Sad

I am sad today.

We didn’t get the electoral result we were hoping for, and this makes me frightened.

My grandmother’s health is failing, as is my father’s. I am so scared to lose them.

My family live far away from me and sometimes I get so bloody lonely. I miss them so  much. My mother is getting older and that frightens me. Sometimes I wonder what I am doing in this city.

I am dating someone wonderful but I don’t think we’re meant to be together forever, and that is sad too. I don’t want to have to let her go.

I look around my room and I am slightly sickened by the amount of clothes I own. Stuff, stuff everywhere. I wonder what the point is. What is the point of anything?

I didn’t go to choir rehearsal today and I feel guilty about that.

I can’t keep my guitar lessons up because I don’t feel ready.

I have a challenging new job that I like, but, at the same time, it terrifies me, makes me anxious and clouds my leisure time.

I am scared of what the future will hold. My loved ones might get sick and will eventually die, as will I. I am constantly braced for disaster, poised for peril, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for something to go wrong, as it inevitably will. Waiting for things to blow up in my face.

I will not push this sadness away. I will be grateful that I am sad because it means I am feeling. I am alive.

This sadness will pass. I know that. It always does.

Anicca.

 

Guess what, this still sucks

Another day, another mopey post.

But fuck it. I feel the way I feel and I’m allowed to express it. I need to express it.

I miss her. I miss her cuteness. I miss her smile. I miss all the little things that make her her. I miss being the person she talked to first about her day. I miss discussing things with her. I miss doing things for her, driving her to work, making her cups of tea. I miss being a partner (or an almost-partner, anyway) and a lover.

(Did it even really happen or was it just a beautiful dream, over all too quickly?)

It had been so long since I had that with anyone, and it was so nice to be back there… God, it was nice. I love that role. It makes me happy.

I want to know how she is faring. I want to hear what she’s up to. I want to know how her classes are going, how her job hunt is progressing, what she’s got on this week. I hate that I don’t know and can’t know and won’t know. When I realise I might never know, I feel a little like I’m suffocating.

I suspect she’s thinking of me, and I hate that I can’t be with her.

I am a little alarmed by how much this is affecting me. It’s making me feel slightly panicky. “This is bad,” part of me is saying. “This is worse even than we anticipated. Maybe you made a mistake. If you did, it was a big one. It’s over now and it was your doing. If this is wrong, what the hell are you going to do?”

There is no going back. As a friend said, I can’t go back to her; it wouldn’t be fair. Even as I agree with him, I hate that I have to agree.

I think I’m shellshocked, to be honest. Again I ask: if this is right, why does it feel so wrong?

I don’t want her memory to fade into the background of my life, even though it probably will. I don’t want to let her go yet. I don’t. I don’t. I don’t feel ready.

I don’t know what to do and still there is no going back. There is only me, here, sitting in front of the heater in my bedroom while the wind rattles the windows and I hate what I have done.

sigh

How the hell is it fair, that’s what I want to know.

No, really. How?

😦

I finally, finally found something special and beautiful with a special and beautiful person and I wasn’t allowed to keep it. I had to give it back. I had to return the gift to sender.

And now I am alone again.

I know I did the right thing. My heart was telling me not to commit, because ”us” wasn’t meant to be. I could feel it, even though I didn’t want to. So I did not commit. To do otherwise — to lie, to pretend, to deny, to delay, to ignore my inner wisdom, to procrastinate — would have been to go against everything I stand for and everything I believe in. I can do those things to myself, when it’s just me involved, but not when a situation involves the feelings of other people.

So I was honest. I said my piece. I cried a lot. She did not cry, but looked as though she wanted to.

And my great reward for this courageous act is to be alone again, and lonely, and grieve.

I can’t be philosophical yet. I miss her so much. And I’m angry. Why could it not have been right? Why could I not have felt differently? Why did I have to give her up? Why did I have to let go of someone I care about who also cares about me? What is this preparing me for? Why was I blessed with something sweet and lovely only to have it snatched away so quickly?

It was so nice to have a special person again. It was so nice to have a date. It was so nice to see her smiling face, to kiss her, to touch her, to make her laugh. To hear her laugh. To lie next to her and feel her softness.

I hate this. I hate it, I’m angry, I’m sad. I hate it.

It fucking sucks and I hate it.

This Space

In this space I am sequestered, waiting.

Or maybe not sequestered. I never wanted to be here, after all. I simply found myself between these walls.

I wait for her to give me an answer. I wait to find out whether I, having told her I cannot fit into her life the way she hoped I would, will be afforded space in her life at all.

I hang my hopes and vague ideas and predictions about the place.

Over here, a tender scene of us together. United once again in the sleepy dreaminess that lovers occupy.

Over there, a picture of what it looks like when she says no. In the picture I am alone.

Elsewhere, a painting of myself continuing to live my life, fine and over it, eventually. The painting is realistic and well-rendered but flat and colourless. To look at it gives me no joy. Not yet, anyway.

The space is quiet and I am tired. I want to fall asleep here, but I cannot. I have no time. I want to curl up and wake up when the space looks different, feels different, is different. More bearable. When the sun has moved and the light has changed and the mood is altogether altered.

Sad

Gosh I feel sad today.

I feel directionless. Pointless.

I can’t even really write.

What I suppose I need to do is take action. Even a tiny action. A tiny thing. A tiny step. One small step. I can do that. Then maybe I will feel a bit better.

What if you’re not ready to change?

I don’t want to have to meditate.

I know it’s good for me, professionals have recommended it to me, and I suspect a consistent practice would transform my life for the better, but I don’t want to have to do it. I resent the imposition.

And yet I want to heal. I want to grow. I want to change my life. I really do. So… why the resistance? What gives, lizard brain?

I’m reading a book at the moment: Feel the Fear & Do It Anyway. I bought it years ago but was too afraid to finish it. (Go figure.)

Now I feel ready, but the book’s main thrust is that we each must step up and take ownership and responsibility for our lives. Stop the victim talk, use more powerful language, etc.

What if I don’t feel ready, though? What if I don’t yet want to emerge from my hard shell?

This petulance has been with me for years. Years. Granted, things have improved, but resistance remains.

I’m going to keep digging into this issue when I’m not so physically tired. The phrase ”I’m going to meditate on it” just popped into my head, which is ironic.

I am recovering from significant, sustained trauma; that is a fact. Unfortunately, my trauma is kind of ongoing. Part of me still hates me. It judges me, finds me defective and unworthy, and hates me for it… a lot. And that is traumatising. Every fucking day. And I am exhausted.

I have compassion and patience for myself as a victim of trauma, but how should I best navigate this aspect of my healing? By forcing myself to meditate, even though I don’t want to? It’s like a chicken-and-egg scenario.

Will I become ready on my own, or must I establish a practice first, regardless of how I feel?

I’m not sure yet, but I will try to find out.

One-third of a tub of choc-mint ice-cream.

I don’t know what the fuck I am doing. The amount of times I have written those words… I hate to think. But I suppose at least the phrase is self-expression. At least, by giving words to my hopelessness and helplessness, it allows me to take stock. It is an attempt to orient myself and pull back and hence get a bit of direction.

The burden of recovery is one I cannot always bear.

I hope that, one day, I stop doing this to myself. I hope the compulsion goes away.

Sarah

It is a loss and I must mourn it as one. I could have loved her, I think. Could still, were I given half the chance. I don’t even know her, but there were a few moments when I allowed myself to imagine that my missive might lead to love. And how happy we were in my head. I could see it all and I delighted in the view.

I don’t feel this connection with people very often. And I have felt it with only and exactly two women: first C and, later, her. But she is not mine and she moves in a different stratosphere to me. High above, doing what she loves and clearly loving life. She is buoyant. She is gutsy. She is funny and kind and loving. I can see all that from my vantage point below. She is sexy and strong and creative and talented and forthright and funny funny funny. Oh God. All the good things. All the things I like.

I did not expect to feel anything for her apart from appreciation for her music. When I realised my attraction, I was shocked because it came as such a surprise. But a nice surprise. And then, months later, I tried a thing to get her attention. It apparently didn’t work. Maybe she was turned off. Maybe she never received it at all and my missive ended up in a bin, unread by any eyes except my own. Fine. Whatever. I tried.

I promised myself I would have no expectations. I tried so hard to let go of my expectations. But, I admit, I expected… something. Some acknowledgment. That, however, never arrived. Handwritten letters don’t come with read receipts, alas.

I wanted to make her smile. I hoped, if nothing else, to make her smile. And I will probably never know if I did.

This not knowing is not good enough for me. Inside I’m arcing up, as my friend would say. I’m bristling. Hey you, I want you — pay attention to me. There it is — that inner voice that believes she deserves everything she wants. Everything. All the thrifted goodies, all the opportunities, all the hearts of all the people she takes a shine to. Does the deeper, wiser part of me believe it? No… but the other part does. Oh yes.

If I am being ruthless with the truth, as Vania might say, I must admit that I have no regrets. I did what I felt compelled to do. I sent my heart — hearts, even — in a home-made pink-and-white gift box and I crossed my fingers and hoped for the best. I poked the message down inside the bottle, threw it overboard and wished. I tried. Faint heart never won fair maiden, and I tried to be brave of heart.

It is what it is. I will allow myself to feel this pain. It doesn’t need to go anywhere. I can hold it, tenderly. It shows me I still have hope. It shows me I still believe in love and its possibilities. It shows me there are people out there who can still ignite that flame in me. It shows me I can and do and want to love. My heart hasn’t given up. My heart is full of love, even when it doesn’t know where to put it.

I tried. I tried, and that has to be enough for me. I will let my feelings and sadness and my loneliness and my hopelessness lap over me like gentle waves on a shore.

Now and now and now and now and now.

Untitled

Recovery is hard. It’s really hard.

I get so lonely in this city. I don’t know what I’m doing here.

I don’t know what to do. I hope tomorrow will be better.

Reflecting

Oh, but the self-hate is strong today. A night of drinking will do that.

I have a silly crush on someone. This person is not available, and my feelings are not returned. That’s fine. I can live with it. It is what it is. What bothers me is that I feel so pathetic. Just so terribly pathetic. Wanting intimacy and harbouring silly fantasies. Feeling sorry for myself because I am so lonely. Hating that I feel this way.

I worry that I embarassed myself last night. I worry that I was a tipsy idiot in the company of new friends, and I cringe.

Then, when I got home, I opened my mouth and started pouring out my self-pitying sob story to my unsuspecting (but kind and sympathetic) younger housemate. I told him about my eating disorder and how my weight gain plagues my mind. Again, I cringe. The poor guy.

Yesterday at lunch during choir rehearsal, I was talking about how I intend to study singing next year. I said having done nothing with it is making me angry and bitter. And one of the women said, “And that’s not you.” Isn’t it? I worry that it is me, indeed. Can she see something I cannot? She’s lovely. I want to believe her.