Turns out the only way to get out of a long stretch of not writing is to write. There is fodder: a golden-rimmed Schrodinger’s mirror (which is to say that all mirrors are both haunted and not haunted until such point as you can determine, solidly, that it is haunted), the terrors of tile haze, the American Gods episode before the the NEXT American Gods episode which…uffda, and sitting on the comfortable window seat overlooking the atramentous world as it inches towards the dispiriting inevitability of a 6am Monday morning.
There’s been arguments. Some of which have yet to be resolved. They will be, well before anyone actually says something that moves the needle in any way.
My mother is no longer biding her tongue, which, were it someone other than her, I suppose I would be endlessly supportive. Her no longer biding her tongue means telling my younger sister that she’ll never have grandkids and me, I get nothing, nothing save the unending, unspoken omissions that fill the void. I think she would have said it if she thought it, so for her, it’s already written off. So I slammed the door. And she’s sick. And I shouldn’t have. But I had to, it was so involuntary, a ballpeen hammer to the one small confrontational bone in my body.
It will be forgotten even if it would be healthier to be the straw for either of our camel’s backs. My heart is broken, but like all humans, we move at nothing short of cataclysm.
I realize now that the vulnerability I felt at my last therapy session can’t be the reason to never be vulnerable again. And the driving has to stop the madness. 20 extra minutes out of sheer avoidance. Is this the sort of thing people take pills to fix? I feel like it’s just me knowing it fucks me up and I want to not feel fucked up, so I figure out a workaround. I don’t need help, it’s just my 20 minutes. It’s just me paying to deal with the shit I create. It’s not like I could just not create it. It’s me. There will be shit, no matter what.
I want to just take the bridge again. To figure out how to except the freakout. it just feels so dangerous. I feel physically like all the blood is rushing to my head and my face goes on fire. That seems like something a doctor could help me with if only I hadn’t also concocted, probably around the time my mother got sick, the most genius gift for myself imaginable. A blackout, break the Richter scale fear of doctors. One that I always am 100% certain I could resolve, in the same moment I am 100% sure it won’t be in the next 6 months. One that has been at that point of tension since it developed.
Maybe more tomorrow on that. I need to crash and not think. But I started, and maybe we’ll determine I cannot be stopped.