine, which is to save up enough for husband and I, and if his fear of flying, foreign water, lack of traveler's insurance or whatever else gets the best of him, then I go it alone. A stranger in India. I'll blend right in.
The final entry. The deal closer. What epic nugget of information is deserving? I'm so very close to divulging my identity because truly, who gives a fuck, and my Etsy might benefit. But I hesitate. Although the weird concoction of champagne-topped muddled-strawberry gin in coconut edelweiss flower liqueur is being imbibed to fruition, I'm still too aware of the horrific angle in which I've purged about my loved ones. None is an absolute truth. None of them curious enough to look me up, but what if? That what if keeping me from taking any monumental leaps. Orange bitters!!!
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