i dont know where to start, and thats why its taken so long to even start a new blog, i guess. i cant even remember the last time i wrote anything close to resembling a personal diary. so, here goes nothing i guess.
”I fought a war to walk a gang plank into a life I left behind.
Windows leading to the past, I think it’s time to break some glass,
get this history off my mind.”
-Caves, Jack’s Mannequin
Today was my last day seeing L***** as my case-worker. I finished IOP last Friday and i can’t say i’ve gone to any meetings since. I guess i somewhat purposefully avoided going to any of the dual-diagnosis meetings seeing as how i ran into Red 1 in there on Friday. That was a fucking moment and experience. I couldn’t stop my stupid grinning and fidgeting which ultimately led to me being called on to share. I really had zero to share, considering i haven’t had a drink in about 2 months, and i never get “cravings” in the literal sense. Plus, having a bright green cast on my right legs mean i cant limp my sorry ass to the liquor store to buy cheap plastic bottles of vodka. Its just as well. Not being able to drink or smoke cigarettes means i can more readily prepare to run. After i’m freed from this plaster cast hell, that is. Which should be tomorrow. Then i;ll get a sweet moon boot, but at least i’ll be able to wear leggings again. I’ve really nailed the ‘depressed, lost-the-will-to-do-anything’ look with my fucking sweatpants and sweaters.
Anyways, i’ll miss L*****. She knows my whole damn life-sucking story now…and i know shes paid for this and whatever, but she really made me feel understood and taken care of. I think i picked up some good skills while in IOP and while in one-on-one sessions with her. Like, not letting my mistakes define how i think of myself. And how i was worth fighting for, working for, loving….without the bruises on my upper arm or the abandonement. Maybe it wasnt all my fault. Maybe i put Him on a pedestal. Maybe i made Him out to be this wonderful, super-hero…the one who was gonna save me from all the demons and bad shit, right? But He was just a 19 year old kid…who i let convince me that He was mature enough to handle and have me the way i was. But He wasn’t. Because let me tell you something i’ve learned about addiction. It hurts no one more, than it hurts the sufferer. I understand that of course it was not easy for Him to love me as an alcoholic, sex addict. But i can wihtout a doubt say the pain and hollow, chest-collapsing anguish i have inflicted on myself on behalf of these addictions far exceeds any amount of anything i made Him feel because of it. Maybe that sounds selfish but i know its true. And others have fought for me through so much worse, for such longer amounts of times, that it really makes me sit my ass down and wonder… did He really fool me into believing he would stick by my side, through it all? Did he fool himself in the process? Does he regret giving up, the way i regret letting myself fall so perfectly into the mold of “us” he had craffted?
I’m beginning to reallize that the answers to those questions don’t matter much anymore. Maybe they never really did. The facts are laid out plainly for me, and Him, to see. I am here, He is 1,500 miles east. It’s been 6 months. We will never be in eachothers lives again. Like suppose we ever bumped into one another again. We’d be perfect strangers. I am not the same and neither is He. It would never be ‘Us’ again, you know? I’ve been coming to terms with that, and the fact that I still cry about this bullshit breakup even 6 months later. But i can’t beat myself up over that…i really let myself feel the full spectrum of safety and reassurance and happiness during that year. Even through the handle of vodka a day it took to sustain me near the last half of it, the feelings i let Him cultivate in me were visceral and real and raw, and unlike anything i’d ever felt. I got lost in the blue waves of His eyes and the chrome music notes we’d play into the backseat of His parent’s car. The deep teal of the 4 am summer mornings leaving His parents…I mean, i could write novels with descriptions and adjectives i’ve assigned to that summer and ‘Us’. I’m giving Him a lot of credit here, is what L***** would say. I was there, too. I was half of the magic and mythos.
It’s hard to cut myself off of the train of thought that get’s set off by thinking of Him and Us. But if i don’t i’ll be stuck here for weeks and honestly, He doesn’t need the ego boost of it all. Then i forget that this is my blog, and i can do and write whatever the fuck i want in whatever format i want.
Kygo is playing on my phone. ‘Often’. An anthem i assigned to 12 am’s in the backseat. Stupid. I was playing into my inner trouble maker with all that shit…
God, how i let that side of me run rampant once i settled into the East Bay again. I was a fucking kid in 14 year old me’s fantasy mischief candy shop. Spending every weekend in Crockett, having horrible lack-luster sub-par sex with an addict who couldn’t give two shits about my well being. Drinking until i passed out so i wouldn’t have to think of Him or Us or any of it at all. Whole lotta good that did me. Landed me in a cast and down 1 “friend” i’d had since freshman year. I wish i could tell G**** that like, no i didnt have feelings for you i just needed to have feelings for anyone and it just so happened there he was willing to share a bottle of Beam with me. I dont believe im actually any worse for wear without him in my life though. I’d never judge G**** for being a drug addict, i’m just as bad with my vice of choice(alcohol, opiates) but i also dont particularly wish to co-exist in close proximity with people that toxic and uncaring and just…i did not recognize him or A***** at the end of all that…It’s like everyone was playing a game of who can self-destruct faster and i was pulling ahead of the group at alarming rates. I don’t blame him for anything other than being callous and nonchalant with my inner workings. But, i can’t say the deletion of him from my life is actually causing me any grief.
I’m feeling a bit tired, but i haven’t taken any of my sleep meds today so that’s a bit weird.Maybe it’s because i cried my face off during my meeting with L*****. I hate that. I know there is no way for Him to know it, but i don’t want Him to know he has any power or …anything over me. He doesn’t. But here i am , talking about it and trying to logic myself into believing what i want. And all of the sudden i feel the spite and anger for Him and everything He is and does and surrounds Himself with prodding at the lid of my containment abilities. A part of me wants to say fuck Him and whatever the hell he may be doing at this exact moment. Another piece wants to just keep my brain positive and tell myself like, my life will be great soon enough and this will all feel like ages ago and i’ll only think of Him maybe once every 367 days…
It’s just the way the clouds are painting the sky that unmistakable Hell grey. That’s why He is bargaining with my mind’s gatekeepers to allow Him to seep in and coat the rest of the day i have left. I wish i could evict Him. That i could have revoked His stake in my head when he drove away from me in his front lawn that July morning. I’ll have to work on it.
I’ve been dreaming of Him again, too. The last one made me want to manually rip every square inch of flesh from my chest so i could rip my own heart in two. Hell always looks the same in my dreams, and it looks nothing like how it does in real life. We were laying in His bed, again, i know how it looks in real life but my dream has painted a different picture. I had spent most of the dreams in exhaustive efforts to get him to give me another chance or to…gain his love. Something tedious like that. And it was hurting me because in my dreams, He is still Him. Not this new G***. I dont know him… Anyhow, i saw everyone’s faces again and laughed with them all and at the end of it, i was in bed with Him. My left cheek was pressed against His chest again. He was the only one that ever let me be so affectionate and comfortable. It was the same all over again. June on repeat. And i swear i felt His beard brush against my forehead again, and He brushed my hair back again with his calloused gentle hands…
He said, “Alright baby, say goodbye. I’m leaving now.”
I looked up at him and felt the real sadness and sewage feeling of it deep in my chest. But i didn’t protest the parting.
“Bye.” Was all Dream Me said.
“Tell me you love me.” He said it through a smile i couldnt understand.
“I love you.” I was starting to wake up but willed myself to keep dreaming, and it worked.
“I love you too, sweetheart.”
I was still looking up at Him and He was all teal and maroon and waves and i was yellow and blue with desperation and hollow longing for a millisecond more. I woke up angry that He had visited me in my dream. Because i want Him out of every single facet of my life. I need Him to be gone, in order to survive. He needs to be completely faded and phased out. Demolition crews needs to take wrecking balls to the monuments of Us i have in my head and heart. It always makes me think back to the day before the Last Day, when he drove us out to the middle of nowhere in Hell. And we sat on a rock in the middle of nowhere and fucking cried and let ourselves bleed out from the hypothetical hesitation marks horizontal on our wrists. And He told me, “We’ll always have this. Right here. This moment isn’t real, it’s just in our minds. If you ever need me, i’ll be right here in your dreams. We can both meet here when things get to be too much. Whenever we want.”
I’m not naive and idiotic enough to believe that when i dream of Him, it’s because He’s dreaming of me and somehow the universe has dropped both of our souls off at that field in Hell in our made up Saturnian universe. But it eats me up alive, from the inside of my inner organs to the useless, redundant tears my eyes are spilling now. I didn’t expect to cry while typing out the theory of that field in Hell…. I guess i’ve been trying my best to bury it. Maybe it can fully dissipate into nothingness now. I’d really like that.
Either way, i’m doing better. But i can’t help but feel like my need to physically write that out might mean i’m only trying to fool myself into believing it. I hate that He’s okay and i’m left picking up the charred wreckage of who i am… and what He wrecked by cutting Us short. But i”ll get there too someday. I just know it. I’m not laying down to die this time. I can get up and fight back harder. I know i can. I’m capable of much more than i give myself credit for. This isn’t destruction, it’s rebirth.
atinyfeline 