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War All The Time
|And I do not think that it is too much to ask.|
To find a person that is as excited to talk to you, as you are to talk to them.
Or to want to hear a kind word when you aren't in a particularly good place. Some sort of reassurance from somebody whose opinion you really care about. Any glimmer of hope that even if it doesn't feel okay at the moment, that hey, it's still going to be okay. Don't let it get to you so much. It's going to get better, trust me.
I miss that feeling of knowing I have somebody that's willing to risk just as much as I am. Not only believing the words they tell you, but really feeling them. It's a certain kind of trust that doesn't come around often. It's something that you miss like hell when you realize it's no longer there. I miss that feeling of really believing, in spite of overwhelming doubt and frustration and nervousness, that the big picture is going to work out because you have this person by your side. Hey. It's okay. These things will pass. I have you. It will get better. It has to. I have you.
I really fucking miss that. I got used to it, but I never took it for granted. I knew what I had was important.
You can't just love somebody when it's convenient. That isn't love. That's an excuse. Loving somebody is hard because it's a constant. You can't pick and choose when to turn it on or off if the situation becomes problematic. You can't conduct a relationship based on that sort of thinking. Stop thinking. Go with your feelings. They are there for a reason. People think too much when they shouldn't, and not enough when they should. Loving somebody is accepting and understanding the situation you have facing the two of you, whatever it may be, and knowing that regardless of the outcome or how difficult it might get in the meantime, you need this person, and they need you just as badly. You give up a little part of yourself, you carry that burden, you accept the responsibility, you make that sacrifice.
In the end, all those things are trivial. They're just technicalities. Yeah, it gets fucking hard because that's how these things go. Life is hard. The more meaningful something is, the harder it will be to deal with. In the end, it's a matter of realizing that this person makes all of those technicalities worth it, and that having them in your life is a far better option than saying goodbye and leaving them behind. I would rather fight for something I love than take the easy way out and live a life of wondering what could have been.
You do what you can with the opportunities you are given.
What do I know.
|Tags: journal, blog, personal, life, relationships
|Drawing A Line
|"Are you a vampire, Joe?" my mother asks. It is six a.m. She is on her way to work. I am on the couch and the television is aglow. The dog cannot decide if she wants to say inside or outside and she is walking the halls and I hear her claws click click click on the floor. I have not slept.|
I might be one, a vampire, I think to myself, considering my mother's question. My sleep cycle is completely backwards. I have never liked garlic. I have an undying lust for charming, youthful girls. I look in the mirror and I do not see anyone staring back. The doctors have diagnosed me with numerous conditions, but Vampirism was never mentioned. I will have to ask about it the next time I am in the office. Wouldn't want that to go unchecked.
Once again, I can feel myself becoming manic. It comes in waves, my mind unable to turn off. Thought after thought, idea, inspiration, desire, fear, curiosity all racing through my head. Write it down, find a way to put the pieces together, find a way to make this productive. Some days I cannot make myself get out of bed until four in the afternoon, and then some days I feel that if I were to sit still I will surely explode. You're losing it Joe, you're losing it boy.
My neighbor is still dying. I suppose this is to be expected, as dying does not usually make guest appearances. Sometimes it schedules your date well in advance. Sometimes it makes a surprise appointment. I doubt he will make it to Christmas.
My medication is the lowest it has ever been, and yet I am fearful of discontinuing it. I experience things in my mind and throughout my body that defy normal physiological explanation, and can only be a side effect of the drug or the subsequent withdrawal that my body and brain are enduring. When I close my eyes and attempt sleep, miniature earthquakes flow through my head and out my ears. I feel as if my breathing stops. I am acutely aware of my heartbeat. Bombs go off inside my skull, but the room is silent. It is all inside of me. It is all in my damaged senses. It is all in the fluctuating levels of chemicals in my bloodstream. The discomfort these symptoms create defies all possible description.
You called ridiculously late. Your name lighting up on the front of my phone. I stared for a moment. Disbelief. I had not heard from you in twelve days. You were just released from the hospital, you say. Bad reaction to the medication. Your brother found you unconscious. Nobody could find your phone, and nobody followed through to call me. You're sorry, you say, you feel terrible about it. I ask "How soon can you get to Georgia?" You tell me you have an appointment on Thursday, and then you can go to the airport afterwards, or on Friday. Okay I say, okay. The weekend, I guess, but if that does not work out, I cannot make any promises anymore. I told you I do not know how long I can fight this fight. I am not weak, but time changes everything, and if things end up too strained, then what is the point? You reassure me. You will stay in touch for the rest of the week until you arrive in Georgia. You tell me there isn't any reason why this shouldn't work out. That you still want it to. That we will be fine.
I have not heard from you since. You were supposed to be here, again. You were supposed to call, and you did not. You have disappeared once again. You have let me down.
I have too many questions to ask, but the point is that you are not here, and nothing will change until you are. A phone call would be helpful, so I know you are not dead or disabled. I would ask for an explanation, but that would only be good until you disappear yet again. You are wanted, but nothing changes until you are here. You have more than enough ways to contact me. Prove to me that you are more than just talk. It is your move.
As for you, dear friend, you deserve better. Why do you settle for what you have? Why do you insist on staying stuck in some sort of hollow relationship? He doesn't appreciate you. He doesn't understand you. He doesn't have a fucking clue. Maybe I'm wrong. It is doubtful. You wrote me tonight, several times, keeping my phone a glowing buzz on the desk. Terribly drunk in the cutest way possible. You made me smile. Thank you. You deserve better. You will find it, eventually. It is up to you to decide when, or how difficult you will make the process. Sometimes things find you, but only if you put yourself in a position to be found.
We all have this illusion in our minds of how our lives could be better. Something we think we deserve. Somebody whose attention we desire. A dream that always seems slightly out of reach. We all have pieces missing. Bits of happiness we are crawling on our hands and knees searching for.
If you don't like your situation, change it.
If you can't change it, leave it.
The sun is rising.
|Tags: journal, blog, personal, life, love, relationships
|The days are blurring again. My skin is crawling, and I cannot relax. I am trying my hardest to resist excessively doping myself up, because I know that means coming off of those drugs will only be harder in the end. I just have to be patient and wait for this treatment to start working.|
I am tingling. I am compulsive. My head feels in a way I couldn't even begin to explain. Electricity shoots through my body. Electricity shoots through my brain. My heart flutters. My brain is filling me with feelings of doom. This is the tip of the iceberg. I won't bore you with all the physical symptoms. You can't understand, and I probably can't even list them all. Misery.
My psychologist is extremely impressive. I feel comfortable talking with him. Many people who go in for psychotherapy have a hard time being honest. They edit themselves, they leave out details, they lie. I don't have a problem talking to people about the things I feel, think, or experience. I want people to share these things. I want people to know, I want people to know why I am how I am. I want somebody to say "I understand, I've felt that also." To form a bond with somebody when you realize you are both fucked up on a certain level, or have felt a certain pain, is something strange, yet incredible.
I wish I knew more people broken like me. I don't know if we could help one another, but at least we wouldn't feel so alone. I have the hardest time trying not to feel alone.
The hour in the office went by so quickly. I am sure this is going to take a long, long time to get my mind and soul back to where they need to be. I cannot pinpoint many single catastrophic events that have led me to where I am. As far as I can tell from these early stages, my anxiety and depression stem from the disastrous relationship problems I have had over the past few years, not to mention heavy alcohol use. I was never abused, abandoned, or assaulted. There is no individual reason for me being this way, and at times I wish there was. It would make it much easier to target the source.
I was never a happy child. To say I was sad would not be accurate, but I don't remember being happy. Feeling joy. Feeling lighthearted. Everything was heavy. My mind could not be turned off. I found comfort in myself, my music, my books, my words. Not others.
Gradually, then suddenly.
That is how I became broken.
Numb. It's happening again. Numbness is settling in, and I'm afraid I will lose feeling for the few things and people I do care about. I am afraid, but it is a necessary evil at the moment.
I feel stupid for letting myself be used and led on for such a long time. I feel so fucking stupid for thinking I could make things work. Why does our generation feel the need to make things okay? Why do we need to recycle these people? Truly, they cannot be that special that they are worth us killing ourselves over.
They weren't worth losing my mind over. They weren't worth my broken heart. These things I know now.
Let it go. Make it stop. Move on. Find another. Fall in love. Fall apart. Fall. Rinse, repeat.
There is rarely any middle ground. I should have learned that a long time ago.
I think I have more to say, but I have gone on long enough, and it is time for more milligrams of something. There is a line of seven medicine bottles. I mix, I match. Eventually I sleep.
On a side note, there is a friend of the family who is very close to dying. I have a lot of thoughts on that, but they do not belong here, now.
More to come soon.
P.S. - I want to send you a Christmas card. See my thread. PM me.
|Tags: journal, meds, psychologist, therapy, christmas cards, relationships