You know what? I don’t want to couch shit in metaphors today. I don’t want to make my obviously self-deprecating jokes and pretend that everything is okay.
It isn’t fucking okay. It hasn’t been okay for thirty years, why would it be okay on a random summer day? Why would it be okay after all the other, not okay things happened to permanently make parts of my life never able to be okay again? Explain that, and I will give you the fucking money for the therapy that never works. Why would suddenly everything be worth a smile after all this time? Do things turn into faerie dust in your world. Must be nice to erase things like that.
I did some thinking last night. Some soul-searching as I was sitting in my bed at half-past three with the same song playing over and over to keep the stupid fucking panic at bay: not Darkness, not demons, panic. Lizard brain makes me want to run away and never look back at the real-world fear. The panic that sent me to throw up over and over until I could taste stomach acid and bloodshot eyes were my delightful appearance in the mirror.
Listen very carefully.
Some of you are there for me every second of every day, and I love you for that, and you can go about your day knowing that you are the good guys and I love you and appreciate you. You can do your Sunday things knowing you helped a fat kid from the barrio not off himself in the middle of the night a hundred times. You are my best and closest friends. You are the sweetest lovers, the most patient psychotherapists, phenomenal hand-holders, punishing truth-tellers. You are on a level that I will never understand, and that is for the best.
Others are there for me when I am there for you. Sporadic by the situation, distanced by circumstance. I don’t hold this against you because I know you don’t hold it against me. You don’t have the nicknames, the inside jokes, the stories about RockBand, Fights with doors, double shots during Jeopardy after picking up NomiDove from jail, smoking weed and contemplating the universe. You have the moments when we are weak, and we don’t want to grab that crutch of those people who are always there. We are ashamed to ask them for help again, so we come to one another, and we cry into a text message or an email, and when we are done, we go away and don’t talk for weeks, months, years.
The rest, who cares? It isn’t my job to talk to you; it isn’t my purpose in life to get a hold of you and try to pretend there is a connection there when there isn’t anymore if there ever was. It isn’t yours either. If the two of us can’t manage to say hi to one another anymore, fuck it, we won’t, and that is the way things work sometimes.
See, layers. Not a metaphor, truth. There are some of you I will, and have, bled for with an enthusiastic smile, and there are some of you that I might nod at if we walk past one another, maybe not.
I am not everyone’s best friend. I don’t want to be everyone’s best friend. My best friend is a beautiful soul, and that is all I need in the best friend department. I am not your emotional jizz-rag. I am not your shoulder that never stays dry long enough. I am not your courage, determination, ambition, sexuality, faith, guru, sensei, teacher, and a hundred other things you treat me as.
Stop. I don’t want; you can’t make me fucking want it.
What does that have to do with anything? Everything.
You know what I do when you wake up, and the first three things you think about are people who you not only have met but don’t even want to meet. Or, like this morning, you wake up pissed off at yourself because the person who texted you last before you went to bed told you that you were emotionally distant lately and that it wasn’t right for them to be near you.
Yes, they said that. I didn’t even flinch, that is the problem. You aren’t supposed to be numb to things like that. You are supposed to get mad, rage. I read it, internally shrugged, and went to sleep for the two and a half hours I was given for the evening.
I don’t want to be numb anymore, so I have decided to cut off anyone and everyone, without a word of warning or a fuck you, that is bad for me and if that is harsh, fuck you, and maybe you belong on the damn list too,
Enjoy your fucking football.
© 2019, TheJameyBear. All rights reserved.