quirkytizzy: (Default)
Of course, noting the lack of writing Wellbrutin causes, I suddenly find something with plenty to write. Nothing of a grand adventure, mind shattering. But the words are out there, circling closer. It is such an immersive burden lifted.

Not to say that this does anything for my grammatical endevours. (Is that a word? It should be, dammit, because I just made it up and it SOUNDS right now.)

Who would I be without being a writer? I have never given the thought any question, any bearing, any curious glance in my entire life. I found writing earlier and fell into it with the fervor of a religious zealot.

But stripped away of that, I only know a few thing about my self. I love cats and never turn one down. I have a sweet tooth the size of the entire North American seaboard, and I like science fiction and fantasy films. But these are just things I consume.

They are not things that make me who I AM. I've never ascribed to the idea that good writing comes from balanced places. But maybe...just maybe...they are right. YOU GUYS are right. Maybe I don't have to torture myself to make my words concise and moving.

Maybe. As much as I've cursed this idea, there is truth in that the Crazy gives an intensity that sanity does not. But spending my life trying to dig into the Crazy is exhausting.

Maybe there's an easier way, so long as I stay stable, on medication, and learn the trade-offs do not mean not writing completely.

The balance between patience and obsession is such a fine line. Maybe someday I'll figure that out.

With help from all of you, and Jesse and Pat's never ending encouragement over my writing for over the last 30 years..maybe they're onto something.

Now whether or not I get off my lazy ass and DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT, instead of wasting it here on a website that became obscure 10 years go...maybe it's time. Certainty I'm feeling better from the lupus, in leaps and bounds, lately.

It' the perfect time to start exploring what writing can be other than self-obsessed shots across the bow of an internet journaling community.

Maybe. I didn't sleep well for a couple of days, which means a ridiculously long nap today. But maybe even in sleep, ideas will percolate and eventually form a picture I can expand on.

Maybe. Stranger things have happened.

12 years

Apr. 19th, 2016 11:46 pm
quirkytizzy: (Default)
This is me, 17 years old to 24 years old )

That is what lines the bulkheads of this ship. It is what comprises the anchor. These are the moors, the masts, the sails. Those pages, scattered and yellowing with age, often seem so much more the relevant foundation of who I am today than any of the 3,000+ entries I've written on Livejournal. Such a short time of my life, comparatively. Only seven years as opposed to the 12 years I have here.

It's easy to see why. Those were the years after I'd torn myself away from my family, the years I tore my own skin with razors and needles. They were also the years I finally began to get help and sought stable people. The effort was an immense undertaking, the results of which would not fully show themselves for years. But I had to take any brief cessation of pain as proof that it would get better someday, if I just kept trying.

Sometimes I think that's the hardest part of looking at those scrawled pages, the haphazard shoved together folders - the day by day, minute, blow by blow account of every goddamn banal, terrifying, beautiful, and impatient word - I was trying. Either I was trying to kill myself in the most sideways, cliched ways I could or else I was trying so desperately to make all of the pain count for something.

It counts. It counts so greatly that they have not yet invented the number that could describe the weight of its importance.

I'm just not always sure what it counts for. This is the struggle today, the words that both haunt and comfort. What was it worth? Does it matter so long as my life is my own? Is it okay to want to know the price paid for what you have?

But that's why I have the last 12 years. That's why I have all of you. The journey took a decidedly different turn the day I put my writing in the public sphere. Those seven years in that picture built me.

The last 12 years, the next 12 years, is what completes me.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
11.19.00

"38 days clean. Uncharted territory. Baby, take it easy. My veins ache only sometimes now. My arm doesn't hurt at all. It's not torn enough to.

Sometimes I think I shouldn't think like that. Sometimes I end up thinking I'm not torn enuf to hurt.

And I really, am.




Now )
quirkytizzy: (Default)
8.23.2008

I'm so frustrated with Cassie. Two days ago, Cassie left kids with Shelly while she went to work. Shelly has a habit of losing her kids, or locking them out of the house, or else completely leaving the children alone while she goes god knows where. And yet, for months, rather than getting a state sanctioned babysitter - even as she's had the MEANS to do so - she leaves the kids with Shelly.

Two days ago, moments after Cassie leaves, Shelly leaves, leaving 3 year old Julien to wander the complex alone. So Audrey takes her brother to the one place she knows there will be a grown up - the apartment office. It was a good move. It was a SAFE move.

The office calls the cops, intending to have them take the kids into CPS care. By some miracle, Dennis gets home early from work and takes the kids. Cassie was told this when SHE got home.

What does she do? She leaves the kids with Shelly again and stays out drinking until 3:30 in the morning. What the fuck was she thinking? She was MOMENTS AWAY from losing her kids.

Her kids are going to be taken from her. Doesn't that scare her?!
"

A year later, she did lose her kids. Three years after that, the state took away her kids for the second - and last - time. It wasn't hard to see the signs on the horizon. Not hard at all.

I think some people were never meant to be parents. And it's goddamn criminal that sometimes they DO become parents.

compassion

Jan. 20th, 2015 09:44 pm
quirkytizzy: (Default)
May 1st, 1999

I have been thinking about COMPASSION and what it has meant. Last summer my parents raked me over the coals, ripping me to shreds, over my "lack of compassion" for my suicidal, pedophiliac, abusive, self destructive stepfather. SURELY IF I WAS GOOD OF A PERSON AS I SAID I WAS, my mother said, I WOULD FORGIVE HIM AND ACT AS IF NOTHING HAD EVER HAPPENED.

But that is not compassion. That is not love. The word compassion, broken down, literally means "TO SUFFER WITH, TO ENDURE WITH."

Who can tell me that I did not see me mother's breakdowns , who can claim that I didn't worry that Jim was going to shoot himself as he'd claimed so many times he was going to????!!!!! I suffered with and for it all, learned.

Compassion does not mean to excuse, to forget. It doesn't even necessarily mean to forgive. It means to go through something with someone.


I wrote that at seventeen years old. It wouldn't be until I was nearly 30 that I realized the value of those words.

I wonder why the hell I took so many years to believe it.

Power

Jan. 7th, 2015 06:18 pm
quirkytizzy: (Default)
Fitting, that Piper's death would come on the day that I singularly celebrate my own commitment to life. January 7th is my clean day. Today, I have 14 years clean.

I don't really want to go back to those journals. They are either tiresome or else remind me of places that hurt. This is why I must do so.

I have to remember how much I hated myself if I am to remember to love myself. I've been clean for 14 years but I am not immune. Today did not make me feel like using. It does remind me, though, of where I would have gone in those days.

I don't want to go there now.

9.4.00.

And why is the guilt not enough for me to stop? And I actually have the fucking ego to wonder why I can't stomach looking at myself in the mirror.

And I want to believe my miraculous recovery is twenty minutes and half a box popcorn away. I WANTED them to think, so now they are convinced....trouble is, I'm not convinced anymore. It's not like I want to DIE, as in suicide, ending my existence, stop breathing. I just want to make it stop.

Part of me wishes that this will be the bottom and the only way is up from here.

The rest of me knows better.

The needle represents what I feel I am inside. Ugliness pierced with toxins. Fucking soups of death, the stings. All because of my fucking phobia of mirrors.

Needles are lies. It's what I feel I've become...what maybe I've always been. I don't care about the image. I don't care about getting into the right crowd or getting cast out of another.

I just want to get it over with.




That last line is what is most striking to me now. Humans know our own stories and addicts are no different. We feign confusion - we may very well BE confused - but we know when our ending is coming.

I knew mine was knocking softly on the door, already having climbed over the gate. She got close enough to break the windows of my life, of my psyche, but she didn't kill me.

And if I'm honest, she - as in addiction - wouldn't have been what would have killed me. That would have been me. ***I*** would have killed me.

I almost did. I think, at the time, I might have welcomed it. Certainly, I felt powerless at the time to stop it.

I'm glad I have the power now.

I always did.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
May 3rd, 1999 (Email) 17 years old




Dearest All;

Last night I found myself staring at the WRONG end of a bottle...or desperately, desperately wanting to. The sad thing about it all is that it's already gone - I've already drank it all. Last night I found myself sobbing into this damn rabbit coat I've got, sobbing "I just want to go home, I just want to go home, I just want to go home." Last night I found myself wanting to justify my pain and my broken Vampire King's pain and the pain of those in Colorado in blood, in wanting to carve in the names of each and every tear into my arm. Last night I found myself for the first time in years pushing away the one person who had never left me. Last night, I heard my foster mother pleading, BEGGING me not to do anything stupid, please Teressa, be safe, don't slit your wrists or anything, please Teressa -

It was not a good night last night.

They are going to put me back on anti-depressants. I'm not going to fight it. Maybe I won't want to drink anymore. Maybe I won't shake or cry or....

I want to go home. I want to go home to Jim, to my mother, to Jimmie. I want to go home to the abuse, the names, I want to go home to something that doesn't ever change no matter how much it hurts. I'm scared. Every time I try to tell someone about it, it just comes out angry or suicidal and that's not how it is my head....

I'm so fucking depressed and this, too, scares me. I've been angry, I've been hysterical, but not depressed. I'm scared of my own fucking shadow, I jump at people passing me by in the halls. What's wrong with me why is this happening?! I feel as if I should wake up and it will never change, as if sleep is only a temporary relief not a refreshing prelude.

Everyone is telling I need to grow up, don't they understand I'm not at that point where I can be 18 and emotional ready for all that stuff! Don't they understand my REAL LIFE was shut off at 15 and from then on it was a case number and another kid in another home and then back home and then out aain.

I'm just trying to get it out of my head. Trying to keep myself from doing that "something stupid" that my foster mother is so afraid that I'll do.

I think now I can stay safe. Thank you all for listening.
Now, 15 years later )

People always think I was so brave back then. That I faced it all with an unbreakable spirit. I didn't. I didn't face it well AT ALL. And I was broken. I was lost. I was unable to see a way out. For whatever strength carried me through those times, it was a mad scramble, skittering across the jagged pieces of myself. Maybe that's what created the scars that allowed me to bridge the years. Maybe that's what a person needs to do in order become created in what welds the pieces the together.

I wish I had known. I wish I had known in those days that these words, those feelings, that terror, would not kill me. That the only thing that I had to be afraid of was my own self-destruction.

But no matter. I was 17 years old. I was desperate. And I was also becoming forged in a fire that would carry me through the decades.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
It doesn't take much to set a cutter off. Or an alcoholic. Or a wife beater.

But we all know this. None of you are here because you are all wildly, perfectly healthy people. No, if you are here, then it means illness of some kind has touched you. It has made a private, messy wreck of you, or it has decimated someone you love.

We are together in that. As such, we are also together in the shared memories of that illness. And if we are here - and we are - then we are together in the backbound pages, loose leaf and scattered websites, that lay out all of the sick moments we could stomach writing at the time.

I found a journal of mine with a very, very sick moment. I'd thought I'd lost this one. As shrill and shocking as what I found in that journal was, I'm so very glad I did not lose it.

So, what set it off on July 5th, 2000? Let's take a peek.TIME MACHINE TO CRAZY TERESSA )
quirkytizzy: (Default)
This is the first journal I have saved from my parents.

I am 17 years old. I am alone, safe, terrified, and heartbroken.

My memory is long, but words are longer )
quirkytizzy: (Default)
"I have TOO done drugs!"

Annie doesn't believe me. She says as much in a sing song voice.

"I've done drugs. And I've had an abortion!"

I am 15 years old and have never so much as smoked a joint. I am also a virgin. Annie just shakes her head and walks away.

I slump down in the faded paisley couch, frustrated to be relegated to the realm of "loser nerd", even as I was in a psychiatric ward. Make no mistake, I fit in well enough to be in that psychiatric ward. My arms were scarred with years worth of personal cuts, my nightmares not even dented by the 200 milligrams of nightly Trazadone. I was a hot mess of many kinds.

I just wasn't a streetwise hot mess. And I wanted to be. All of the other girls in the ward were. Runaways, gang members, girls who must have been wildly popular in the high school circles of rebellious teens.

I read books. I talked in complete, if not rambling, sentences that waxed poetic. I wrote bad poetry. I wasn't one of them.

Yet.

In her memoir, Claudia Christian states "On a deep level we know ourselves, know what's coming, what our life story is, the lessons we have to learn and relearn. It's nearly impossible to consciously recognize these things ahead of time, and yet they're so clear when we look back."

Three years later, at the age of 18, I would develop a crippling and nearly fatal addiction to methamphetamines. I would also become pregnant and would also have an abortion.

I didn't know at 15 what the course of the next few years would be. And I certainly didn't wind up addicted and pregnant out of some desperate need to be cool. It wasn't a self-fulfilling prophecy. But maybe on some strange level, I understood where the road would twist.

As Claudia said....looking back, it is crystal clear where the story was headed.

Words

Nov. 30th, 2013 06:21 pm
quirkytizzy: (Default)
11.17.2000.

I cut the fuck out of my arm last night. Hard to pull out of it. The dissociation. I got so depressed. So sad. I just needed to get out of it. The sadness. Crying in the bathwater. So I bled into the water instead. I felt so SAD. I feel so sad. I know what Jerry would say, but I just feel so sad. The words don't come out right anymore. Sometimes it would feel as if my heart should break and I don't know why.

Watched Stigmata with Edward. When Frankie sobs "WHY AM I SO SAD?!" as if she feels the grief Christ was crucified with....

Why am I so sad?
Now )

Joy

Nov. 16th, 2013 03:04 pm
quirkytizzy: (Default)
8.25.2002.

I like that prayer thing. Too often my prayers are a searching rather than a need to return to the center of my being. But prayer should be a return to calm, a re-finding. a reassurance of the God-core.

"Spirituality is simply remembering what is already within you. Teaching spirituality is teaching others to remember." I've always felt that, like the search for spirituality is a rediscovery process, not learning foreign things.

Praying for God's will...the most foreign concept I met in Narcotics Anonymous. I still struggle with that.

I think I'm missing something about the second step.
[NOTE: Step 2: Came to believe that a Power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity.] I've got all the INFORMATION, but it's not in my heart. Like so many other things, I feel like there's just more to it than I understand. Something about applying it my life.

It's not just a question of faith, but a question of INTERNALIZING it into my thoughts and actions.

I'm really beginning to feel comfortable at the Restoration House. Ellade even bought me hair dye. Sometimes I'm amazed at how nice people are.

John B. picked up 30 days and I was so excited and proud of him I almost cried. "We're of the same tribe," as he put it.

It's amazing. I've been here only 10 months and the friend I have here are the closest I've ever made. I guess being clean and working a program has allowed me to open up, to love people, and even more astoundingly...let them love me. That even if I don't have all the answers, people are going to love me anyways.

We both use our intellect as an escape, a wall. But what a lonely existence that is.

Anymore my salvation lies in connecting with people, not standing away from them.
Now )
quirkytizzy: (Default)
9.4.2000.

Why do people like Edward meet people like me? Why do really nice, trusting people like Pat and Amanda manipulative, ignorant, selfish people like me into their lives? Why do they let people like me use them over and over?

And why is the guilt not enough for to stop? And I actually have the fucking ego to wonder why I can't stand to look at myself in the mirror without wanting to puke.

I haven't told them "It's YOUR fault I'm using you" in a while. Last time I did that, I physically threw up. Now I'm lying to people, making up the craziest stories for 20 bucks, stealing.

I didn't believe them, but they were right. Addiction is a PROGRESSIVE disease.

In the daylight, I rationalize it all away into this thinking box with a lock. In the dark, I can no longer define the shadows I am or am not. I WANT to believe my miraculous recovery is twenty minutes and half a box of popcorn away. I want them to think that.

I'm not convinced it's ever going to happen. I'm going to die - that is the only way down this road. The only thing that can happen next.

It depresses me to know that I have this choice - to continue - but it isn't mine. It's my addiction. I'm resigned to this.

I just want the wait over with. Part of me wishes that this is the bottom because it's just up from there. But the rest of me knows better. It's like going crazy again, only this time with a destination. Probably with Death.

The sting with the needle is a lie. Needles are a lie.

And that's what I've always been. I don't know how to tell people this. Pat, Vada, Amanda. I feel like if I can die FOR them, then it's easier on them.

But it's not the drug that's killing me. It's my addiction to escaping the fear and self-loathing that I am. Addiction means no control.

Jamie uses this as an excuse to use people. So do I. We even comfort each other for it. But it's an excuse. I know I have control over how I treat people.

All because of my phobia of mirrors.

Tweaker's paranoia has set in. I'm terrified every minute of every day. I jump when I see a car twice in the same day, and considering how small this town is, I'm really worked up over nothing.

I really should sleep.

I'm so tired of dying in pieces.
Now )
quirkytizzy: (Default)
9.6.2007.

It occurred to me yesterday why trying manage -everything- has been so impossible.

Because it is impossible. Cassie's life is simply impossible. It's not mine to manage. This both relieved and saddened me. Relief, of course, because it means some loosening of responsibilities and sadness at the realization that I cannot be her savior. I can't make life her life perfect.

I want to. And it occurred to me that this whole "must be sister, friend, mother, and symbiot for Cassie" thing was MY expectation. I took that onto my shoulders and beyond the "I can't do that" factor, I also realized I have no right to do that. Duh. This is so obvious to anyone else.

It was not obvious to me.

I feel as if I should have that ability. As a big sister, as a friend, as a way to do justice to her, how much I missed her, as a tribute to being the other half of my soul.

We cry together. For the guilt I feel for leaving her at home. Cassie says she feels overwhelming guilt for the pain I must have endured alone. But she didn't know and I am not angry. Never was.

I know how much my regret, sorrow, and guilt affects me, so to imagine what it is doing to Cassie....it makes me weep.

There is so much about those years we are learning now. Those separate years of self-destruction, an insane rush to some kind of final finish line, each of us so utterly and completely wrapped up in our own addictions, trying to kill the pain....so much of it still untold by the other.

It's funny how, generally, our guilt is for much the same things.

There is also hope, joy, strength, but as strange as it sounds, sometimes that also makes me sad and weary. It's realizing just how much further to go than normal people we have, and yet just how much further we've still to go.

These are the times when I wonder if I will die still grieving the last 26 years.

There are times I feel so much older. Battle-worn. The aching scars in my heart were PUT there. Someday I hope to be able to call that my own.
Now )
quirkytizzy: (Default)
May 15th, 1999

I've been so emotional and so moody, it's severe, been thinking it's like I can't get my brain to shut up.

I did talk to Britteny shortly last night, much of why my soul is hurting. All day yesterday it felt as if "the wages of man's sins" weighed on my soul - so much pain, so much abuse, so much hopelessness....where does it end? I cried and ranted to the sky WHY DOES IT ALWAYS HAVE TO BE THIS WAY?

Why do they have to be in such awful situations? I was so mad, so sad.

She was surprised that I'd actually called her. She sounded weary, as if her mind had been fried. Which considering what had happened last night, I would understand. Both her parents had been arrested for domestic violence and had beaten the shit out of her. When I asked her if they'd her her, she said no, but I wonder. She wasn't in school yesterday.

It was a strange conversation. She told me about loud fights and about being beat on by her mother, that she couldn't leave because someone had to protect her siblings.

My god, I thought. Almost my own words.

NOTE TAPED INTO MY JOURNAL:

Teressa,
Hey! I wanted you to know that I'm honoring your request and praying for you. I want you to understand that prayer is not a magical solution. I guess I think if that you get the answer you want right away, you'll blow "my god" off. You need to understand that God gives us something called free will. That means he gives us the choice and it won't make do anything. I can pray for you to have the strength and all that, but if you don't make an effort your part....God won't make you stop.

Signed,
Mystique
Now )
quirkytizzy: (Default)
I don't want to write anything. I don't want to grab anything from my journals because it's all pain anyways. And I'm tired. Today was hard. I had to live in my head today. I do everyday, but when I have dreams like I did last night....I just want to carve out everything inside my skull. Dump it on the roadside like a discarded ice cream cone. I'm tired. Maybe I'm just tired. Maybe I'm just pmsing.

Maybe I'm just sick of being me. I know for for damn sure I am sick as fuck having the kind of shit I wrote about below in my history. All these years later it still fucks with me. Fucks with me in ways that my history with my parents doesn't.

I don't care that it's fifteen years past.

Sick of it being there at all.

2.13.01

Well, this morning has been a new experience. Jerry and I got into our first fight. It really hurt for both of us. I bought a pack cigarettes last night. I'd had a few hours of crying and issues (triggers from counseling). I was angry and confused about EVERYTHING. So I bought a pack of cigarettes.

I didn't call him after the meeting, I thought I'd told him I'd walk home after counseling. It was a miscommunication, a mistake, not a deliberate betrayal he said it was.

After smoking and crying I felt better and went to bed. He came in angry and blustering this morning. It really surprise me and I went to change and found myself crying. I didn't want to tell him ANYTHING, I was just in that kind of mood, so I pulled myself together, told I had a strange night and some smokes. I told him I'd talk about it later.

I felt really hurt that he was so angry. I'd apologized for the cigarettes and everything. I told myself that I didn't want him to see me cry - never in that mood, I WILL NOT LET ANYONE KNOW THEY HURT ME IF THEY ARE ANGRY!!!

He ripped into me about the smoking and not calling him, saying that I'd relapsed, why hadn't I called him, all sort of things. I didn't say anything. I didn't feel safe. He kept saying how disappointed he was how he was going to have to change everything about our friendship, how he couldn't trust me anymore, about how everything I'd been saying spiritually was a lie.

I don't understand why he laid into me so hard. It confused me and scared me. I just sat there calmly and told him that I wasn't going to use, cigarettes do not count as a relapse and that whatever he thought about our friendship was his choice. I told him I'm 19, 60 days clean, and human on top of it all. It was a miscommunication.

He left crying. I went back inside, crying too. I was afraid he really meant everything he'd said. I'd be utterly fucking heartbroken if he did. All I could tell Patrick was that I was scared and confused and be like so many people who love me until I fuck up.

This is the kind of experience that makes it hard for me to believe that I can be a worthy friend.

Maybe the awareness of that will change - if I can make it so.

If I give this meaning. I do not have to act as I have in my past. I don't have to respond to this as a crisis, as something that demeans me. This does not have to put me in a place where I feel bitter. I can make it mean something else.

It's my choice where this experience takes me.


------------
Now )
quirkytizzy: (Default)
4.23.2004.

Bored and lonely. Had to go open the store because Chrissie hadn't checked her damn schedule. No shower, no cigarettes, no coffee and I was walking the half-mile to work FIVE AND A HALF hours early. I had to get on the phone and explain to the District Manager why the store was 30 minutes late in opening.

And I have to go back in later to close.

I'll have worked six days straight - I don't know when my next day off is and because of the way the pay periods are set up, I'll still only get paid for five days.

I am quickly losing patience for this job and my stupid co-workers. The problem is that it's the best job I've ever had and I don't know if another job would be better.

I need to get some fucking coffee.
Now )
quirkytizzy: (Default)
Exact date undefined. Late 2011. Loose page of poetry stuffed into a folder.

A pianist has fingers this nimble,
I think as I watch him
play across the neck of his Stratocaster.
Imagining ribs in place of struts,
and skin in place of string,
wondering if his nicotine stained hands
would leave muddy brown tracks
across my body.
I ask him over the snap and hush
of yet another cigarette
how long he's been smoking.
He smiles and shrugs off the Stratocaster
to show me the pockmarks
of several decades of smoke burns
on his guitar.
I have my answer.
I could always use a few more scars.


-------- Now )
quirkytizzy: (Default)
So here's the plan. I'm going to take one old journal entry a day at random (or at least as random as I can make it.)

We'll start with my paper journals.

Copy it. Finish it. Explain it. Muse on it. Something.

5. 13. 2009.

What I want
is too much to ask for
what I need
is too little to live on.
And all of these little indecisions
only prolongs the inevitable
because passion fades
it always fades
into nothing I want -
and becomes again
the only thing I need.

I've made a mess of things. Again. Why is it my intrinsic nature is to get into a good place and then immediately screw it up? Complicate it?

Not even two days after I made the decision to leave Pat, Michael confesses that he's been in love with me for three years. In shock, I go along with it.

Last week, David tells me that he's falling for me. In shock, I go along with it.

And now I'm fucked because I can't give either of them what they want. And after hurting Pat, the though of hurting more people scares the hell out of me.

I'm fucking weak for going along with them.

And I've told both of them that I don't have feelings for the other when I do and NONE of it matters anyways because I just realized what I need is NO romantic entanglements.

I was just feeling so damned....vulnerable. I wanted something familiar, someone's love, and for that I used them. That makes me a bad person. A really, really bad person.

Things got out - **I** - got out of hand. They both say the same things. That I'm beautiful. That they want me to be happy. It would confuse me more except that I'm realizing I need space.

A part of me is almost angry at them. They want something out of me that I don't even know if I HAVE to give, much less WANT to give.

I do want to. I want so badly to madly be in love, but I CAN'T yet. I just can't.

I had a moment the other day where I wanted to run back to Pat so badly, so I could avoid other people and their feelings. I don't WANT this responsibility, I don't WANT this power, because I'll only end up doing exactly what I'm doing.

Hurting people. I hurt people.

I'm just so fucking good at it.

They both keep trying to squirrel out why I'm so afraid, why I'm holding back. I wasn't sure but now I think I've got at least that part figured out.

I just got out of a TEN YEAR relationship. Which makes how I've been acting doubly stupid and how they've been acting too much.

Fuck me, I should have just said "Thank you, maybe later."

I never realize these things until it's too late.


--------------

Now )

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