That feeling when you’re way too fragile, self-esteem-wise, to handle someone the avoidant-obsessive game. Everything justifies everything else. I said we needed to know where things stood so we wouldn’t accidentally hurt one another.
Why does he need to tell some British redhead her smile is great? That “damn…that smile.” It’s a group for single people! I don’t know. He just does. Meanwhile, I feel as though I’ve crawled out of some terrible, pilled sweater cocoon an even greater, more shlubbier bit of nothing. Meanwhile, I’ve got a chair half-full of pizza. I’ve got this exhausted anxiety. I’ve done what I could. But everyone’s better being themselves than I am these days. My feelings always have this edge of plausible deniability until the moment someone tries to deny them.
I want to tear off my skin and tear the bone from the marrow and get back to dust and air and weightless, speechless things.
We aren’t dating. We’re single. But we’re not, you know? We’re honestly not. But we are, apparently. This is the shit you have to just blink and determine has no power over you. But it does. I want to be passive aggressive and shitty like the bad sitcom wives who hold shit over their unwitting husbands’ heads – the ones I swore my relationships would have no single common thread with. I want to post cold-hearted, snide, acerbic things. I want him to feel bad for thinking whatever probably innocuous thing he was thinking. Probably.
Everything is fine except in the ways, you know, it ain’t.
Everything is grand except in the ways you’re actively eating shit.
I’m glad that therapy is tomorrow. Even if it means I have to mess with running around like an imbecile in the middle of the day. I’m trying to learn. I’m trying to do what I can. Trying not to dwell on how I feel so awful I can’t even think.
Just a momentary vent. It’ll heal. Along with everything else. Fuck.