I Edit My Vulnerability

Notes To Self

I know what it is when I can no longer breathe in a sudden moment and the thoughts come quickly. Faster and faster. Thoughts about what I haven’t done, what I need to do, what I want to do, the cants the cans, the should haves, the could haves, the why-did-yous. They come quickly until I am fetal in my mind and then, suddenly,  also, in my bed. And then I weep like I know intimately what death is like and it’s coming for a visit I didn’t plan for.

I know that the sinking emptiness that has me marathoning a show I’m only vaguely invested in is something else, because when I say I’m “watching TV,” all I can see is the reflections of the screen in the poster hanging beside my bed because no, I’m not “watching TV,” but staring listlessly at the wall. Whatever “it” is has me eating food I don’t want or need only because I’ve cooked it and I’ve cooked food I don’t want or need only because I have nothing else to do. Or rather, I have too much to do and feel as though there’s not enough time in the universe to do it regardless of what Beyoncé’s 24-hours look like.

But I’m fine! Because how do you explain this to people who you know aren’t going to say anything you don’t already know or haven’t already heard or haven’t already told yourself or worse yet, told someone else because advice is freely given but damned if I can take it.

(You relate.)

I know the things to do, the links to click, buy a book and read on it. Speak up because keeping it in is never a good thing.  You don’t have to tell me twice, because I’m hip and I know what I would never do. No Hannah Bakers here — never that — but still, the wall is there and I’m looking staring listlessly at it as the scenarios run through my head until it has been a week of coming and going and the only thing I’ve accomplished is cleaning my room and I’m calling it self-care.

I am angry that I feel like this, and I’m angrier that I feel like I can’t say anything about it knowing very well I can and I’m angry my vices aren’t even interesting like sex, drugs or rock’n’roll because then someone would see the spiral for more than a symptom of “introversion.”

I’m angry that I’m writing this to put on a blog I don’t update because when I feel like what’s the point, what is the point? I’m aware of everything all the time and I wish I wasn’t. I wish i wasn’t my own devil’s advocate with every thought, opportunity, opinion I have. I wish I could say all my beliefs come from a sturdy place, but I can’t. I wish I could say I had goals that I’m working towards, but I don’t know that I am. I’m mad that the go–tos are to “push through!” because that’s somehow an easy thing to do when I live life like my hands, my voice, my spirit is is shaking and I can’t get them to stop.

Always neutral, when I don’t want to be when I’m fighting myself to be up or down. Why do I care when it would be easy otherwise

— empathy is crippling because other people’s shoes don’t often fit.

I’m resentful, bitter and always a little bit angry at everything always because of course I know what’s going on, but even as I write this and edit (when I said I wouldn’t) I’m overthinking whether or not these overt thoughts are what I think they are.

WhatdoIknowandwhatisangerevenandIshouldbeabletomeditatebutIcan’tsomehowandmaybeI’mjustoverreactingandwritinghelpsandIwillbeokayeventuallybutsometimesyoujust

gotta not and let that rock too.

 

 

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