We went for a walk, my therapist and I. It was nice, out in the sunshine—what little there was. I feel like I’m living little flits of life between blocks of appointments and traveling. I’m gone all the time, it seems. Hours of staring out into white snow on the mountaintops, and then down into the valley in a sea of trees, and it seems like forever.  The time alone is good, but there is never enough. Too much talking, I think.

I don’t stay with my friend anymore, I stay with my godparents. It’s farther away and has its own share of drama and intrigue. Although, if we’re being honest, I consider those things to be annoying inconveniences at this point. I’m bored, but not so much so that it dulls everything, but enough to mean that I stare at my phone more often than not.

I’ve been avoiding the dramatic, though I’ve been angry and yelling at strangers, exploding at the slightest provocation and sending them scattering. My flare ups seem to happen most often in parking lots and with particularly stupid professionals incapable of performing the most menial of tasks. I feel like some sort of advanced species that been tossed in with the shit-flinging, finger-and-testicle-mauling apes. It’s a constant shit show and I’m thrust into it no matter where I am, it would seem.

The truth is, I just want the quiet. And permission from myself to throw plates and kick doors like a tantrum-throwing child because I’m pissed off and completely fed up with everyone else’s shit.


A welcome escape

So it’s done then. It’s strange how talking to my therapist was like talking to myself; I appreciate his ability to sit there soundlessly and let me speak. I talked and talked. I feel like I share more with the walls of my room than with any human being. But in that office with a stranger, far away, where the light shines in through the window and I watch the trees sway outside, I feel like I can say whatever flits into my brain, and it feels definite and solid for once. Real. I’m real, and I’m a person, and I’m sitting on that couch staring out the window, like I do every week.

I saw her when I was leaving, and her eyes were wide and red like she had been crying. She denied all of her lies, of course. Told me that her boyfriend and I had a misunderstanding, and that her “normie” friends have never had any issues with him. I’m curious to know if she actually told the therapist anything at all. I read him all the texts, mostly to prove my point, but partially out of spite, because I know that any words I said to her will be twisted into something over time, manipulated and changed to suit whatever new agenda she has. And she wants more than anything for the therapist to believe her, to think she’s a benevolent soul that cares about others before herself. I told him everything that was relevant, although there is more. It’s my parting gift to her.

Her boyfriend said, “it wouldn’t be fair if you lived with us because you’re attractive and [she] and I don’t have sex”. Yeah, that was all me, doing all the misinterpreting, I’m sure. I read it all wrong, obviously.

There’s relief, but the fear of not being believed keeps floating in my head, this heavy feeling on my heart. It’s not new, this feeling. It’s almost as old as I am.

I’m not sad I’ve lost a friend. When I think back on it, she was never really a friend to begin with, just something convenient, that I knew wouldn’t last. I wonder often if it will always be this way, if I will perpetually step through life plucking at threads of attachment that don’t exist to me. People latch on, I grow bored. I move on. I’m in a room of strands that hold nothing and mean nothing, and maybe, if I live long enough, it might stretch on for forever, just me, alone, looking listlessly out a window onto the street, watching all the people walk by.

This life is a lie

I’m on antidepressants now, because, why not. I feel like I’m tucked in between some fuzzy cotton, all up in my ears, clogging up my brain. It’s like I’ve been neutered and now I’m taking the drugs to make me care about it less, to make me think about killing myself less, to make me jerk off less, to make me fuck my ex boyfriend less. But I don’t know if that’s what I really want. I don’t know if I want to get better in the same way I did before; something is different, changed. I saw the other side in a brief moment of clarity and now I hide away in the shadows, away from it all, from that blinding light of reality that I hate so much, but influences every step I take through life.

caught in the rain

I left the city early. Once again, my friend was being difficult and I grew tired of her bullshit. I left in the middle of the night, got home in the early morning. I slept for a few hours, then drove to meet my ex. We put the seats back in his car and talked for awhile. I forgot how much I missed having a real conversation with someone, not one where I have to censor what I say, or constantly assume that whatever is said is yet another extravagant lie. It was overcast and smokey from the fires. Even the silence was companionable. It’s easy to forget how much you hate someone when they become more or less a staple in your life. You don’t have other options that are even close to as palatable, so it always feels refreshing, different.

We fucked in the woods. There was a lot of pain to it, but it was good and grounding. Easy to get lost in. When we drove away, we went by a field where the sprinklers cast their beams of water onto the road. The windows were down and my arm got wet. But just as we passed by, the drops got heavier and numerous. Instead, the sky was raining down. It smelled like dirt and wet grass, and despite everything, and the fact that it will never work again, it was a good moment to share with him.

There’s so little that feels good anymore. I want to drown in goodness, breathe it all in until I pass out and slip away.


I think i probably spend too much time alone. It’s easier though than having to bother with others. And the truth is, my tolerance has become intolerant. I find myself grinding my teeth every time someone else speaks. They ruin a silence, the gap in conversation where my brain can sort things into some kind of cohesive mess that’s slightly more appealing and understandable.

My friend interrupts me now. Every time I pick up my phone to text, she immediately flings a bunch of questions my direction so I can’t type without long pauses. She’s jealous, I suppose. It’s strange to see. I tire of her attention seeking. She mentioned recently that she hoped we would crash into the bottom of the ravine while we were driving. She said that at least that way we would have more trauma to talk to with our therapist. I’m not sure what to say to that, not even now. And at the time, I said nothing.

She’s slipping further and further into her lies and I watch with lackluster interest. I told our therapist that I was sick of her constant stories with their changes. Every week it’s the same story with altered details, precariously placed in some kind of effort to intrigue me. She has told me she fears getting boring to me. She’s been listening to different music and constantly makes jokes about how “when we’re married” or “when we’re rich”, we’re gonna do _______. I’m not even sure where to go with it. I’ve discouraged her, but it makes little difference.

Then she told me the other day that she wanted me to tell her what I remembered from her doctor’s visit the other day because she “sometimes gets ideas and then thinks of them as part of the memory/story”. In other words, she knowingly lies.

This sudden insight into her own behavior is peculiar; she tends toward ignorance, willful and not. She’s never been particularly self-aware, if anything she has a strong proclivity for bragging and exaggeration. It just so happens that the previous week, I had a conversation with our therapist about her lying, then of course she suddenly says this.

I know for a fact that he (therapist) uses my words for her therapy. She has told me things he’s told her, and I have to stifle a laugh when I realize he’s feeding her my concerns. This should maybe be a warning sign of his untrustworthiness, but somehow I appreciate it. It’s been making my life easier.

I’ve grown tired of company. My current situation is frustrating at times. I find myself away more often than not. I go off by myself for hours and I don’t look back.

Prodigal Son

roy BR.jpg

I always wonder how things would have been if I were different: born to different parents, in some other place, with some other name. I was never a good son. It’s hard to be the good son when your parts don’t match, and everyone else is trying to steer you in some other direction, toward whatever they think is socially acceptable. So in other words, socially inept people raise more social inept people, because that’s just how that pattern goes.

I don’t regret. I know that it all had a reason for happening the way it did. I just wish I knew why. Because we’re nothing without a struggle? We’re nothing without obstacles to overcome at every turn?

Seems a bit unfair, doesn’t it? But fuck it, I’ll just accept that too.


Whatever it takes

Remind me to stop taking trips down memory lane. There’s no use now, really.

Time has given me a different perspective. I’ve changed—not really wiser, but more world weary and suspicious. I’m not sure if either of those things are positive. Maybe in the sense that I’m more prepared, but it’s also probably safe to assume that it limits my abilities to reach out even more.

I spend too many nights on a blank document, staring at it like something will suddenly appear on the page, some kind of answer to all my questions. Nothing will ever be adequate, so I tolerate my half measures, suck it up like the adult I’m supposed to be.

Suffering is like a badge of honor in my universe. You’re not really living unless you’re hating it, right?

How much have I done, really? Why does it always taste like failure? Because nothing’s good enough? That’s the truth, isn’t it: nothing is good enough. I can mourn and lament, but I’m still stationary, stomping my foot and not moving on. Stuck. Stuck in the past, stuck on my old ideas, stuck on people that shouldn’t matter to me anymore, but they do.

Somehow, those people matter, what they said matters, even the ones that are dead. I remember all that they said. I took it in, soaked it up, because I’m not one to turn down a lesson. And now those moments are the only ones to cling to, the only ones that made anything worth it. Worth another breath, another slash across flesh like I’m marking off the days, just to keep going. A deal sealed in blood.

One more day. And then what?

I accept my punishment. Pain is the only thing that defines me anymore. I seek it out, I run from it, I plead for it to stop. What more do we deserve? What more should a person be allowed?

People say they’ll do whatever it takes. For me, that’s just not good enough.