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.

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.


I’ve been staying home. I came right back from my appointment in the city 3 hours away because I didn’t want to have to be with other people. I didn’t want to have to put on a face and grimace and deal with it. I’ve been overwhelmed and tired.

I told my therapist about what I did during the week. He asked me if it was a quickie because we were in the car, and if it felt good. Then he questioned if we had been fooling around while driving—all weird, seemingly inappropriate questions. I answered because his sudden interest in my sex life after months of more or less glossing over it and avoiding it, was intriguing. I assume he has some reason for asking those questions, but maybe he’s just a man and he doesn’t. I don’t know. Maybe he wanted to know if it was an impulsive act, or more thought out. Or maybe he was just curious and wanted to know how fucked up girls cope. Or maybe he’s a pervert. Fuck, I don’t know.

I met up again with my ex boyfriend, on a bridge out by a reservoir. He fingered me while I sucked his dick. He bought me a bunch of things, gave me money and I went home. Like a fucking hooker.

My therapist asked me if it was just sex, and I felt almost…insulted? How do you explain something—a feeling—to another person who has never experienced it before? Do you tell them it makes you crazy, this feeling? That without the other person, you suddenly feel like less, like a part of something that got shattered?

Then there you are, broken pieces held together, but it’s not enough to be anything. The good parts are gone, and you’re left alone, holding onto fantasies and daydreams because you’ve finally realized that everything was an illusion. You made this person out to be what you needed them to be, but when you stop and look, you realize that you were avoiding all the things about the relationship that were never going to work. He has parts of what I want, but only parts. The whole is riddled with addiction and anxiety and lies. Nothing will ever be true.

I could cut it all off and turn away. But then, there I am, left with nothing. I gave everything away already, and I guess looking back, there’s none left for me. I can have the fragments or I can have nothing and move along. But what’s life without some fire, without some pain? It already feels like what I get from it isn’t enough. I’m jaded.

I feel cheated. He gets to go home to someone else, and I go home alone, just like I wanted. I don’t know. I don’t want to be with him, but I don’t want to be completely without him. I want to fuck him and touch him, and be held for a few minutes. I want to be able to tell someone the truth about my life, to their face. He serves all those purposes. But is it worth feeling like this? Like everything is dark and hollow and terrible now? I don’t feel desperate or confused anymore, just tired. So tired and worn down. I want away, but I feel stuck in place. I already know how everything will turn out. It’s written in stone, the story told a thousand times. I’ve told the story myself.

Change. I keep asking myself who I want to be, and I think back to all the times I had to cower in fear and hide away. It’s been years, but even now when I think back to it, I flinch in disgust and self loathing. Whatever that was, never again. I can’t afford to go back. Making it out alive seems like some kind of distant, unattainable future, but there it looms. And so does the power to end it at any second. Everything, every problem I have ever had, it can be gone.

I can be done. Sometimes that’s the only comfort you get.

That spectrum is scarier than you think

Today, I had to explain to a 69 year old woman, that turning a fan on in a completely sealed 10×10 room doesn’t in fact “keep it cool” while you’re gone. And I wonder why the electric bill is so high.

I told my therapist that I hate everyone. I told her that her therapy is a waste of time, and her logic and the logic of those before her is flawed. I told her that everything human is flawed, tainted. They’ve penetrated it with their stink and it can’t be washed out. “But research shows…” she says, and hands me a paper on meditation and its effects on the brain.

Telling someone the truth is worse than anything I’ve ever felt. When I say it out loud, it makes me sound like I’m 14 and rebelling against my parents. I can see the disbelief in her eyes, the denial. I’m all wrong, they think.

Our superiority has been wasted on the weak. You go to your jobs, make money, fuck, have kids. All because numbers have you protected and safe. There is no monster at your backdoor, or a neighbor with a knife to your throat. We’ve weeded out the natural order of things, and we stagnate. Stagnation leads to decay, decay to ruin.

Every day is another step toward mediocrity. Every breath is wasted.

And she says this is unimportant and has nothing to do with what we’re working on. Apparently she never stopped to think that perhaps the reason I can’t sleep at night, the reason I hate myself and the people around me with such a violent passion, is because each day I live the reality of despising what I am.

I am so disgusted by it, I can scarcely function anymore. I will take and take until there is nothing more to give, because this is what I am and I know nothing else. I seek pleasure or die. There is no other reality.

A true waste of air

I grow weary of their tired answers and flawed reasoning. I’ve learned a lesson though, so I suppose that is something. I knew that they did not care; what bothers me is the act they put on trying to make me believe that they do.

I try to be kind, but I find that bitterness seeps into my words. I laugh when I shouldn’t. My death is funny, my end is a comedy, don’t you see? They retreat in horror, hidden behind that faltering, stoical gaze. But I see it. I see you. You hesitate, swallow, take a breath that’s a fraction too deep. You think I’m wrong. That’s what your body says, even when you try to formulate a response free of your own shortcomings.

For a human being to speak without bias is impossible. Even the most practiced speakers give themselves away, and what are we all but piles of dead-ended feelings and constant misconceptions? We cannot make any statement that is not tainted by the virus that is our own humanity. And what a filthy thing that is.

You read me wrong, fool. But I read you.

You like listening to me talk about those decaying memories? Does it make you feel powerful?

I hope you liked my voicemail.