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.

That abandoning ship thing from before…

Yeah, it happening. My tolerance is kind of amazing sometimes. Maybe it’s just because I’ve had to put up with so much bullshit, that mildly crazy isn’t so bad. I mean, it’s totally normal  for your friend to take their car door and bash it into the side of the car next to them because your friend is insane and thinks they parked too close. That’s average human behavior right? Or your friend talking about how they wish we would get into a terrible wreck so we could have more trauma to to relay to our therapist, that’s not super manipulative and fucked up or anything. Or lying to your supposed “best friend” and saying that your boyfriend wants her to leave, when really you’re just a coward and don’t want your boyfriend to be upset with you because you left the house for a few hours. Huh.

So yeah, you could say I accept it now. The craziness, I mean. She went from mildly annoying to full blown BPD bitch with all the trimmings. She talks about us getting married and having boyfriends on the side, like it’s something that’s going to happen someday. Or moving into a house together. Even though she’s honestly reaching Bellatrix Lestrange levels of batshit crazy. That’s fine. We’ll just gloss over it with some nice paint.

Then week before last, she made up this story about her boyfriend having nightmares about her and I moving in together because I got money. So because he was so distraught, he needed to start sleeping in bed with her again instead of on the couch.

The whole situation is also beyond inconvenient. But I’ve already decided I’m no longer taking an active role in it. Fuck it. Let it burn down. I’ve decided I’m going to be greatly inconvenienced, because that is much more preferable to whatever the fuck was going on before.

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.

You’re never there

It’s kind of ironic how motivated you have to be in order to seek out psychological help. And getting it, that’s a whole other thing. You have to be motivated for that too. And then you have to maintain that motivation throughout the therapy itself, pushing forward like you really want it, to “get better”. They’ll lie to you and tell you that none of your behaviors are bad, because part of their job is blowing smoke up your ass and making up annoying compliments. Because people trust people who give them compliments, right? It’s like how when you tell a man that he has a nice dick (just say it’s big) mid-fuck, and suddenly his eagerness quadruples. Then you tell him he’s the best fuck you’ve ever had, that all you think of is just him, and god, he’s just so big! Suddenly he’s a lot more excited to see you.

That’s basically what therapists do. It takes months, but every time you come in, they lay it on and expect it to somehow instill closeness and trust. I feel like every fumble to make me trust is another step back. It just looks glaring and obvious, and they sit there smiling like there isn’t this fucking completely conspicuous thing. Maybe I read to much into everything. I mean, of course I do.

I don’t know what I’m talking about anymore.

My friend texted me today, telling me how her boyfriend being away during the day is driving her crazy and she’s been tracking his phone and so on. Convenient time to mention this, since this particular behavior of hers was what made me leave last week. So she lays it on, telling me that it’s terrible and how will she cope… All I’m thinking is how its odd she keeps repeating it, and doesn’t she know that I know, that she’s saying all this so that I will feel like the incident last week was not unique? Doesn’t she know that i already have her thought process written out in my head like pages from a book? I’m ten pages ahead—what the fuck is she doing all the way back there, still stuck on convincing me that it wasn’t about me? I already know. I knew then. I know now. But that’s the thing about her: she thinks she can predict me, but the only view she’s ever been able to see is her own. I talk about my mother and suddenly she’s questioning everything and making assumptions based on her own mother. It’s like she’s stuck. She can’t wander off the road. Everything in the world is based on her suspicious experiences with her family rather than say, my words/stories about my mother and her particular personality.

I think this a lot about myself. My awareness is, of course, the result of experience. Does it blind me? Does it make me biased when guessing on the motives of others? It can’t not. I think that’s what’s important about all of this: an awareness that insight will always be a little off. I’m never going to know 100%. I can look at what people in my life have done and make an attempt to hypothesize from there, give it an educated guess, but people can and will surprise me at some point. I also have seen more untrustworthy behavior than the sort that should be trusted. I know that. It’s something I often find hard to overcome, if at all.

At the end of the day though, let’s be real here. I’m just not as bad at it as she is. It’s like she saw some dramatic lifetime movies and now the whole world revolves around that unreal behavior. She can’t even guess right about people she knows. Her boyfriend was guarding a purse at the laundromat. A woman had walked away and he had noticed and stood next to it so no one would take it.

My friend’s first response (we hadn’t seen the woman leave, and didn’t know what he was doing) when he asked her to walk over so he could hear her, was to tell him she “didn’t want involved” with whatever he was doing. He was standing there, obviously looking around for someone while he stood next to it.

Logicially, he wasn’t trying to steal from it because he wasn’t touching it, he wasn’t even looking at it. Nothing about how he was acting gave any indication that he was going to steal from it. But that’s her first assumption. This guy that she’s known for years is suddenly, randomly, going to steal from some woman’s purse. It’s like he was a stranger. Nothing she knew about him, his personality, had any bearing in the situation. Even only knowing him a few weeks at that point, it was completely clear to me that he was watching someone’s purse, not because I don’t think people steal, but I know having spoken to her boyfriend, that he wasn’t the type. Of course, he later confirmed my assumption when the woman came back and he explained to her that she’d forgotten it and he was worried someone would take it.

What the fuck. And she’s like this all the time. I don’t want to think of the assumptions she makes about my behavior. On top of that, she secretly looks down on everyone and assumes they don’t notice her blatant manipulation. It’s so obvious when she’s doing it, that I cringe. There’s no subtlety, no surprise, just this giant fucking tank barreling through a forest, felling all the trees and acting like no one can fucking SEE or HEAR it. It’s right there, it’s loud as fuck, and it’s more garish than fucking pink plaid!

Sometimes it makes me want to bash my brains in. It’s like dealing with a narcissistic child. And then you tell her things and she just parrots them back to you, forgetting that you were the one that told her in the first place. Over and over and over.

There’s been a lot of complaints. I know. I think the solution to this problem is to not have one at all. I’m considering more or less abandoning ship on her. It’s getting ridiculous, for more than one reason, and I feel like I’ve overstayed my welcome. She can keep her marriage fantasies (yes, this is a thing, also, take notice that it’s plural) and her boyfriend issues. I’m getting bored and I really just don’t have much tolerance. I need her for now, for various logical reasons, but we’ll see if she gets the chopping block in a few months.

I’m hoping she’ll be overly cautious now, but I feel like that’s a lofty expectation where she’s concerned.



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.