I'm clearly in a downward spiral. But maybe this is the car crash of this year. I suck. I suck so much. New goals I guess. Start from here and try again tomorrow. 

I don't want to be this girl. Waiting by the phone,  feeling like I'm forcing somebody to be here who doesn't want to be. I take all the hints and I turn them into assumptions.

What do I do? In this space? I am taking it all personally. Will I sit with this or find a body to drown in? I don't want to. And I don't want to feel like this. So food? I don't want that either. Suicide. Yes. That's what I want. It is a dangerous place to be in. Fuck. 

Stop counting.  Stop counting.  Stop counting. You only come back when I start to pull away. What is here? 

I wish we were friends. I wish you were my friend. I wish you cared,  and if you do,  I wish I knew.  I wish I felt it. Reading this book is killing me. But maybe there's an answer at the end of it.

Advice is what we ask for when we know the answer but wish we didn't. I know the answer.  I wish I didn't. I've so enjoyed caring about you. Leaving Facebook was a step. How long will i continue to torture myself. Last time it took 2 years and a sociopath. I was done. I guess I need to find another sociopath.

When I think of you.  I feel pathetic.  How long do I want to feel that way? I guess until you move on. When you move on,  I'll have to as well.

I've been wearing my hair the way I did before we were together. Every time it covers my eyes and I have to annoyingly push it away I think of you. The way I drowned in you.  The way you let me. I'm trying to remember who I was before you.  Before them. Before everything and everyone. The youngest picture I have of me is still a girl who was already broken. And my passport photo is a child with ghosts in her eyes. Hair slicked back. I don't remember who I was before that. Only the shame. Only the loneliness. Only the wanting to die. 

I miss you. I don't know if I'm supposed to miss you,  so I try to stay away. Supposed to.  Maybe it doesn't matter whether I'm supposed to or not. Just that I do. I stopped. We stopped before we became friends really. So I don't know what role we were supposed to play in each other's lives.

Look how good I am. Went over a week without trying to reach out to anyone and here I barely felt it.

You show people how to treat you. I am showing you that you don't have to check in. You don't have to talk to me. I require more than you are willing to give. This is a kindness,  staying away. 

I don't yet know how to not answer.

Me: I'm so good at quitting 

My roommate: yes,  you are.

He has to put up with me because I pay rent here. I'm trying to stay out of the way. I hope... I have to figure out how I'm going to pay for all this. How to leave money when I die so he doesn't have to get a roommate right away.

I've decided the goal is a studio. I'll get a cat. I'll stay out of everybody's way. Eventually people will forget. It'll be an old cat. Less of a commitment.

Why are these days so damn hard. I don't know how to get out of my head. 

 The thing I do not say out loud is that I wish things were like when we first met. Talking all the time, you would tell me everything and so would I. And fuck I felt so free. You made me feel so free. You still do. Every time we talk, darling I feel so free. You do not stay. I am not good enough to make you stay. You said "it feels like it's everything or nothing with you" and I agree. And since we are not everything, we have to be nothing instead. Tomorrow I'll forget the way you made me laugh. Tomorrow I'll forget your voice and your calm and your everything. And I'll be back to myself. And I'll want to die. I want to say "Can we go back? Can we talk the way we used to because everything is so scary in my head. Everything is so hard except when you're with me." And there will be pity in your eyes. And maybe you'll stay, and maybe you'll go. And either way I'll die one day. And either way I'll die one day. It's everything or nothing with me isn't it. Go away my darling. It'll hurt too much one day. There won't be any coming back. No hello five years later where we catch up. Only nothing left.

I dated a sociopath once. He took pleasure in playing with my emotions. You are nothing like him. Kind, and caring and honest. Still, you love me the way he did, which is to say, not at all.

Sometimes I have a bad dream.  And in the morning I find i can't leave my room until the apartment is empty. I'll sit there rocking back and forth because I have to pee so badly,  but I can hear signs of life outside my door.

And i get scared. And I'm a child watching nazi movies to get tips on hiding.

I don't know why i do this. This is my home.  I am safe. Nobody is going to hurt me here. I don't have to hide anymore.  I never have to hide again.  Just go fucking pee!

when I am strong enough

One day,  when I am strong enough I will watch the show about the girl who is raped.

One day when I am strong enough I will watch the show about the girl who kills herself slowly with one addiction or another.

One day when I am strong enough I will read the book about the girl who didn't speak for a year because she didn't know if she could stop the words that wanted to come out.

Today i choose not to fall back in time. I choose to not have nightmares. I choose to remember I have a voice. These works of art were created for people like me,  and still they are to painful to walk through. There's too much history here. I'll go back to writing diaries. It'll feel just like old times. 

I started taking medication. It's been a couple weeks. It feels lighter. Everything is lighter. I'm putting a puzzle together. that's not a metaphor, it's 1500 pieces and I've had it for years and I'm finally putting it together. I can barely hear her. I don't know what will happen moving forward. I don't know how long this will last. Medication is supposed to take a few weeks to kick in, so this is probably placebo.

There are still things here, they just all feel so much lighter.

Dear heart, please tell me, how can I help?

I'm here.

I've got you.

I don't know what I'm going to make this mean.

I don't know what I'm going to make this mean.

I'm just so tired.

Of being so alone. In all of this.

I'm not allowed to die, and oh how I want to.

Maybe it's just sleep i need. Maybe it's just the combination of everything. Maybe I've given too much and I'd like to be done now.

You don't get any more of me.

I don't know how to stop giving. I don't want you to stop taking. I wish you would, take it all. Throw it out. Broken things are meant to be thrown out.

the 3 month rule

Tomorrow it would have been 3 months. I wasn't counting. I never started counting with him. 3 days ago, he said, i need a break. I think it is a kind way of saying,  I'm done with you now.

It's what he said he would do. His pattern.  My pattern too. We have so much in common.

Today is the first day I am sad about it.

A healthy sad. I never needed him. I just so enjoyed everything about him.  About us. Literally everything. How nice to have had that experience. What a gift.

I don't know if he really meant "break" if he thinks us the way we were is a thing he can come back to. I don't know if i want him to. I'm such a rigid person.  So many rules and walls and trap doors. So easy to loose me in that way. Only that way.

Now comes a different me. The friend me. The friend me is caring and attentive. Is everything you need her to be. Will never abandon you, is so good at figuring out what you need and giving it to you for as long as you need it, and then letting you walk away so you never have to see what you were by being around her. 

But oh so closed off. The friend me will never let you hold her again. Any part of her. 

Today I am sad about that. 

Such a rare thing for me, to let somebody hold me.

Today I counted the days. 52. The longest before I started counting. Before I started looking elsewhere. Before I let the her in to ruin everything. Maybe if I hide away in this corner for a bit, she'll get bored and move along. Maybe she's the one telling me to hide in a corner. Maybe 52 is the longest before you started looking elsewhere. I'm the best, you know. Always the best at being a lover and never a love. I don't know what is real and what's my head trying to take over. Say the facts. Not the story. Say the things you can see in a camera. Everything else I made up. Everything else I made up. 

This isn't real.  I'm Not here.  This isn't happening. 

This is how you let someone go. 

You start with a dash of self hate.

Throw in some depression

Add the self isolation

And I forget

The way my heart filled when you grabbed my hand.

I don't want the long distance.

I want you in my arms

In my bed

Practicing a future we both know will never exist.

Two years,  I said

And then what? You replied

And then i'll be done

With what? You asked

I'll be done. I said. Such finality.

So how can I build anything. 

Best to let things die.

One day i will like you so much,  I won't want to burden you with me.

Don't let me go just yet. 

I need to hold on,  just a little while longer.

Hold my hand.  Just a little bit longer.

I am a terrible person. I am having a thought that I am a terrible person. Because I am. And killing myself won't make anything better. Will not stop me from being a terrible person. Will leave me in this permanent place forever. How do you help someone when being around them makes you remember how much you want to die. I should have never been born in the first place. All I do is take and burn and destroy. I don't deserve any good things ever. I don't deserve anything but this pain.

You're kisses are like cursing in spanish. Heavy and deep and oh so intense. I feel them in my heart. This ache. You make my heart ache. Or maybe this is what it feels like to really feel someone. To let myself be rwal

You let me stop in the middle of sex just to write it down.

Real.

I hate this. I hate this. I hate this. I HATE THIS. 

being a girl who waits. People are never on each other's schedule.

This is why I want to leave it all behind. Even when something is right,  it isn't.

I am unlovable- I am having a thought that I am unloveable.

The more I stay away,  the more I want to stay away. And when we come back to each other,  we won't.  Not really. So maybe you think what's the point. So maybe I think what's the point.

Stop here. Cut your losses. Start over. Again. It's only 2 years, and they'll go by so quickly.

There is a man on my lap. My fingers graze his nipple.

It's been a couple months. I've managed to be completely different.

I've pushed her back.  For two years.

I hate corridos. I hate the misogyny of them. The dehumanization of women, into property.  Into ownership. I hate the rape disguised as love. I hate normalization of it. I hate the machismo of it all. I hate that it's all they want to listen to at work. Because it reminds them of a home they had to abandon. I get it. And I hate it.

What a dangerous game I play. Trying to push myself over the edge. Dragging people with me. How long do you stay? Until the bills are paid? Until you can't stand it anymore? Until you succeed in pushing everyone away and the us nothing left.

Every time I want to say hello,  she pulls my hand away.  She says "don't. " says "you're only going to do them harm"
and I will.
And im sorry.
Very very sorry.

I was a girl in a bookstore.  In a coffee shop in a bookstore.  I was telling a boy about a girl that wasn't me. A rehearsed script of another time. I didn't know how to be there, only that I didn't want to be.

Today I am a shell. Today i am telling a broken boy to fix himself with just a hint of self disgust. Just a hint of hypocrisy.

I do not want to fix.  I want to break.

Things are easier today.  I do not know why. It is easier to reach out. Easier to not cry.  It's like I told my body,  hey, you have 2 days off, you can cry now if you want.  All you want.  And my body replies ok. But i'm good now. It's like the act of saying it's ok to not be ok made me ok. Or maybe it's that it's the second week in my pill pack and I slept for as long as I wanted to. And my roomate is gone so this space is mine again. And I haven't eaten today.  And I barely ate yesterday. There's something about this emptiness that fills me. Isn't that strange.

I would tell you that it's been a daze. Weeks of just existing. I still am. Existing. I would tell you that when the car hit the one in front,  I didn't feel it.  Not a thing. Nothing matters. Having a car, not having a car. Walking, breathing, friendships,  fucking. None of it matters.

Wanting is hard. Stopping myself is hard. Letting go is hard.

But I miss him.

When I feel like I can't make it through the day,  I try to make it through the hour.  And there are so few hours left in the day. I'll finish up.  I'll get out of here early. I'll find a corner to write in.  And the world won't seem as bad. I have me. I have my words. I have the memories. That's enough for now.

On moments like these,  it helps to take a step back and remember there is no permanence here. It is a kindness to let people leave. There's nothing here worth staying for. And it would be such a cruel thing to let people in and then break them.

The way he did. Broke me.

What a curious thing. When she takes a break.  When she leaves.

I laughed at work today. I can't remember the last time I laughed. It was a real belly laugh.

Nothing different has happened. There was no revelation or affection or attention today that I hadn't had before. Everyone is still gone today. I am still alone and unlovable today. I am still terrible at my job today. Deadline still looms over my head- just not as heavy. Like I can breathe without having to think about it. I can listen to music and not cry.

Is a good day.

One day more

Dear heart.  Stop it.  Our don't.  Remind me.  I am alive. This is what it is to be alive.  Pain. And ache. And guilt.  And sorrow. Every beat. Like breathing is a conscious thing and if I don't think about it,  I can't.

I miss.  And miss. And miss. And miss.

Can't seem to stay in this moment.

This week won't be like last week. I won't be able to write as much as I want. Or sleep as much as I want. Or move as much as I want.

All I can do is make it through today. And what a good thing to measure time in days. Actions. A list to check off and once it's all checked off,  I can go.  Disappear. Hide. Fade. Die. Make a list. Check it off. Die.

I've been thinking about all the places I have left my voice. All the random pictures that I may be in the background of. Places to find or not find comfort in when I'm gone. How much is appropriate to leave. and to whom?

I wish I was coming home to you

Today I thought,  I wish I was coming home to you. But my mind flicked through all the lovers and never landed on anyone. There is no ONE.

If I was coming home to you, you'd hold me, too hard and too long and I would feel like breathing was something I couldn't quite do all the way. We would be surrounded by cats.  Five of them. 3 are yours and 1 is mine and 1 is ours. If I was coming home to you,  i'd wrap my arms around you from behind while you did the dishes. Take a deep breath of you.  Your hair and shampoo and sweat. And it would all feel like I was standing outside of myself playing a part you never asked me to play. Here I am a dutiful husband and a dutiful wife. Your skin smells of marriage and betrayal. Someone else's bed. If i was coming home to you, there would be so much silence. No laughter. I can't think of the last time you made me laugh,  did you ever? We were always serious and intense.  Always the last five minutes of the climax before the commercial break when the two protagonists are standing in the rain breaking up over stupid things. But the truth of that moment is that they just don't really love each other. Didn't I tell you my dear,  I don't believe in love.

If I was coming home to you i'd walk in the door after a 12 hour shift and you would be passed out half on the floor,  half on the couch.  A drunken stupor. The TV still on,  some crime show or other. Cigarette butts and empty liquor bottles everywhere. Today's haul. If I was coming home to you,  my bedtime routine would involve cleaning up your mess over and over again. Leaving you on the couch until you came to. So much silence,  always going to bed alone. Until you woke me in the middle of the night. Freshly showered and calling me baby. If I was coming home to you, there would be laughter,  and dysfunction. A co dependency that fed both our addictive personalities. A push and pull that meant we cycled through being everything and nothing over and over again. In the everything phase we would be manic together. Leaping into adventures we have never tried before,  pushing the line further and further and then fucking all night. In the nothing phase you would fuck strangers in alleys without protection and I would cry in someone else's arms. I've never wanted to fix you and if I was coming home to you I would try and it would kill me.

If I was coming home to you we would laugh, often and it would drive me insane. I would say mean things just to hurt you and watch as the insults went over your head. Your love would drown me. but I would feel it. If I was coming home to you I would wonder who else you had let into our bed. The way you let me in when you were seeing her. I would hate you even as your lips between my legs made me crumble into a heap. There would be no jealousy or possessiveness holding us back from finding ourselves wherever that may be. And there would be no jealousy or possessiveness to show that we really wanted each other. No anger. No passion. And every time the more you wanted me, the less I would want you. There would be no pull there. You wouldn't be enough and I would be resentful.

If I was coming home to you, you would demand so much from me. To be open, to be honest, to bleed myself onto you every day. And when I asked for the same, you would run. Hide behind maybes and existential bullshit. We would spend hours talking about all the girls we've hurt before. Promising them forever with our actions and being an asshole with our words. And I would know I wasn't special, and I would know I was next. If I was coming home to you, I'd let you bury me in your demands. Harsh words and gentle caresses. The kind of person who would beat me and I'd let you and say I enjoyed it. Say i deserved it. Your anger hiding behind intelligence. You would find a way to reason me out of my sanity. Out of my self preservation, so good at what you do. If I was coming home to you our passion would turn into something bitter and ugly. Like a drug, we would drown each other.

If I was coming home to you things would be good until they weren't. You make me feel until you don't. I would want you so badly, until I didn't. You wouldn't be enough and I would so want you to be, so badly. I would chip away parts of myself so I could fit into a mold that you would be enough for. I wouldn't say when I wanted more because I would feel your distaste in my mouth when you tried to kiss my worries away. If I was coming home to you, I would not be enough. And the more I chipped away at myself to try to make myself fit into what I thought would make you happy, the less you would like me. If I was coming home to you, it would be great at first. I'd marvel at the way you could get lost in things so easily, and resent the way I was never a thing you could get lost in. There would be so much unsaid and unfulfilled. We would be so unfulfilled. And you would know it, and resent me for it. And I would know it and resent you for it. Both staying out of a sense of duty not love, not affection, not passion. Engulfed in the supposed to, coming together but never connecting. As if the world gave us a list of the things we were supposed to love and we ticked off all the boxes for each other but never quite being enough. Killing ourselves over it.