Last night was the big anger zit. I was up until 4:30 just fucking gnashing with irritation and distaste, and woke up 4 hours later from a shitty fuckass dream, and in short order was listening to the sweet melodic sounds of my cat barfing next to the bed I was still laying in. ‘Sup, Tuesday – hey, go fuck yourself yeah?
It took me a while to get moving, even though I had had grand plans of cleaning up my damn room and finally doing some laundry. Mostly I sat on facebook and email instead, still naked and half in bed, lurching over my laptop like a fucking primate trying to lick its own balls. And I was about as useful as one, really.
After that, in a fit of intense anxiety over the amount of time he will be gone over the next month (nearly every fucking weekend – ARGH), I tried in vein to break up with my boyfriend over text message, to which he responded much like this:
Yup, still knows what he got himself into. Check.
I didn’t eat until well after noon and when I did I didn’t eat much. I recognized later that it’s due to feeling toxic as hell, resulting in the resurrection of my juicer this evening. It has been neglected since the last time the weather was cold and crisp in favor of the blender for smoothies or, more recently, fucking ass food that doesn’t make my life any easier. I’ve been drawn to breads sweets and fats and haven’t given enough of a rip to resist, or make my own lunches, for the last few weeks.
I also hit the Doctor finally – blood work on D, B12, CBC and thyroid should be in by Friday when I get my annual and more than likely try my second antidepressant since I went on zoloft for about 8 weeks in 2011.
Today also ended up being the day that I went from crying periodically in pent up despair to emotional tide crying whenever the damn hell I felt like it. I did a lot of that. I cried on the bus, while walking down the street, while sitting in a restaurant, while peeing, while looking in a mirror; the works.
Once that had gone on for a while, I noticed that, when not actively crying, I was actually glancing at people while I walked to my office and doing things like looking at the people through shop windows. It occurred to me then that I hadn’t done so in a notable amount of time; I was either staring at the ground, staring at my phone, or had my face buried down in my scarf, shutting the rest of the world out of mine. Looking at people means they might be looking back at you.
I was sad, mostly, still, but it was better for some reason. I could move with and through it to interact with people and even occasionally make swift eye contact. Coming to a place of giving into not knowing why I was crying, and not letting it matter, was proving easier than inventing reasons why – like that my guy is going to leave for a weekend gig and decide he’s in love with a riverdancer, or that I am doomed to always repeat this cycle and therefore my life isn’t worth living, or because people are evil coated bastard fucks with bastard filling and I hate them all.
I had a visual of the front of my ribcage missing as I walked, the inside covered in fresh baby foliage growths just beginning to sprout from the clearcut napalmed shitstorm vacancy nearly two weeks ago now. I remember the cold air feeling raw in my chest cavity, like touching the fresh skin under a ripped foot blister.
Over the last 8 hours I’ve continued to surface and feel more ideal. Today I talked about disneyland and hard core elegant dudes like Morgan Freeman and Michael Caine, who are not much longer for this world and will make a huge gaping hole when they no longer hold the standard of Men that just seems to be slipping away, and went shopping and made juice and had a nice lunch with a good friend.
I can already feel the distance growing. It already seems like it was longer than yesterday that I was still in the pits and it feels like a lot longer than a few days ago that I was in full crisis mode. Strangers are wanting to talk with me on the street again.
Suckers.