There have been so many days lately with this raw, gooey center. You can imagine it as this plate of picked-apart raspberry bar that’s on the plate next to me. It looks like kidneys and wadded-up intestine, the soft internal organs, if they were autopsied and made into some sort of art.
This day, this place, both literal and figurative, that is tender and sore. Hurt. I have the distinct experience of laying down next to it and watching a big boot come out of the periphery and kick it, hard.
There’s a helplessness these days. After a while, the no you want to yell doesn’t get convinced to leave your lips. It’s not logical to be all that upset about it if it’s going to happen again tomorrow. If it’s happening to everyone else. If it’s just the way life goes.
Still, tender and raw felt tender and raw today. It may be the hormones, but that’s how it was perceived. Carrie Fisher died today along with a host of other creative souls and the year taking away so many bright and caring people, it just, regardless of whether it’s true, it feels like we’re under somebody’s thumb. Somebody who has some malice about the situation. It has left me sad and I was already predisposed to be sad, in the blood, in my nature. She was a great writer – I remember Mr. Rochester directed me to a copy of Surrender the Pink and I liked it – I liked it even as I knew it was from a world that I would never be a part of. I remember her that way moreso than anything to do with Star Wars.
Universal sadness and personal sadness. If you give a thought to it, the line of demarcation starts to get wavy and thin as a hair. We all just bleat and bleed.
It’s just the agony of everything. This thing, now, is just the agony of being connected to the universe. The cord that can’t be cut.
Maybe I ran here to get a breath of air and now I feel too much freedom of thought, or maybe there’s too little thoughts to feed upon.
This is what I need on the 27th day of the final month of the year. Some suffering to clue me into some sense.
Nobody demands the pain, nobody calls for the martyr, nobody chains my limbs to the radiator or sells vials of my tears. I am fine. I am weak for fantasies of power. I fail at sounds of my victory coming down through the trees. I buckle for the big idea that it’s all going to turn over out of sheer, dumb fucking luck. Knees knock, but still I live.
The guy, right now, doesn’t love me anymore than the person passing by you with a paper and coffee in his hand. This is my assumption. He has not told me this because there’s been not a whisper of an opening for which to bring it up. It is high school all over again. The Long Lashed Boy all grown-up and being sweet to other girls while I rub worriedly at the skin around my wrist. Really, who’s to say anything as the onion skin reveals the layer beneath, again and again until the green center is finally exposed?
Tonight, I hold in these hands the gummy flesh, the serrated, oozing, hurt and tender part of me that is so fragile about this stuff. That feels so upset that I can’t seem to just turn and spin the toy in the right way to get the ball through all the pegs and down into the other side. That my time and energy and earnestness just converts to tofu. To a bland mass quite discernable from chicken.
This happens because I sit back or I don’t lunge forward. I am still, deeply unsure if I should lunge forward now. Not because it isn’t just time to do it, but because I don’t have the information to know anything about anything. I’m learning.
That I am getting beeps and lights and notifications and realizations of other connections and other people who want to see if they’re the one he’s looking for and vice versa and it is hard. It is hard to not impose your will, to know you have no status to be anything but yourself. That last bit, sometimes, is the worst. The jealousy and pettiness and frustration and insecurity is part and parcel of this learning.
There is so much I cannot control. I can’t reach into the spinning blades and grab them and hold them steady so it’s safe. I can only do my best to time my run and buy some band-aids when it’s done.
So getting my food together. Losing some weight. Dealing with the clothes that are making me depressed because I haven’t dealt with them because I’ve been depressed. Getting back to the therapist. Find a new job. Put on some makeup, do some walking. Eat a carrot. Accepting that all I can do is make myself happy and use the language I want to use to express myself and when he asks what my favorite music is, explain it in the way I want to explain it, even if he doesn’t respond. The veil of the internet twists everything, endows it with dark portents that don’t exist.
I am going to stop it. Stop giving a shit. I am here, hand extended, but the rest of me has things to do if he’s no interest in taking hold of it. There’s so much else for my mind to contend with rather than sit in the pot and cry over this nonsense.