I can’t get out of my own head.
I don’t know why I try to be honest with you. It isn’t all bad in there. There are memories of California summers where I can still taste the Pacific on my tongue as we drive up the coast because my dad liked to drive when he was home.
I can remember the first time I slipped on ice and damn near killed myself.
I can taste perfumes and kisses from women I have loved with the entirety of my being and moments that are emblazoned like sunspots on my soul.
Then, well, there is the Dark.
I have three people in my life who can get me out of my own head when I am in that place. One does it with metaphysics, one does it with logic, and one does it with touch. I can get out of it sometimes all on my own, but it is an unpleasant process and I tend to need to sleep for days afterwards, I can’t mind you, but I am just exhausted.
Sisyphus was set to the punishment of rolling a stone up a hill and just before the top, it would roll backwards tot he beginning.
Unending and eternal frustration. Sisyphean.
Me trying to get out of my own head is a perfect example of this motherfucking word. I will get to the top of the hill and just have a single push to go and then I will remember how disappointed Ms. Vulkanet was with me in 4th grade after she found out that I skipped school and went on a shoplifting spree. I will have a single grain of sand to push over and the Everest will form and the hill is ever upward. Over and over again. I sabotage myself because I do not know any other way to process thoughts and emotions then to take the dregs of the depths of who I am and try yet again to put them in a summer breeze and hope to get the stink off of them.
It can’t leave if that is what it is made of.
I am not upset about this, I suppose I am resigned to it.
If we go with my latest therapist who fired me, I have a need to attach myself to the worst case scenario so as not to be disappointed when the good never comes. I personally think that is a load of shit, but this is also the woman who blamed me for having PTSD, so I mean, grain of salt and all that.
Why are you writing this Bear, what the fuck is wrong with you?
I know right?
I am writing this because that little pump in my brain that floods the rest of me when it is time to write is so overloaded that I need to write to shut it up and even then, I will hate what I write and not post most of it. Hell, I could be reading this to myself three years from now.
Hi future crazy me!
Sadly it seems that the overwhelming emotions I feel are fear and self-loathing. Not in the cool Las Vegas way, but in the bipolar way that makes me shake a lot at night and wake up in the corner crying.
So, uhm, thank you for reading? I’m sorry you had to read this? I can write some porn for everyone if you like?
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