breaking up

Here comes the backlash of the backlash. I love my brain.

Rereading some of my old paper-journal entries last night, I discovered several themes. None of them are catchy or cute, but they’re the framework for the worst pattern in my life so far: not believing that other people believe me, and so withdrawing in some sort of elaborate punishment to myself and to aforementioned people.

I also have this strange obligation thing going on, like X number of people are depending on me at any given time, and if I can’t deliver the emotional support they need, I Am A Bad Person.

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Dr. Doctor and I discussed meeting once a week instead of twice; I accepted. More like, leapt at the offer. Going to therapy twice a week makes me feel decrepit, like I need a mental pit-stop twice as much as the average nutcase.

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No movement on the San Francisco front. Of course that is weighing heavily on me these days, because I want to go now more than ever. The excitement about a new job in a new city in a new part of the country crept right up on me, and now it’s infected every single thought I have. Chad and I are tense, waiting. Neither of us is very good at waiting.

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I don’t talk about the serious things anymore, and they line up in the shadows around my pillow and then pounce into my sleep. Even with the Klonopin, I sleep two, maybe three hours in a row and then wake up from disturbing dreams. Most of them are about Zen escaping. I follow her, grab her, and look for a container to transport her in. A basket, a backpack, a pet carrier, my arms, a bowl. Then I bring her to safety. Over and over again.

If I don’t dream about Zen, I dream about Chad: Chad not recognizing me; Chad leaving me for someone else; Chad standing silent while someone hurts me. These scenarios are implausible. I wake up upset anyway. The real Chad rubs my back, whispers, “It’s just a dream,” and I lay there a few minutes until he drifts off again. Then I go downstairs, find Zen and pet her as she purrs, sometimes go outside on the patio to smoke and watch my sickly flowerbeds.

Yes, the flowers are dying in the Alabama swelter, no matter how much I water them or how I reposition them. The moss roses are hanging on admirably, but today the bud I was waiting on bloomed incredibly melon-pink and died, all within the space of five hours.

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I got myself into a bad situation in the trivia chatrooms. Once again, I became the babysitter of a group. Like I’m some paragon of virtue and etiquette. So I left.

I search for Meaningless Discourse, flitting from shallow encounter to random exchange. Most of my friends have stopped asking how I am because they know they won’t get anything real, if anything at all. They are patient.

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It’s so much easier to mean nothing to anyone. Then I’d get away with all sorts of irresponsible shit. Maybe I’d still feel guilty for it, or obligated to rectify my errors, but at least I’d have those few moments of whatever exists in the absence of guilt. Haven’t seen it; wouldn’t know it if it bit me.

And even though this entire entry is projectile spew – thanks for holding my hair back, by the way – the guilt has lessened minutely, because I finally got an entry written and I’m going to post it immediately so I don’t change my mind for the thirtieth time about what it is I really want to tell you about myself.

If anything at all.

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I acknowledge that I live and work on stolen Cowlitz, Clackamas, Atfalati, and Kalapuya land.
I give respect and reverence to those who came before me.