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2018-03-07 01:08:59 (UTC)

Ex! Cess! Abscess!

"We Are Nowhere and It's Now" by Bright Eyes

And like a ten minute dream in the passenger seat
While the world was flying by
I haven't been gone very long
But it feels like a lifetime
I've been sleeping so strange at night
Side effects they don't advertise
I've been sleeping so strange
With a head full of pesticide

I've got no plans and too much time
I feel too restless to unwind
I'm always lost in thought as I walk a block
To my favorite neon sign
Where the waitress looks concerned
But she never says a word
Just turns the jukebox on and we hum along
And I smile back at her

March 7, 2018 Wednesday 12:12 AM

I guess I imagine it teething. The folds of my brain are the gums and they ache, they itch—bone calcifying right below the surface. It grabs whatever and gnaws, slobbers all over it, breaks it down over years with some unnameable enzyme. 4,2,3-anxietase or something, I don't know. And this month (this year?) the subject—the object—the thing it crushes, minces, whatever, is the subject of romance and it's relation to me. Years ago, it was... it was... it was... more broad. It was about the way I thought. It was figuring out a way to deal with it. I've gone through a lot of phases, I think. I had this one period where I thought excessively about death and memory and impermanence, that kind of thing. And I also thought a lot of sex and sexual assault maybe a few months ago. And these are all things I still think about. They all feel kind of related in a vague way that I can't articulate (and I am deeply ashamed of my inability to articulate it—it feels like I should be able to).

But yes. Romance will be the thought of the day, I guess. I am trying to break myself down, liquefy my insides for quick 'n easy consumption. The thought I had in the shower started in Lancelot's office Monday. I was crazy. I am not sure—I was electrified yesterday, and in the shower before my appointment I kept thinking about how I'd go into his office and describe my stomach pain and anxiety and I would talk very quickly and he would be concerned. And this is basically what happened. I felt very fake, like it was a performance or something, like everything I fucking do is a performance. Nothing I did felt real. That is an unfortunately familiar feeling, but most of the time I try to ignore it.

I talked very fast and he asked probing questions about Moby which sent me into a spiraling panic, because I wasn't sure I was panicking but I knew I looked like I was panicking, and I was disconcerted by the incongruity of my thought—my calm quick thought—and the look of me shaking, and my head between my knees. I hate this, I hate this. I have so much hate for myself. Abhorrence! But I am also laughing, deep on the inside, as if there is an old lady in me who looks back on these moments I am living as something so needlessly excessive. I don't need to freak out, or shake, or cry. I am happy. But it lives in me without me, and by saying it like that I separate myself from responsibility—and is that right?

And then I have to think, self, hold on a moment—think about what matters more. The truth, or your life? Do you need to know if you've shirked responsibility? Will it make things better? Or will you instead live a better life believing you were somehow targeted by anxiety, rather than the perpetuator of it? Will you be happier when you don't blame yourself? Will it be one less thing to worry about? Or will it be the reason you never get over yourself, never try—because you don't think it's in your control, and therefore you can't do anything to help yourself?

I don't know the answer to these questions. I only have instinct, and my instinct says that truth matters and that I must always be humbling myself, that it is a protective measure that has so far been successful.

Lancelot sent me home early from therapy. I choose to believe he was annoyed with me. I choose it because I am afraid it is true.

I think about how I hate myself sometimes for freaking out over tiny things, little tiny things. How I only hate myself for these things because I convince myself I am better than that, somehow. Ultimately, I can't hate myself for having a superiority complex—I find it kind of annoying, to know the complex goes through an external anxiety. Like, yes, ultimately it is about me—but part of it is me being afraid of how I will be seen. I want to be something great, I've wanted that for as long as I've lived I think. And it is probably not going to happen. I realized this too late, maybe. It was already my driving purpose. It comes from expectation and disappointment.

So did my fear of Moby. I expected so many things—not from him, but from me. He was fine. He was more than fine (I hurt just thinking about it). I am actually still so mad, because I think about him constantly and I'm like, why wasn't I like this before? And I can't figure out if I'm just a dumb bitch, or if I'm lonely.. or if all my anxiety at the thought of reality stopped me from being able to feel, made it all harden up like a pustule, an abscess, buried below scar tissue I don't know. All three things are possible. Maybe a combination?

Anyway, I thought about a whole relationship instead of taking it a step at a time. I thought about kissing, and then making out, and then sex. I lived all the awkward moments at once but did not imagine any happy ones. I don't know—I tipped the scales against me, like I always do. But this is good. I learned something (well, I kind of already knew—but I couldn't live it before): I have to, like... relax... when it comes to relationships. I have to think about it the way I think about friendships, as a thing that might or mightn't, and will always happen in different ways at different rates for different reasons.

I want to be around him. I am in slight agony, knowing a relationship might never ever happen and I am so so so SOOOO pissed at myself—so pissed—for maybe fucking it the fuck up. But it, in retrospect, was kind of a necessary step? Lessons hard-learned, am I right? Is that a phrase? Well, anyway, I needed it to catalyze all this shit of Thought. But I am very sorry I hurt and confused Moby (and by association I hurt and confused me, but I am always hurt and confused, lol).

I think things are still weird between us, even though we both say its not, but I've decided to be okay with that. I mean, of course it will be weird. I, at least, have a lot of feelings. And since he is not really my boi anymore I feel really insecure and jealous. I keep worrying this person he is texting, in private, with long blocks of text (and this is what he does) is his new giiiirl and that he is super happy or something but just doesn't want to tell me??? I want him to tell me. I might ask him, if I work up the nerve over the weekend. I'd rather know than drive myself crazy, because instead I am just extremely paranoid and I keep thinking the people he talks to, send looks to, somehow KNOW and I am the only one who doesn't and no one wants to tell me because they know I will cry.

Point is: yes, it's going to be weird. A little awkward, a little quiet. I don't know what's in his eyes, I can't even take a fucking guess. I have no idea how he feels, but I feel like he knows how I feel and he probably feels the opposite way—or he is perfectly fine and I am the only one dying. Whatever, I don't care. I think it's okay. I am still really happy to have him around. He's stupid and it makes me laugh. He's very smart. But also he's stupid. :)

Everything will be okay, and I will agonize, and things will be okay and it will be a never ending cycle until I die. And that is just very, very, very—ok. :)

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