Posted in My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., The Modern Classics, Uncategorized

“I’ve tried leaving my heart free to wander, but everytime…every single time…it always comes back…to you.”

I wanted us to be happy, but I also had an unhealthy definition of happiness. I thought of everything we were, and made it into everything you were. I did things that might make you smile, wrote poems that would light up your eyes. I was content to make your happiness my happiness.

But that just showed how little I understood about life, love, and friendship . You loved me, I know you did, so what would happen to you if you continued to see me giving up my everything just for you? I know you wanted to shower me in love, but I didn’t give you a chance. That affection turned into addiction, and nothing I did was ever done with myself in mind. That’s unhealthy, and of course this made you unhappy. But I couldn’t stop. I should have stopped, and the rational part of my brain was probably screaming at me to stop.

But I was gone.

I turned my love into conditioning, and before I knew it the only thing I could offer to you were the things you already wanted. I couldn’t grow with you, which meant my love couldn’t grow, our love couldn’t grow. Loving somebody is complicated at times, but at its core love is about sharing. I didn’t want to share anything with you, I wanted to smother you in my twisted fantasy. I wanted you to ask me for more and more, until things came full circle and I was demanding that you demand more from me.

Today I found myself thinking about you, and about where you might be. Than I thought about myself and where I’m at right now. I have no idea how I got to this point. How many mistakes have I made in the past 5 years? And how many of those mistakes were done with the intention of sabotaging my chance at happiness? But more pressing than my trip down memory lane is the immediate question:

“Am I happy now?”

Well, I’m happier today than I was yesterday. I think my weekend was a tad bit happier than yesterday, and I know that 2 weeks ago I was so unhappy that I wound up in the mental health ward of my local hospital after my boss called 911, worried about the last text I sent. It included my resignation and reason for quitting, which was something along the lines of “I don’t deserve to be paid for the shit work I do. I’m not the right person for this role and I don’t want to hold you back. You don’t need to cut my last paycheck, just think of it as a fine for being that asshole who can’t even put in a proper 2 week notice.”

This November has been noticeably worse than last years, which was just a tad bit worse than the year before that. I don’t remember November from 4 years ago, but I also can’t imagine things ever being good. I know things must have been good…at some point I must have been happy…right?

“Am I happy now?”

I’m…alive? I am working again, and I am writing again. And that writing has lead to me making some submissions for publication. Alas, I was submitting poems, essays and short stories to various journals, magazines and contests, only to be rejected 99 times out of 100

I’m not sure if I’m happy right now. If I had to give it a score, I’d say my life reflects my recent submissions for publication; 99% of the time I know my life is garbage, because I’m a fucking landfill. But there’s still one, one tiny reason to hope. I wouldn’t call it happiness, but I’m out of options, and who knows? Maybe when you’re as empty as me, it’s better to make a bet on a slim hope rather than trying to stretch out that last, decaying piece of happiness to last me the rest of my life.

Posted in My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., The Modern Classics, Uncategorized

I’ve made more friends with ideas set in ink than warm bodies, and that’s perfectly fine with me.

I just want to read books for a weekend, without worrying about work or the world. I want to take away my sense of responsibility, for myself and every other self within a 10,000 mile radius. I want to spend hours browsing at bookstores, moving my fingers along exposed spines. Between all the paper and ink, I am a Queen. I am the only voice of power, and only by my mercy will these voices be heard. The threat is, of course, hollow. My feet, face, hands, stomach, legs…so my entire body… it’s shaking and wiggling and it’s impossible to hide my desire to read every last pen stroke in this paradise. I just want that sort of weekend. Hell, I just want that sort of life. And maybe somebody who wants to make a book club, just for 2.

Posted in My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., The Modern Classics, Uncategorized

WordPress saved my life

This blog has meant the world to me. I’ve only been doing this for a few months, and it’s not very big, but just having a place to let my thoughts leak out, without having to hold back, is keeping me alive.

I started a new job on Monday, because I had a mental breakdown at my old job a month ago. I have never been a stable person, but like most people with anxiety and depression I have fought to keep it from showing. I made an extra effort at work, because I’m embarrassed by the whole thing.

But I had a bad beginning to 2018, and I got carried away one night. I took far to many sleeping pills along with far to many drinks. My neighbors found me right outside my apartment, lying face down in a pool of vomit. My arms and legs were cut to shreds, and my left arm was marbled purple and swelled to twice its normal size.

I spent 3 days in the hospital. These were workdays too, so I had to call off. I didn’t know how to explain any of this to my boss, but she’s amazing and nice, so I tried.

I failed.

I broke down in tears within the first 10 seconds on the phone, and after 10 minutes of that she told me to just email her.

3 days passed, and I was released. I had a broken arm, and my stomach had been pumped so I felt like shit, and to top it all off I left scars in places I couldn’t hide. See, when I take my clothes off I look insane, just leftover lines everywhere, but I could hide most of them. Even new ones I made, they just overlapped old ones, and it was all hidden. But I couldn’t hide these not from anybody.

I couldn’t go back into work. I couldn’t. I spent 2 more days doing nothing but crying, dreading the end of the weekend and my return to work.

Monday morning came and it all sank in; I couldn’t go.

I emailed my boss, turned off all my electronic devices, and disappeared for a week. Well more like hibernated. But even that’s wrong, because I didn’t sleep.

For 1 week I didn’t set foot outside of my apartment. I never got on my phone or computer. I never left for food or anything else. I talked to no one. I never opened my blinds. I sat in the dark, taking just enough pills in timed intervals to keep me from feeling or thinking without going to far. I didn’t want to go to the hospital again.

After that week I made a return to the world, albeit through the internet. Specifically I wrote something and posted it here, to my blog. And people liked it, some commented on it. I love getting comments. Everyone here is nice, but even if the comments weren’t nice I would be okay with that. Just putting my thoughts out to someone…it really does save me.

So now I have a new job. Nothing fancy, just something to pay the bills. And I have this blog. Again, nothing fancy, but it’s somewhere I can be myself.

So thank you to everybody who reads my blog, or doesn’t read my blog, because I enjoy reading other peoples blogs even if they aren’t reading mine. The internet isn’t real life, but I only feel alive through this site. Is that sad? Bad? Pathetic? Probably all of that and more, but I don’t care.

Thank you everybody, please keep reading and writing, and if you have any suggestions for writing topics or story ideas, or critiques of my other posts, please don’t hesitate!