I. I don’t know how to trust myself anymore. I believed so fiercely (most days) in every word he said, but words stopped aligning with actions, and now I don’t know what was true and what wasn’t. I’m doing this dance between believing nothing was true (searing) and everything was true (also searing) and sometimes I can get to a place where I believe some of it was true and some of it was also true but he just couldn’t follow through for all sorts of reasons – some of which I know and some of which I don’t know because there was a lot I wasn’t being told.

I like the last option because it calms me the fuck down and stops the movie of all the ways I failed him from playing on repeat in my weary head.

II. I wasn’t the only one not handling things well, though, and that is also a thing that I have to remember because gaining a sense of control by blaming myself entirely and then getting to work on ‘fixing’ my brokenness is bullshit and old tape and a pattern I’m no longer willing to engage. I am not broken. I don’t need to be fixed.

III. I have always fallen based on whatever words were flowing my way.

I choose you. 
Never stop. 
You’re my center. 
You’re my breath. 
I’ve got you. 
I will never leave you. 
No regrets.
I’m not going anywhere. 
I love you. 
I’m not lying to you…

And then the out-of-alignment actions give me cognitive dissonance. The cognitive dissonance gives me abandonment depression. The abandonment depression drives me batshit fucking crazy and I become unhinged. Wild-eyed.

And then they get to say “Call your therapist.”

IV. Fuck you. You call YOUR therapist. 

V. Rising and falling. It’s a process. I get good days, and I get not so good days. I get grief-stricken days and I get enraged days. I get numb days, too. Today is a numb day and I’m grateful.

VI. Working a lot. It’s saving my bacon. Again. Thank gods for my work.

VII. All the Harvestfest stuff in my feed is making me goddamned miserable. All the ‘this is why, and also 42’ stuff in my memories. The memories themselves. The way they sear me. The way I have to bite the insides of my cheeks to keep functioning, keep looking, clear-eyed, ahead.

The regrets. Gods, the regrets.

VIII. But this too shall pass, right?

IX. I haven’t been writing lately because I’m sick of myself, so of course, I assume, based on the story of my entire goddamned life, that you’re sick of me, too.

I’m sick of myself.

X. #selfpity #pityparty #wallowing


Edited to add:

Getting the hard shit out of me is the only way I know how to get on with life.

I write it out. I cry it out. I art it out. And then I function. It seems to work okay most days.
It doesn’t mean I’m onlyeveralways how I seem in my writing. In fact, the writing leads me out of the stormy place into a calmer realm.
In case you were worried.


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