A little clearer

I mean, I guess. It’s been awhile, and everything has crashed down for the rebuild. It’s best to think of it that way instead of admitting my life was a flaming pile of dogshit for awhile there. My therapist is finally gone, after the great betrayal of course. I can’t remember if I went through that whole thing here. Probably not. I was suicidal he ignored me after a phone call and a text message. For a month. I finally contacted him again to find out if therapy was even a thing we were doing anymore. Trigger a month of him manipulating me, saying he’d call or give me an appointment, then nothing. Back and forth texting going nowhere, clearly for his own shits and giggles, so I played along. Then texting me around midnight to tell me that, oh man! He forgot for a whole week to schedule me, but somehow managed to remember in the middle of the night!

So we played the pay attention/ignore game for awhile and it just became utterly pointless. He seemed to be having fun, but it ran out for me, after the third time of him pretending he was going to schedule my appointment and me pandering to his injured ego because he’s an insecure fuckwad. He acted like he didn’t give a shit, whilst answering me on the weekends, at night, etc., so it quickly became obvious that he was more over involved than I had previously considered. It’s always the quiet ones. Well, not really. He would shut up until I told him my appointments were for me, not a time for him to sit there and talk about his life while I paid $150 an hour. I knew it was going to end somehow, but I think I originally thought I would be the one to put a dagger to it and end its misery.

The bullshit became more numerous after I cancelled an appointment in the morning because I was depressed as fuck and didn’t feel like talking to his overly-anxious, subject-changing ass that early in the morning. Oh, yeah, he was doing that too. Getting anxious about what I would want to talk about and instantly changing the subject. Then sometimes he would ignore me, which at this point I am starting to consider may have been entirely intentional. He’s a sensitive weenie, I’ve discovered. And let’s not forget the appointment that came before that, where I told him I wasn’t his responsibility if I killed myself and he shouldn’t feel any fault there. I was being more brutally honest than I had ever been and then he started ignoring my messages and calls. Then he reminded me the next time I saw him, that I “wasn’t [his] responsibility”. Gotta love that.

So I finally blocked him. I sent him one final text message, sugar sweet and piled with compliments since I know he’s got the self esteem of an unpopular teenage girl with bad acne and braces. Then I dropped him like a rock. I mean, we rise up and fall down, right? It was his turn.

It’s been a month and I’m still pissed about it. The petty part of me wants revenge, while the other part is angry that someone could be in that kind of profession and act like such a fucking tool. I’m also hurt because I thought he got it. I thought he had some kind of understanding. I thought we both did. I thought we were friends, if I’m being honest, as much as that word makes me cringe in this context.

I also realized he’s an avoider, which has only increased my loathing. I don’t hate anything more than I hate a coward. So I’m assuming he’s run off now, once he realized he got cut off from his source of feel-good messages and his person to manipulate. I sit back and wonder if he ever figured it out, or if he tries to kid himself and pretend like those compliments were real. It was so heavy handed at the end, I would dare to call it downright sloppy. How unlike me. But you can’t be perfect all the time. It got so tedious.

I have to keep reminding myself that this was the guy that told me the first girl he ever kissed had the same name as me. Called me beautiful. And he got erections during my appointments. Multiple times. He made excuses to touch me, and from what I’ve learned now, even with the specialized therapy I was getting, isn’t normal. But you know, cycles of abuse and shit. And apparently you can be groomed when you’re 30 years old. Who the fuck knew. I’m imagining that’s why it’s taking so long to get over it. There were so many red flags, but I ignored it because the therapy was working. It was actually working. But the next time a therapist asks me for photos of the guys I’ve fucked or details about what we did that aren’t in the context of therapy, that should cause me pause. Hmm.

Nothing is in vain. It’s taken me my whole life to learn that. But it’s true. Everything has a purpose, everything contains a lesson if you’re willing to suck up your pain and look closely. I didn’t know I was still stuck in that old pattern. I will probably always be to some extent, and I will have to consciously decide to be different. To change. It’s easier said than done, but I know that I’m more than capable.

Doing it is a slow crawl, agonizing. Inch by painful inch, nails scraping across the ground as you try to claw your way to somewhere, anywhere but where you are. Eventually you’re nothing but jagged talons and impotent rage.

You have to start somewhere.

I believe they call it resilience.

Not so powerless

The irony of powerlessness is in the fact that it is technically self-inflicted. There is oftentimes a catalyst, a person who drives you into that state of mind. They make you feel out of control, desperate even, like the entire world has dropped out from under you and the only rope you had was the one they chose to let go of. But in giving someone that rope, you hand over your personal power, your confidence and responsibility to yourself as a human being.

This isn’t the first time, and I’m sure it won’t be the last. In my pursuit of betterment, I decided a few years ago that I would need to drastically change, to reconstruct myself from the bottom up. I’ve done this all my life without really acknowledging it, but now I am conscious of my construction. Break apart, put together, break apart, put together. Again, and again. Ad infinitum. Is that a cycle too, a terrible pattern designed to keep me safe, yet also designed to destroy? I couldn’t say yet. But in the end, destruction is oftentimes the impetus to personal power, the catalyst that drives us toward catastrophic, yet necessary change.

The change has come. As I knew it would. It’s been a fight, both mentally and physically. I’ve fought it on every avenue until I slept in exhaustion, finally, after days of an hour to two hours of sleep at night. It was like everything caught up finally, my body to my mind, united again, torn from dissociation violently. There was vomiting and a deep sickness that arose, a fluctuation of mood and the feeling of impending doom. But I realize now that it wasn’t just about the betrayal; it was about the inevitable change that was coming down on my head.

Ropes are temporary and fray. Chains can break. But I know now that the most I should give out is a string (except for a select few), and offer it a little tug when times become uncertain. There will be no freefall that is not of my own choosing, because this was a lesson to move me forward, break me from my hopelessness. Trust is vital, but it doesn’t need to become the tool of survival, but a tool of usefulness when going the path alone isn’t possible.

I need other people at times. I accept this, even if it leaves me wanting to scream and bitch and hit the nearest object until my hand bleeds. Transformation is painful; it wouldn’t be so transformative if it wasn’t. I don’t like it, and I still swing between despising it and accepting it. You can hate something, yet know that it is true.

I accept the painful truths. I accept that other people are allowed to behave like children and there is little to be done about it. You can confront, but what good does it do? Let them wallow in their childishness, let them think that they are right and that their pettiness is justified. It’s almost funny, really. The reactions of others say more about them than about me; it makes no difference what feelings they held, only that I see through the veil. And I do, finally.

Insecurities run rampant, the back and forth of disorganized attachment and the tools of isolation and willfully ignoring someone else for the sake of hurt feelings, those are the tools of a damaged manipulator. Facing your feelings is a hard thing to do. It takes me months sometimes, but I do my best to see rather than gloss over. Others, do not.

Fear is powerful. My fear was that I couldn’t do it alone, and that if I reached out I would be abandoned. And that fear is true in some cases. But I’ve recognized the reason I was afraid was because I handed the rope to the wrong person, and I intuitively knew it and ignored it. I wanted a pattern and that’s what I got, a pattern of pain, because I wasn’t done learning just yet.

But now here I am with my own rope. It’s frayed, damaged, but not irreparable. I could hang with it, choke out into darkness. Or I could pick myself and hand it to the person I keep tossing aside because of fear. The person I’ve known since the beginning was the only one who was deserving of it. Maybe that’s why I shied away; I was afraid of truly being supported, of real, actual connection. I’ve run away too many times to count. But you were patient, weren’t you? I was too blind to notice.

So here we are. There’s the void down below. I’m gonna toss you this rope. It’s yours.

Because my mistake was isolating myself and cutting everyone out in fear, even the one I knew was the only safe one of the bunch. I’m sorry. I made a mistake. You offered forgiveness in the face of my betrayal. You were a developed enough person to know I was suffering and you respected me enough to let me go without a fight. I didn’t see that before. That it wasn’t because you didn’t care; it was because you’re the only person in my life that respects my boundaries. I say no, and you say “Okay”.

Fuck, I didn’t realize how profound that was.

That rope, it’s all yours.

Let’s do this.



I’ve spent too much time in this mask. It feels stuck to my skin now, this impermeable layer that won’t let me breathe. I used to tailor myself, make it bespoke for whomever was going to look at it. But then I got lazy. And they always look, sometimes they stare. I felt like that today, at the store. I was walking slow, meandering through the aisles, maybe because it was an escape, a getting away. There’s a quiet death lurking around; I can feel it, somewhere between the quiet and the shadows, and maybe that’s why I always leave the fan running. But out in the open, there’s no fan to cover the lack of sounds, or the too many sounds. I have my headphones in my purse for whenever I need them, whenever the sensory overload that is other people becomes too much and I feel like I want to crawl into a dark hole away from the world, down under a cold, wet deck, like a dog about to die.

The people stare and gawk. I wonder if there’s something on my face, but I just look at them with that slight bit of contempt creeping in, and they look away quickly, pretending like they never looked at all. Maybe they’re curious. But I like to just think that they’re rude and staring, whether that is the truth or not. An old therapist used to say, “maybe they think you’re pretty” and I laughed at her. If that’s the case, it makes no difference. Compliments make me feel gross, and when someone looks me up and down it makes me swallow bile. Everyone wants a piece of something, even if it’s not as pretty on the outside as other things can be. They want it, want to hurt it, want to have it. Sometimes I want things too, but I try not to treat them like a piece of meat if I can help it. Sex is like a business transaction, and I’m not rude in business, so why would I be rude during sex? Maybe I am rude and cold, and sociopathic. It’s what they tell me. Maybe I lack awareness around it because the reality is, I just don’t care. Life is a series of meaningless events with meaningless people, and it’s rare to have a moment that stands out from the rest. Maybe that mentality taints it, taints it with a darkness that spreads, like blood on a sheet. Out and out it goes, and you spray it with Spray ‘n Wash, and throw it in the pile, hoping in a few days time it will be back to stark white again after a roll through the washer.

They’re still bloody, those sheets. I have them in the cupboard somewhere, balled up and forgotten, covering up those conspicuous stains from curious eyes, even if the curious eyes are just my own. I don’t want to look at it, or the bloody handprint that still has a vague outline somewhere near one of the corners. Maybe I died a little bit then, too. Maybe it was like a rebirth. People are born in bed and die in them too, and they even get made in them. What did I make of you?

Something was born in those sheets, something vile and ugly. Something that never fully dies. And I know you’re not worthy, not really. You’re like the ruined sheets, and if I’m being honest, well, I should just toss you in the trash too, instead of letting you rot and mildew in some forgotten cupboard like I’m gonna come back someday.

But maybe I’m a little sick and I like it when you hope.


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.