Problematic

There's something therapeutic about the destruction of property. Ripping totems apart can be so soothing. Engaging in petty things can be comforting even if they're probably not necessarily good for the soul. Sometimes it's harder to move on from something without acting out. After a break up you delete pictures. After a friend break-up you unfriend, regift and throw things away. After learning someone cheated you find all the things you can of significance and tear them to pieces. Things you shared or things they shared- whichever annoys you the most. Sometimes we tear people to pieces. I don't know if I would recommend that course of action, it may be a step too far. I have put all my hurt and anger into these gifts and I am throwing them away. I don't want to hold on to these feelings forever. It's not healthy for me. It's not healthy for our friendship. Whether our friendship is healthy for me remains to be seen. I'm giving myself time. If th

I live my life comparatively. It used to be that I lived competitively. Once you recognize you're not competing on the same level it becomes comparative. Neither way is healthy, but at least I had some pride before, I guess? I'm out of my latest depression but I find myself in a world of listless confusion. It's constant, but not agonizing. My existence is a dull migraine. I'm wearing my hair too tight. The problem is that I don't know what I want. I've said this before- but really the problem is that I don't know what I want within the realm of what I can get. Is it enough to be two people, who were always afraid of being alone, relieving that loneliness a little? Comparatively, I didn't get to play house. I didn't get the same kind of manufactured romance that borders on ridiculous because of how close it is to the type of manufactured romance you'd see on TV. I didn't get any grand illusions- just a thin screen of reassurances hidi

I don't think anyone is as adept at doors as they believe themselves to be. We are all deceived at some point. Today is my last day of sweets. I am far too into sweets as an adult woman. I would keep a Baby Jane drawer of chocolates if I could afford to do so. I can now make those references because I saw Whatever Happened to Baby Jane? last night. It was a very strange film. I would recommend it if you're in a patient mood and would like to watch Bette Davis unhinged and abusive. I have come to see that every day is charming. Every day is an unmanageable love story. Things start quietly, crescendo toward turmoil and ends harmoniously with sleep. Perhaps this is just the charm of my own life. I am sure there are people who live in a different type of story, but I am pleased today to see that everything is beautiful in it's own way. The love I feel makes every day a love story in the Shakespearean sense which drives toward tragedy. I love so very much. I love your impe

I occasionally become aware of what a truly disturbed human being I am. One such instance occurred today as I lay about bemoaning my illness that is just compounded by the malaise of desperate loneliness. Earlier in the day, recognizing that Nyquil just was not cutting it, I decided to pull the trigger on a refill Walgreens told me I had on promethazine w/codeine from my last bout of terrible coughing. On my way home I checked my phone to see if the prescription was ready- it was not, obviously, or the story would be a short one. It probably will be anyway... So I grumbled to myself and cut across a few parking lots I to get home because it was the shortest route. It would make a lot more sense if you understood the lay out between myself and the Walgreens. There's a stretch of parking lot in front of the Walgreens, a road, a Dairy Queen parking lot, and then my street, so it would be ridiculous, you see, to go out of my way to get on the main street to turn down a side street

I don't think we can escape the decisions of our past. We can try not to repeat them, if they did not yield good results, but I don't think we can walk away from them. We can't pretend they didn't change us. I can't pretend they didn't shape me. The narrative of a novel can drastically take a turn in the middle, but the reader is going to remember the earlier one. And all novels prior to that novel shape it. Our parents' histories shape us. There's nothing that is not connected and will not carry into the next chapter of our story. All the trees I didn't climb, all the parties I missed, all the drugs I casually took, all the nos, all the yeses...everything I've done to another person and everything that's been done to me: I can't avoid carrying any of that into my future. We're carrying on the metaphor of pulling myself out of a car crash. A stone was thrown by someone who just got out of their own crash to try to spin Myex out of c

My jaw hurts. Last time it hurt this way I had my wisdom teeth out. There's nothing inside me that I can remove. Maybe love? As I am coming to terms with the ending of my favorite series and what this new spin-off means I am clenching my teeth too hard. I am biting my tongue, although I honestly wouldn't know what to say. I am pulling out clumps of my hair again. I keep thinking of all the times I was told that I should trust more and I laugh to myself to keep from breaking down. I am alone in all of this. He's got too much going on to deal with my emotions in the aftermath of his decisions. He's unable, or unwilling, to make space. An irony that does not go past me. Is that irony? To be unwilling to make space when the problem stems from making space for someone else? I'm not sure. I'm not that smart. Obviously. Every day is a new battle. Every day is a new series of questions with the final looming problem being: What do I want? What do I want? What

Every hour my mother has to blow into this thing that looks like what I used to measure liquids in biology. With a tube to blow in attached, of course. She's been awake a few hours. We all took a nap shortly after she was moved. We spent a couple of hours watching SVU, and my sister is very gentle about taking care of my mother's needs. Ordering her food, checking her catheter, she is the perfect doting daughter. My sister excels at a lot of things, but she has a method for caring for others that verges on artistry. She's been taking care of others her whole life. First me, then her ex-husband, then my nephew, and now it's come back full circle to her caring for our parents. I drove away the next morning with the sun at my back and she stayed. She's cleaning her wound. She picked her up from the hospital and talked to the doctors. She was planning how to help her eat because we predicted my mom wouldn't be capable of cooking for a little while. My mo

The second doctor doesn't come to us. We go with him to a small room off the side from the waiting area. I wonder the percentage of families that are corralled into this claustrophobia inducing room before their lives go sideways. Luckily, this new doctor states the patient did very well. She should be available in an hour. She should get to go home tomorrow. We thank him. He asks if we have any questions and my sister asks, "is there anything we should be asking?" "No." He smiled? He nods? Perhaps he was expressionless... it's been hard to keep track of things since we got here. Anything other than the weight of her night bag is going over my head. "We'll tell you everything you need to know before she leaves." He shakes our hands one more time. We thank him for his time and we all exit the dauntingly small room. Lunch is cafeteria food! We go at the proper lunch hour so there is a swarm. As we head down my sister remarks that we

There's a smell of aging to the visitors of the hospital. A smell of a weakened immune system. The smell of whatever brought them here. Things start to smell a little off when something's not in it's best condition. I'm alone with this smell. My mother and sister having moved on to the next stage of the hospital. To the place, I assume, she would approach the knife and surgeon from. Only one person could go with her. So I stayed behind. They gave her little brown socks. Tan, I suppose. With non-slip white pads on the bottom. And strange blue compression sleeves for her legs whose purpose I don't quite understand. Her billowy gown is a pale purple that's almost offensively cheery. It's color doesn't match the fragility of her demeanor as she lays on the gurney waiting to be wheeled away. Thankfully there's less tubes than I imagined. The chairs in the waiting room are not pretty. I can't date them but they must have been purchased at the