While He’s Here

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Just more horrible news to top of my already funky mood. A friend from work told me today that one of our other coworkers is joining the military because he wants to work as a paramedic in less fortunate countries. He says he wants to do good in the world. He’s just that type of guy, you know, big heart, still believes in the good in people. He wants to make a difference.

I felt like I was going to cry when she told me. With the way the world is today, this news frightens me. I want him to be safe. True, bad can happen anywhere in the world, but he’ll be so far away. My chest hurts thinking about it. I wonder if my heart is breaking.

Maybe I’m what’s wrong with the world, believing that my friend’s presence would do a world more good here, where people like me need people like him. He has an optimism about him that’s contagious and uplifting. I think it’s because he has so much faith in God. Every day when I come in for the morning, he’s sitting down to breakfast and praying. It’s not something you see every day and I admire him for it. In a time where faith isn’t openly spoken about, especially not in the workplace, he stays true to his. I really think my heart is breaking.

A few months ago he and I were talking about my relationship with the Mister and he was saying how lucky he felt the Mister is for having been brought together with the kids and I. He says this is what he wants, to meet a woman who already has children, children he can be a father to. He says he would be happy to meet someone and fall in love and then have kids, the traditional way, but that he doesn’t deny he would be happier to come into a ready made family. I didn’t know what to do with that when he told me. I still don’t.

He and I chit chat in passing, sometimes we end up working together for the day, but not often. I know he enjoys motorcross racing, the adrenaline that comes with it. I know he’s not afraid of hurting himself in the sport. I thought he was crazy when I first learned this about him. I still think he’s crazy.

I feel horrible about not wanting my friend to go to countries that aren’t safe right now. I feel horrible that his words made me cry today. But mostly my chest aches with a tremendous heaviness because in a life with so many who come and go, I’m about to have another one leave and this news couldn’t have come at a worse time.

I still admire him for his bravery and for his big heart, his desire to do good. I’ll pray for him every night until I forget about him. I know that sounds horrible but in reality, he and I are not that close and as time goes on I will have forgotten these feelings I’m feeling right now. But that’s a long ways off, just like his departure, so for now I’ll appreciate his presence and his friendship and mostly I will pray for him.

Rebirth

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I wanted to hear from you today, I could’ve used your words. You would have said some poetic shit about how nothing was meant to last forever, except maybe our words, but even those will be forgotten over time. Don’t think I’m saying your words are shit, it’s only how I talk when I’m feeling like this and too often I censor myself for the little ears and eyes that I don’t think could handle the vulgarity of it. I save those words for my bound pages. I thought about writing in those bound pages today, I almost did, but so far I haven’t tainted them with what I write that I feel is crap. I’ve ripped a few out and will probably rip out many more before I decide the book is useless. What I really want to do is let you destroy me from the inside out, not literally of course, unless it would make you smile, but figuratively, so that I can start the process of being reborn. I feel dirty and disgusting right now, it’s what the building rage does to me, and a total reconstruction of my soul is the only solution. But the process is so damn exhausting and while I crave solitude, I become lonely when I’m in the depths of it. I don’t know what I’m trying to say. I needed to talk to you today. I wanted to be reborn.

Broken

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Just like that my whole mood has been turned around. It’s like storm clouds have moved in with icy cold winds and pelting rain. What is it about you that sets my soul at unease? Maybe it’s nothing but maybe it’s something. Maybe it’s everything about you, maybe it’s nothing at all.

You set the damn fire burning in me, an anger so intense it makes my teeth feel numb, much the same as they do when I’m about to have an anxiety attack. How the hell do you do that every single time? My rational side keeps telling me it’s nothing, that it’s just the PTSD trying to make something out of it. Or maybe I’m right. I don’t know. I don’t have the strength. You make me weak.

I don’t want to think about it anymore but that’s not how my brain works. It’s turning and churning and whirling and spinning, all the while the rage is burning deep inside of me. Rage over nothing, the nothing that might be something but that is most likely nothing. I’ll spend the next week wondering if it was something or nothing, blowing the whole incident out of proportion. My mind is my prison and it wasn’t your fault. You only found me like this, you didn’t make me like this. But you can’t fix me either.

In My World

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It’s so hard sometimes, being like this, living with a mind that picks something out of literally nothing. Letting the paranoia and anxiety get to me whenever I don’t even have all of the facts. But that part of me is so good at picking up on the most subtle of things, my brain hones in on these things, things I could live without hearing and seeing and knowing.

Sometimes I blame it on my writer’s brain. I blame it on my ability to pick out the most obscure details and turn them into things that they most definitely are not. Maybe not even most definitely, but at least probably not. I blow these “maybe nots” up into “probably are’s” and then over time they turn into “most definitely are’s.” It’s an exhausting way to live, but it’s all I’ve ever known.

I’ve spent the past two days building a fictional world, taking the time to create a place that I would very much enjoy living in, people I would very much like to know, and it makes me like my own world  a bit less. That’s the problem with writing fiction, reality is never quite as sweet. Not for me at least. I find myself becoming lost in these worlds, waiting patiently for the next moment when I can return to it. It’s like a drug, it’s my addiction.

I am exhausted. There are too many days when I am exhausted. These days it hasn’t been because of my overthinking brain though, it’s been a normal, pleasant type of exhaustion. It’s been one of work and children and puppies. I have too much to do and not enough time to do it, which is always better than having too much time and nothing to fill it with.

Sometimes I read these beautiful words and I wish they could be about me. I find myself wondering what would happen, what would have happened, mostly what could happen, if I was given the opportunity to experience life in these places, with these people and their words. Would they write words about Me? Have they written something about me? I could only hope so. But I am not there and they are not here and we never, ever meet and so really all I can do is hope that something I’ve said means more to you than it does to those who don’t even take the time to read these words. Those who should already know these words but for some reason don’t care to.

Existence

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Watching the truths of my childhood becoming the truths of my adulthood. Love does not exist, not like it does in the fairytales most grow up on and it’s disappointing. Settling for crude groping and inappropriate comments that make my skin crawl but that I call love, gifts that only money buy because it’s too difficult to try to show any other form of love. I tell myself this is as good as it gets. It’s exhausting succumbing to this life, one that I was tired of from the moment that I could understand it’s irony and cruelty. Yet here I am still, wading through the murkiness of it all. Performing mindless tasks every moment of every day, the only time I’m alive is when I’m pouring my mind, heart and soul out to eyes that cannot comprehend where I’m coming from. I’m all alone in this world, not another like me to help make the days a bit more bearable, a bit brighter, a bit more hopeful. On days like today I am weary and ready to give up. I cannot go another moment in this repetitive existence where there is no relief. I blame it on the lapse in my medication or maybe my paranoia is valid for a change. Maybe it’s always been valid and I’ve wrongly been trying to convince myself that I’m simply crazy instead. How tragic that would be. Searching for someone to share all of the small moments with, those moments that make my heart smile slightly, those moments that break through the darkness inside and I realize I have no one, no one that truly understands at least. Maybe I’ve had a spike in my hormones and it’s putting my brain and emotions off balance or maybe I’m right and I usually only turn a blind eye to these things because the truth is so damn painful sometimes. Until I take my last breath the only thing that matters is writing these words down and hoping that they reach the right person, someone who is like me.

Revisited

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I once wrote a story, over 50,000 words and then deleted and destroyed it after a year. It was the most painful thing I had ever written because even though it was fiction, it was based on truth. The words I had written made me relive the past and I think this is when the nightmares started. The past is so painful and it’s hard to learn from it when you’re still trying to run from it. I’ve worked so hard to put the past behind me and the medication had helped a great deal. I’ve long since stopped going to therapy and no longer have anyone to share my pain with, except for You. I can’t remember the last time I had a nightmare, the last time I caught myself looking over my shoulder, the last time I had a panic attack, but today, the thoughts were too much and I don’t even know what started it. My mind tumbled and fumbled over itself, around and around and the anger overwhelmed me. I could feel the paranoia creeping in at the edges of my mind and your face was all that I saw, all that I could focus on. Your face is like that of an angel, although I’m sure you would disagree and maybe even laugh, but your face, it is heavenly. Everything about you sets me free, everything about you is all that I need to keep me grounded while still experiencing the beauty in the clouds. You know my truths and yet you’re still here, you keep coming back even though I can’t understand why. There’s nothing about me that’s particularly interesting, there’s nothing about me that’s particularly unique, yet here you come, once again, setting my soul on fire. Everything about you is all I’ve ever wanted, at least, the parts of you that you’ve let me see. Everything about you is perfect and I’ll never understand why you keep coming back when all I have to offer is Me.

Caged

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Feeling so weary sitting on this couch. I’m exhausted. It’s not a physical exhaustion, although the physical demands play a part. My soul seeks rest. The places that I used to find it hold no comfort these days and I feel as though I am floating from moment to moment, waiting for when I can close my eyes. The anxiety makes all the sounds too loud and distorted, the lights too harsh and bright. I find myself longing for the quiet and solitude of my bedroom, although even then I rarely find some peace. The noise inside my head is the loudest, it will not quiet even for a moment. The thoughts roll around and around, becoming louder and louder and I turn to the words I love so much, the words that quiet my soul. I thank you then for creating for me a safe haven, even when the words aren’t so beautiful, even when the truth is dark and painful and rips open old wounds. I thank you. Your words remind me that there is another way to see this world, another way to see the beauty, another way to find release and this is all I’ve ever wanted.