Epidemic

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It’s weird when people show up and you’re reminded how you’re just not that person anymore. You know the one. That version of you, the one from before, back when you accepted scraps and were satisfied, since you were used to even less. Back when neglect felt like attention, because that’s all you knew.

Now I see the manipulation of it, the desperation, even. Officially? It’s called monkey branching. You see it all the time. It’s from people not facing their problems and using distractions instead of growing a pair and facing what happened.

Most people can’t face themselves, not the real truth of it. And sure, we all know the ugly things we’ve done, and who we truly are. But we spend our lives crafting a narrative. The narrative is flattering, beautiful, even. Just like those paintings of kings that we know from history were not nearly as attractive as their portraits portrayed them.

We want to see the best in ourselves, because seeing the cracks and the flaws is destabilizing. We aren’t strong enough to withstand looking at it, seeing the reality, and still having respect or self love for ourselves after.

I think something has changed in me. I don’t really understand it yet, but I can feel it. It’s like my world used to be made of sand, and now it’s metal. It doesn’t move, it doesn’t shift. I can lay my hands on it and feel the echos of the world, but they are just that: echos. Nothing can come in here.

I became safe because I have the strength now to keep them out, and feel for me, not for them. There’s no use worrying about their feelings when they never cared for mine. And my feelings are that I want peace. Allowing these people into my life is inviting pain. It’s masochistic. I did it for years. And now I can see that I was hoping for growth they aren’t capable of. They came back for an easy mark, and certainly not out of care or respect.

It’s sad to think about it that way, but we romanticize being “chosen” or people coming back, as though that’s a good thing. When really, it’s just about them. They want their next fix and it just happens to be you because that other one didn’t work out so good and they need a self esteem boost, or suddenly they have some pang of nostalgia and they want to fuck up your life for no reason in particular.

Romanticize telling those people to fuck off.

I don’t even read what they write. I just put it directly in the shredder, or delete it off my phone, in this case. The shredder is more satisfying. If only everyone sent things through the mail.

To see

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I’m not going to be your fucking tower. I’m not going to bear the weight of the lantern for you and let you follow me and my work.

If you want to see what’s out there in the dark, you’ll have to do it on your own. I’m not accepting passengers anymore.

You want to see? Then lead. You want to understand like I do? Then do it. Go where no one else will go. Push like no one else will push. Scream, cry, whatever, but do it. I did.

But you’ll run and hide, won’t you? You all do.

I don’t feel bad saying no anymore. I guess that’s growth, isn’t it? I’m not going to give my all and receive nothing in return. I let you see, and you still didn’t get it. You gave nothing.

So tonight, I cast you aside like all the others, in anger and disappointment—Sadness, even.

And back out into the dark alone, I go. Except this time, there’s a satisfaction to it. I can go even further. There’s so much I haven’t discovered, so much more path to go. And I pushed so hard I broke again, but I’m limping along.

I learned another lesson, finally, fully learned it: sometimes the will is just stronger than the vessel. I guess I needed a third time to prove it to myself. Okay. I get it. This body will break, even when I could make it go and go. I almost made it go to death this time. I don’t know what I was trying to prove to myself.

It’s the first time I’ve seen the edge that way. Just me and a failing meat sack I pushed to the brink in 160 days. But we’re one and the same. I can’t keep pretending we’re not. We have to work together now. And I’m gonna learn how to do it. I’m going to take care of myself this time. I just hope it’s not too late to change something I fractured into pieces. I hope it’s not permanent.

I know I can put it back together.

I just need time.

Because now? Now I know I can do anything, and that’s dangerous for someone like me.

A little hole

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A lot of old things have been coming up for me lately. I feel like I’m processing things that I’ve never really had the opportunity to. Maybe it’s the calm. The quiet. And this strange realization has come up, this dark truth I can’t seem to shake.

I thought there would be a hole, a void for everyone I lost. It always seemed like there was. You know when you love someone and they seem to fill a place inside you somewhere, some hidden little tomb reserved just for them? Then you haunt it like a ghost, inspecting all its edges, especially when they’re gone. It’s like the grave you go to visit.

I went to visit, and there was no grave. There was no monolith etched with their misdeeds or a projector playing their memories. It was just gone. Like a room I moved out of but somehow didn’t notice.

I’ve talked a lot about seeing people, seeing who they are before they even have a chance to do whatever it is they’re doing to do. And now I can look back and use that same vision to see what went wrong. And once I do? They just disappear, almost like they never were. Maybe the stone is scarred. But the room is empty, waiting to be filled by someone else.

I can see now where I went wrong too, and also where I didn’t. I can see how many times I’ve ignored my own instincts, even ignored evidence directly in my face. I can see the desperate longing I had to be understood, by friends, by lovers, by my own family. I wanted it so badly, I was willing to be treated like shit for it. I was willing to hurt for it. I was willing to do whatever it took to feel like I was seen. Like I was understood.

And now? I don’t care if they understand me. I don’t worry anymore when I’m misinterpreted, which frankly, is often. What does it matter? Why explain? If someone wanted to know me that way, they would. But people don’t. They don’t want depth or trust, they want to feel safe and they want to hide their vulnerabilities. I don’t. I say whatever I want. I say it to strangers. I say it to the people that pursue me. I don’t care if it alienates me. Am I not an alien already? Feels that way.

But it doesn’t hurt. I thought I would feel numb or rejected. Instead I just smile and laugh to myself about how those people aren’t for me, and don’t be foolish and waste your precious time. They feel like that, like a waste. I just sigh and roll my eyes. And they try. And I see now that desperation in them, the one that once lived in me. They want so badly to connect in their painfully shallow way. They too will do anything—anything but offer depth. And I want none of it.

What does that make me? Where does that leave me? I can see now my pedestals were just false idols. Holding on to memories of what people could have been, living with the “what ifs” and idealization and “potential” is what kept those rooms full. But they’ve gone dark now. I can see now that what keeps the past alive and dogging your steps, it is that very illusion of potential, the “if things were only different”. But they weren’t different. People made their choices. And I can see now how much I invested into empty cups.

My cup does indeed, runneth over. There’s so much I can’t contain it. So I fill empty cups and kid myself that it’s equal. I’m just that five of cups dipshit staring at the tipped over chalices when I still have cups that are full.

What was, is done. And each day that passes, even the oldest of ghosts is losing their grip on my memory, until eventually, they are no more.

Shred the messenger

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I got my first letter. I knew it would happen eventually, maybe I had just hoped it wouldn’t be so soon. I feared my resolve, maybe, especially towards those I never explained my situation to and just ghosted. Deep down, I know none of them are good people, maybe that’s why I didn’t bother telling them what was happening.

I looked at it in its envelope and set it on the counter and walked away, thinking “I’ll deal with it later”. I’ve been under a lot of stress with all my health issues and waiting for tests results, and I was trying to just relax and handle it later. But I couldn’t. It was like it was scratching at my skin. A few steps and I could go no further. I couldn’t leave it there burning a hole into my kitchen, some fucking dreadful beacon of the skeletons I thought I left behind.

That’s what it felt like: a bat signal from my ill-begotten mother. The woman who sent this letter is her sychophant. She usually sends me money and I paused for a moment, thinking “that would really help right now”, before going over to the shredder, not even opening the letter at all, and sticking it straight into the steely maw to watch it grind and churn and burp up pieces of paper. It got stuck, so I reversed it and then reinserted the shabby pieces back into the hole so I wouldn’t have to look at them. So I wouldn’t have to think about how much bullshit I had to overcome to be able to do that.

Money isn’t worth even five seconds of attention to these people. Money isn’t worth my hard-earned self-respect.

Last time she sent me a $5k check in my Christmas card.

This time I don’t know what she sent, and I don’t care. I don’t ever want to see or hear from any of them again.

Also, the last time I saw her, she took a bite out of each of the four Amish-made muffins I bought to take home and freeze, and she put them back after. She just left them there, bite taken out the top, like they were her muffins.

That’s definitely behavior that sends you straight to hell as far as I’m concerned. It also helps that she is an abusive, racist, spiteful bitch, and her and my mother are peas in a pod. So other than some money, what am I really missing out on?

Perspective is a strange thing, especially when you use it on your family.

A ghost wearing someone else’s skin

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I’ve been pretty unwell. I had an ER visit and some follow ups, and the sheer terror I felt a few days ago was like having a bucket of ice water thrown over my head.

It’s not the death part I’m afraid of, it’s the suffering. I imagine a life of suffering, more than it already has been, and it makes the fear prickle. Hopefully it will all just be a minor blip and it will remedy itself. But if it doesn’t, then I will simply have to face it.

It really is the consequences of my own actions. I push this broken shell too hard, it gives, and I continue to push. There is no one else to blame for that. Bodies are fragile, even when the will is not. And I’ve been running at a breakneck pace for so long, I don’t remember the last time I even had real sleep or ate properly. It’s just going going going. I have many things I want to accomplish, but this body can’t endure it without care. You’d think I’d have learned this already. But I guess it was time for lesson three. My heart pounds like a jackhammer sometimes, and the pain in my chest comes and goes. There’s the fluttering and palpitations too.

I keep finding more ghosts, wherever I go. Something about me is like a magnet now, moreso than it has ever been. I can’t leave for a few minutes without someone stopping me, someone trying to connect with me. I was standing at the store looking at a blanket. This woman walks up to me and says “it’s extraordinary, isn’t it?”

We were in the middle of a thrift store, and she picks it up off the rack and asks me if I’d like to see it. A customer, mind you. And probably ten years younger than me. She starts unraveling this handmade monstrosity, and it’s so huge it dwarfs her and I have to grab the other side so she doesn’t disappear into a pile of whimsical, knitted purple. And soon we were giggling and trying to get the giant-I-swear-to-god-30-pound-blanket open.

We spend several minutes talking and admiring it, wondering where it came from, who made it, etc.. It has a whole story arc by the time we’re done. We end up folding it up, and another woman comes over to help, so then there’s three people folding up the mythical, heavy as fuck blanket, like some weird witches coven in the middle of the thrift store. All because I wanted to look at the blanket and a random woman wanted to indulge me and ask me about my house and if it would work there and would it work in her own house? Was it a rug? No one will ever know.

Sound weird? Yeah, cause it is. I have had the same thing at the post office where I drop off packages.

“You drove a different car than you had yesterday.”

“Yes, I have more than one car.”

“Is it fast?”

“The car?”

“Yeah, the blue one.”

“Yes.”

“I have a truck.”

“That’s nice.”

It’s gotten so bad I’ve started avoiding that post office because I don’t like the man that works there since he remembers every outfit, what cars I’m driving (or not driving) and other inane details. I also park on the other end of the parking lot, so he must be intentionally looking, which just feels weird.

Then I get to the other store a few days later. A man says to me “I see you sometimes.”

“Uh, yeah, I shop here a lot.”

“You seem a lot happier today.”

I don’t leave the house much. I’ve had to more lately for reasons, but I can’t even walk into the parking lot without someone bothering me.

“Is that your dog?”

He’s on a leash and I’m walking him, so I would assume so.

“Yeah. He’s trying to go to the bathroom, and he doesn’t like other dogs”, I gesture to the man’s husky.

“Oh, well some dogs like to go together.”

“Yep. Mine doesn’t though.”

“Oh.”

He continues to stand there and my dog is spinning in circles and losing his mind. .

“What kind of dog is it?”

JFC. “He’s trying to go to the bathroom.”

“Oh. Right. Okay.” He finally leaves.

I get back to my car the next day? There’s a note on it, telling me off for parking in a community parking space.

It’s like they just can’t stop. Then I get to the doctor for a follow up about my visit, and some lady in the waiting room walks up to me and interrupts while I’m checking in to tell me “excuse me! You have a strap hanging down! You’re going to trip!”

I look down. This 80 year old woman doesn’t know what a lanyard is.

“It’s my keys.”

“Yes, well you were walking and I was so afraid you were going to trip!”

I look down again and it’s not touching the ground.

The lady doesn’t like that answer and walks over and tucks my keys on top of my purse, as though she should. “I don’t want you to trip!” She repeats.

Like what the fuck is up with people? Get a life. And by god, stop fucking touching me. She reminded me of my busy body mother and I was correct, because she immediately walked over to her very handicapped friend who was on oxygen and proceeded to interrogate her about where she sat and how it was a stupid place to sit, and oh why didn’t she thinks things through more, and why didn’t she ask her about where to sit? God, it was grating, like being transported through time. My mom would have said the exact same shit, and spent two days regaling the tale of how she saved a strange woman from the imminent danger of tripping over her weird “strap” that wasn’t even touching the ground.

It’s funny because all of these people remind me of people I used to know. I know, I know, I keep saying the same shit. But this is my fucking diary.

The helpful woman, the post office man, the key old lady. All of them. It’s the patterns again, like the fractals I saw. It’s like they got unlocked, and now instead of an array of floating, holographic triangles, I see the patterns of human existence. And it’s exhausting, and my overtaxed heart wants a break, yet I can’t escape it, even at the doctor’s office.

What it means

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Yesterday was a hard day. It felt like death by a thousand cuts—nothing significant on its own, but so many piled atop one another that you find yourself helpless and suffocating. I think I spent about 20 minutes crying in my car. It just came over me, and instead of fighting it, I let it happen. The dealing with emotions thing? Fuck me. Worse than anything I’ve ever faced. Each time it’s like facing down the bogeyman, and you feel every part of yourself cringe and shy away. You just want to run. You want to be anywhere else.

Sometimes when I watch something or talk to someone, I have one of those flashback moments where I’m suddenly choked by some awful ghost of the past. They say something that triggers it, and my body responds like a siren, setting off every alarm. What’s insane is when you face those feelings. It seems like you’ll be overwhelmed, like some tidal wave of grief or shame will come up and wash you away, send you out to that dreaded emotional well you think you can’t ever escape from.

Because that’s what the mind does: it plays tricks. It makes you think facing your feelings is the most terrible thing that could ever occur. And then you do. And most of the time? It’s so mild I want to laugh. It’s just this little blip of feeling. This tiny, insignificant thing throwing shadows on the wall when it’s actually the size of an ant, and just as easy to crush.

So when the feelings arise, I dive in. I see where it takes me. Is it pain? Grief? Loneliness, even? Often it seems to be this fear of not being seen, not being understood. I have spent my whole life feeling that way, and I realize now that it is true. They don’t understand me, and there are no words to make them do so. In the end, understanding oneself has to be enough. You have to stand alone, even in your accomplishments, and have that be enough.

And I’ve accomplished some insane things. And no one will ever even know about it, that’s the part that used to drive me crazy. You want to feel like your pain was seen, your effort, your will, your grit, was seen, by someone, anyone. You want to be witnessed. It’s so especially addictive when the witness is someone you respect, isn’t it?

But the truth is, it’s just a stage, and there is no audience. You’re there alone, and no matter how many tricks your mind plays of how many faces you imagine out there in the dark, the chairs are empty. Your own acknowledgment has to become enough.

And somewhere along the way…it did.

Regimented

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I’ve been having strange dreams again. All of them bloody. I ask for help and no one comes, or they stand around, uselessly. It was a little too realistic.

People always think I’m fine and strong and I will make it through. Or maybe they tell themselves that so they don’t have to feel guilt about intentionally hurting me in my moment of need. Sometimes they leave me behind, but lately, I’ve been the one walking away.

I’ve realized how many mistakes I made, all the problems I ignored, watching these people manipulate me and doing nothing to stop it. It’s infuriating. They’d say some kind words and pretend to care again and I’d fold and forgive. They’d spend some time with me, talk to me, listen to me, and all was forgotten.

To be honest, I’d never really known the real thing before. You know, being loved. Maybe that’s why it was easy to accept from them; it’s all I knew of love to begin with, so of course I tried to maintain it, as toxic as it often was. I thought it was something precious, to be held in gentle hands, yet I saw their mistreatment of it, the roughness and even vengefulness, that they used against it. Against me.

And now I’m here and I can really see it. Not a single. Fucking. Time. None of it. Not a single instance was actual love. And wow, it hurts. It’s raw and awful and spirit-crushing. It feels like the deepest of hurts, and sitting in it is like living inside a black hole. Everything good is just siphoned out of you, because you can see that there was never anything real. They were acting, and you were giving a shit and being vulnerable, thinking that was what you were receiving back. But you were swindled and it was done with a smile behind a mask.

What you thought you shared, was love. But no, they wear masks and aren’t honest. I can see the pattern. All of them, like they came out of the same factory from the same parts. I won’t get into a character dissection, suffice to say, every mask is to protect a vulnerability. Many people are so scared of honesty, they will hurt anyone to prevent it from happening. They don’t want to acknowledge who they truly are, and you certainly aren’t allowed to either.

It makes everything a transaction, where they got to feed off me and get what they needed, and they’d throw me little scraps to keep me anchored. And I’d tell them “please just stop hurting me”, but still, they persisted. It didn’t matter to them if I hurt. It just mattered if I was useful for making them feel however they wanted to feel. People like that want to be respected and admired at any cost, because they don’t feel that way about themselves. They need you to fill their cup because they lack the tools to do so.

It never meant anything I thought it did. Yes, it was true for me at the time, the love. If I continue to see it that way, as this ugly, transactional thing that constantly hurts, then how could I possibly want to seek it out? The thing is, I’ve seen it. I’ve read about it. And I know that I am capable of it, which means, so are others. I’ve been wasting my time on the wrong people.

Late nights

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I keep having these dreams. In them, I’m going about my life, and then, suddenly, I will look down at my hands and it will become a lucid dream. I can walk wherever I want. I can drive a car through a winding canyon, in a deep forest. I can walk outside into the rain and feel it on my face.

I don’t do anything extraordinary; the desire isn’t there. Instead, my mind wanders to the mundane. There’s something there that I want, a peace, maybe. What exists in those moments where I would choose them over anything else? I could dream of skydiving, flying, doing something exciting, anything.

I even ask myself when I become aware in the dream, “what do you want to do? You can do anything!” But yet, I don’t. I’m happy in the quiet of the car going up the side of the mountain. I’m content walking on a wooded path. I’m happy to wander a beach and watch the waves. They’re just everyday moments. Nothing special.

So I ask myself, “what do you want?”

I’ve realized I just want to try to live again, without the burdens, the trauma, the distrust. I miss seeing the world, I miss my wanderings. I’ve spent my whole life surviving. And now everything about me is changing. Again. I feel unmoored.

The truth is, I don’t know where I’m going. I just know I need to keep moving, that there is something up ahead if I push through. Maybe is a realization. Maybe it is a lesson. I don’t know. But my drive to get there seems to be unwavering, like somehow I flipped a switch and now I can’t undo it. There’s a will I forgot I had, and it goes deeper than I ever suspected.

Do you ever shock yourself, do something super out of character? It’s like that. The things I care about are not what I thought they would be. And truth be told, I’m not who I thought I’d be. I’m like a character I would have made up, not a real person. Real people don’t do this crazy ass shit, right?

Apparently they do.

The Jack of spades

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So the discount John Wick (Temu John Wick?) Plot has thickened. I clocked him as a web spinner, but now I’m questioning what he’s hiding, and why. And since this person is not someone I’m going to be easily rid of due to unforeseen circumstances, let’s Sherlock this shit.

I can’t give many details obviously, but here are the facts as we know them:

Two murders. Same perp, obviously—discount John Wick (DJW, henceforth, also I just wanted to say henceforth, fuck off). Interestingly, both victims are black, perp is white, and also (possibly, given stories I’ve heard) quietly racist. Interesting. Motive? Maybe.

The first one there is no footage. And DJW specifically told me and someone else that “there were no cameras on that end of the building and they had to take my word for it about what happened after we initially had our confrontation”. What a strange choice of words… anyway.

There being no footage is the crux of the issue and there are now two very separate stories he’s told about what happened. One is a robbery gone wrong (story he told my friend) and then the other is the one he told me, about getting pulled into a building by dealers (which btw makes no sense, but more on that later).

The second one, there is footage, but it is unfortunately very grainy. And while he was determined to be not at fault, several people have questioned if it went down the way he claims it did because you truly can’t see what he claims happened (this investigation is still open so I’m not going to get into this one too much).

Neither story is cut and dry. The first one, specifically, is highly suspicious. So were you robbed or did you get pulled into a building? Which is it, DJW? And why did they pull you in when YOU FUCKING LIVE THERE IN AN ADJACENT APARTMENT AND THEY SEE YOU EVERYDAY?!? Did you confront them? Were you lying about that too? Did you have previous altercations with these “savage” men who supposedly dragged you into an apartment and went at you with a knife? Or did you literally start some shit because you knew you could get away with it? Or is it even more boring than that and you just made all that shit up because you need more attention than just offing someone who maybe did threaten you? So many options. So much drama.

Also, why did you tell me that story about your wife? Ah, yes, the savior who protected her from harm! Also, strangely (or maybe not so strangely…) in a similar situation, where you flashed your weapon and the guy leaves. Hmm. Kind of seems like you pander to your audience. The “women are safe with me” monologue was a nice touch, heavy handed, but I see where you were going with it. You need lessons, pal, but maybe it’s good you don’t have them. Sure would make things more compelling though, wouldn’t it?

So is DJW maybe just a closet racist who saw opportunity? He’s sketchy, we knew that. He shows off, yet in the same breath, pretends to be humble.

He’s scared of bees, jot that down. Did I intentionally set up near the bees? Maybe. Watching grown men run through thick woods shrieking because of bees might be my favorite pastime. Okay, he didn’t technically run, but there was lots of hand waving and “ahhhhh”, until I got annoyed and swatted it away from him because it was taking too long, and I’m a busy bitch with shit to do. Did I put the chair next to the bee hole? Once again, I plead the fifth. Also I didn’t know bees had holes, so that’s new. Those fuckers just come up right out of the ground like leprechauns or something. Anyway.

I shouldn’t joke because this is technically a serious subject. I’m seeing things with new eyes today and wanted to lay out my thoughts. I don’t trust him, I know that much. I think his stories are bullshit, and the only person who really knows what happened is him. And good luck getting that out of him. This is tied to his ego, that much is clear. He defines himself by these events, even if the definition is inflated lies made up to assuage whatever bits of the real story he isn’t proud of.

Enough for today.

Walking into the past

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It’s strange how once you free yourself of the expectations of others, you start to see the shadows, the outlines of their manipulations. Stranger still is when the people are different, but the charge in the air is the same. It’s like breathing dead air, or maybe just that heavy, wet air like in a moldy basement. You almost choke on it. It’s a shock to the system that thinks it’s outrun the danger.

The messy house, the sick person, the savior. All in their places, set and ready. The abandoned child (and boy do I know that one) that goes off alone. One felt like my mother and that part made me feel cold and distant, like watching the past through the eyes of an adult. I could see her machinations, her power plays that she doesn’t realize only exist because she’s too afraid of reality, of facing herself and having a real identity. Another little mimic, but this time using an infant as a shield.

I saw my mother again, in the shadows of a person at the store right after. The controlling, watching and judging gaze, all too familiar. I knew it before the woman even spoke. And then I watched her order everyone about, nosily forcing her way into every interaction around her, even giving strangers instructions and showing obvious distaste when it wasn’t immediately obeyed.

Their outlines are everywhere. And now I see, I see and it passes through me, but it takes nothing with it. I acknowledge, but the psychic drain can’t take its hold. It’s nothing more than a thwarted, buzzing mosquito that I slap away.

And they are tenacious, these personality types. They believe that they are right and the more you push, the more they feel threatened. And now I don’t push, I simple ignore. There’s nothing more shameful to people like that, than being unworthy of acknowledgment. It eats away at them, malignant and fatal; a wound they will nurse because it is an old wound that never really closed. It will be with them until they die, because they will refuse to grow.

The avoidance is the one that gets me though, the sheer terror they feel in the face of even the slightest depth. They’ll do anything to escape it. It shouldn’t be fun to watch them tremble, but it is. I won’t deny there is still that wild impulse in my blood.

The adrenaline pounds through me, and I feel that dark desire, like when I’ve hunted things. With people, it can be even more intense, like this obsessive focus. I want to pin them and watch them squirm. I know all the words, and I do with a gleam in my eye. And as always, I wonder, briefly, what that says about me.