I don’t really feel like writing. I feel like being angry at life again. Mostly because I am angry at life. I’m angry that I had to say goodbye to my mom. I’m angry that I had to come back to Florida. I’m angry that she’s moving to Vegas on the 14th and that she won’t be a six hour drive away.
I’m angry. I’m hurt. I’m scared. And all of this mess is sitting inside of my chest, on my shoulders. A weight that no one else can see, but is so very real. It’s heavy. Moving is so much more effort. Caring is so much more effort when all I can think about is this burden.
And really… what burden is there? There isn’t one. Only the one I am giving myself. If I just let all of this go. If I breathed, it would evaporate on its own. But I’m stuck in this mindset of injustice, unfairness. I’m letting it eat away at me because things are so much more different than I want them to be.
It’s winter, and that makes it harder somehow. The world is slowing down, resting, saving its energy for next year. It’s like everything is pulling away, leaving, and I’m left with this feeling of loneliness. I want the warmth of summer. I want the heat and vibrant energy around me. I want to sit outside and absorb life into my skin like a reptile.
I feel like I’ve finally come out of my shock state for the news about my mom. Only what, three weeks later? I went home for the holiday. I didn’t get to spend any real amount of time alone with her, but I got to see her enough to have to say goodbye and I hated it. Loathed it. It made me question what is in Florida that is so important to warrant saying goodbye. What could justify having to say such a horrible, awful thing to someone I love so much?
What am I really doing here, with my life, that is so important?
And right now, in my angry, self-destructive state of mind my answer is nothing. I’m doing nothing. I’m wasting my life, my potential. I am thrashing against the walls of my skin crying out internally in pain and confinement. That’s what I’m doing. I’m waking up each day thinking that this may be the last for my mom, how her situation could so easily be so much worse. I wake up thinking about my grandmother and how we cared for her for two years after her own strokes crippled the left side of her body.
I look at my mom and I see her gray hairs, the passing of time, the wrinkles and crow’s feet around her eyes. The deep smile lines. I know she has lived a full life, a good life. I know she has stories that she’s never told me. Experiences and chapters in her life that she’ll never read out loud to anyone.
But every morning I wake up and I think about how it’s not enough. It’s not long enough. It can’t be now. It can’t be ever. It can’t. And I know I have no right to say that. And it’s this confliction, this unending war within my chest that hurts, like claw marks from a vicious animal tearing into my body.
Zane held me the day after I got back home while I came completely unglued. I told him through broken sobs how I was scared, how it was so hard to leave. How I didn’t want to come back. I am pretty sure it was the first time he’s seen me cry like that. It’s the first time in a while that I’ve cried like that in front of another person. Normally it’s when I’m alone in my car. I don’t even cry that hard when I’m alone in the apartment. I couldn’t keep it all inside anymore.
He said I should call my mom. That I should tell her everything I had I told him. And of course I said how could I? She’s going through enough already. She doesn’t need to hear me break down over the phone and beg her to do what? Not die? Not be sick? Go back in time and make this not happen? Hey. I know you’re feeling shity and lame and probably just as scared as I am, if not more so, but if you don’t mind… do this completely impossible for me.
I have a hard enough time living up to the impossible standards I give myself. How is it fair to put that burden on my mom when she already is worried about making us fret? I don’t want to add guilt to what she’s already having to go through.
He said that it wasn’t selfish of me. That if anything it would be good for her to know that she’s cared for and loved. He kept insisting. It would be good for me. For her. I needed to call. I needed to voice this feelings to her instead of him.
I didn’t call that day. I went running. Which helped for a little bit. Yay endorphins. Any run is better than no run, but honestly it was a pretty shitty run. I drank soda while I was home instead of water. I was sore for sitting in the car for so long over such a short period of time. It was the first time in a while that I ran outside rather than on the track or on a treadmill. It’s hard to keep telling myself that any run is a good run.
Later than night Zane and I went to our sport bar. And I type our when I used to type my. My sport bar. It’s not mine anymore, I don’t think. I might not have my room in February either. In this angry, irrational state that I’m in I can take a second for a brief moment of logical detachedness and realize how possessive I am being.
I had a very disappointing drink while we were out, which Zane finished for me. I slept alone on the couch.
Yesterday was another day of suckage were Zane and I talked about the issues between us. I have more feelings, deeper feelings, than he has for me and that’s why things seem hard. That’s why it can’t go back to “being easy”. The only way for it to be easy again is to breakup he said, and even then, it will only be easy after time has passed.
Why is it hard to be happy when that’s the goal of both people? That’s something I don’t understand.
But as of right now, the end of our conversation yesterday morning, we are “together”, but I feel more for him than he does towards me. Awesome. Let me add that to the list of things that I’m carrying around inside of my brain to use as ammo against myself when I’m alone with my thoughts and feeling particularly masochistic. I haven’t even really broached sorting any of that out yet. One disaster at a time, thanks.
I spent most of this morning depressed, and honestly I still am, though I’m functioning and doing stuff.
I did a bunch of cooking. One task at a time. Cut the spinach. Boil the rice. Shred the cheese. Eventually everything was done. Somehow. Even most of the dishes were taken care of.
I biked to work early. I had time so I went to the gym. I rowed for 2000 meters. I did weights today, too. I thought about not doing it. I thought about being proud of myself for doing anything, but then I got angry again. I’m better than this. I’m never going to be prepared for my race if I cut corners and half ass everything because I’m “depressed”.
Fine. I’ll lift some fucking weights. And I’ll up my weight, too while I’m at it. And I’ll do more reps than normal. I’ll lift those weights so good they won’t even know what lifted them. I’ll be the liftyest lifter that ever lifted her way into Lift Town.
Sometimes anger can be beneficial…
I didn’t spend as much time on weights as I wanted. Of course not. I went from not wanting to do it at all to being aggravated that I ran out of time and had to leave the gym to get to work.
And so here I am. Still unsettled. Still angry.
I did talk to my mom last night. I did cry when she first answered the phone and we talked for a while about how I was feeling sad and home sick. Towards the end I told her that I needed a moment of seriousness with her where I said, “I need you to know I love you.” And I wasn’t just saying those words like I sometimes do. Half conscious of what I’m saying, more a habit than actual words with intent and feeling behind them.
“You mean a lot to me, and I need you to know that, too.”
It was a hard conversation that I’m still not ok from. There’s still just a lot of “stuff”. I don’t even know what all of it is. But I know that the anger, the heat that I’m so quick to swing to now, this inferno of volcanic rage which fills my mind to the point that screaming it out through my lungs would be a mercy, comes from the unbearable fear and loneliness of what I know is inevitable.
I can’t think past it. This thought. This truth. This damnable fact. I think I’m past denial and now am swinging between anger and depression. Back and forth. Back and forth.
I’m tired of being depressed, and anger is so much easier. Every time I hurt, even the slightest bit of emotional discomfort I recoil, replacing it with lava that cauterizes everything in its wake. Leaving me exhausted and devoid of any feeling. The landscape razed, barren, empty. No life. No growth. Just black, charred wasteland inside of my skull, my body. Nothingness.
I know this event will change me. It already has. It’s already started to.
I know once I reach acceptance that I will have a clearer understanding of my position in life, where I want to go, what my priorities are, what my goals are. But right now I can’t see anything except the eruption. There’s only destruction right now, and right now, at this moment in time, I’m ok with that.
I want to ruin everything. I want to burn it all to the ground in defiance. I want the rest of everything to feel as I do, to share in it. To truly be able to empathize with how hard it is to cook breakfast, put cloths away, answer questions. Anything, anyone, who interacts with me I want to pull into the rainstorm of ash. I want to be left alone and by initiating contact they become unknowing victims of this violent chaos, which is my self.
This is where I’m at right now. This beautifully destructive force of nature is consuming me, burning me, melting me down to the very essence of my being, until I am nothing but molten liquid.
Eventually I will reforge myself. Figuring out who I will be, how this event will define me. How I will adjust to incorporate it into my life. But not right now.
Right now is the time for destruction. The beautiful, blissful agony of life as it continues to shape me, mold me, into the person I’m supposed to be. Right now is the time for pain. Right now is the time for anger, and I’m not going to hold it back. I’m not going to try to find a bottle for it to fit inside of, because it never will.
I’m going to stand before this volcano and embrace it with arms wide head tilted back because there’s nothing else I can do. It’s going to happen regardless.
There was a quote, an inspirational message, which talked about happiness. How it wasn’t about avoiding the rain, but learning to dance in it. Sometimes the rain is acid. Sometimes it’s suffocating ash. Sometimes it’s death and despair.
Not all dances have to be happy and joyful. Some are primal, arms flailing, fists beating, feet stomping, while lungs screech into the uncaring wind the anguish contained inside. That is the dance I choose to preform right now, alone, inside my head.
I will dance my dance of defiance until I am exhausted, until I am spent, until there is nothing left of me. And from there I will begin a new dance. A slow dance of recovery. Dancing ever onward to who I’m supposed to be.