Fear

 

Maybe if I keep this up I’ll be prepared for it all. Maybe if I prepare for all of the worst it won’t be so bad when they happen.

It’s maybe this, maybe that…it’s hard to keep track.

You tell me everything will be fine and that in time I’ll believe you; but can that really be true?

I’m so jaded by what’s real and what isn’t, that pretending you’re a dream and I’ll wake up is the easiest explanation.

Bring me back, reality; therefore I won’t fear the dream. I’m constantly battling the fantasy of fairytale.

 

Once upon a time…

My Uncle said to me that once he stopped looking for love he then found it. Or more like it came upon him. Suddenly then, it was natural and unwavering.

This thought interests me. Originally, I hadn’t felt that I sought out love. It didn’t seem forced. Gradually, however, under further examination, it appeared my history was a little less than. Less than natural, less than healthy and just less than.

What feels like breath and a cool breeze is where I’m at now. It’s not difficult. It comes without thought. The natural flow to it all is surprising. In a way it can be scary and overwhelming.

Even so soon the fear of losing such a feeling can be…almost self destructive. In the same breath I can say it feels it will never end. The fear I keep hidden away, realizing most irrational thoughts now are brought on by my past and the insecurities that have now been engrained.

Wounds heal and time brings to expectation.

I think my Uncle was right.

It’s my Party…

I’m attempting to disallow my overwhelming accomplishments to detract attention from me, on this day.

Life. What a fucking bitch.

Yes, I am giving sarcasm this early. I did not have coffee, don’t need it. I need a shot of some Fireball.

It is that kind of day.

I have a boundless amount of irony in relation to my life’s path. Maybe it should be a book…”The ‘How To’ get-yourself-to-a-place-where-you NEED a ‘How To’ book.”

Laughter is humility, right?

The inside joke is that numbers and math in no way reflect our true accomplishments in life.

The irony is that no matter how much I know that to be true…I just don’t feel that way.

Devouring Recesses

You’re an unwelcome visitor. Trespassing. You stomp through the serene meadows and swiftly chop down all signs of life. You hunt for sport. You kill for power. The enigmatic overflows of dreamless notes are devoured into your darkness.

In the after glow of a great book moment you eat away. Chipping. Gnawing. You gather in all the recesses. You are a plague.

Your hunger is insatiable. All that is will be yours. All that can be taken and broken shall be. You are an ever brewing wake.

In you I see evil. I feel it. Taste it. In you are all the darkest values and desires. To you life is what you can take out of it. What can be removed. Tangible, delectable, destruction. We are the galaxy and you are the sun. Revolved. Distorted. Your surface ever-changing yet mirrored.

You are hard to define because in that would be to know you. There is no one that knows you. Chopped character flaws. Descriptions and whispers.

To say you are anything would mean you were complete. You are without. You are wanting. Destitute and diluted.

I wish I had strayed away from you. Toxic and overbearing, misleading and mindful. We falter to those who need. Interpretations to the lust misunderstood. I’m left, pieces stranded, puzzle. Shapes. Angular and incomplete.

You are the night.

You are the nothing.

My own Fifty Shades

My sexuality is feeling boundless as well as my insecurity.

It is the way of the world those being tethered to one another. Keeping us all locked in a prison of irony and sanctity.

There are so many things I am aching for, from life, and I’m feeling trapped from them. Admittedly, by my own doing.

For the first time in so long I’m wanting to feel the freshness of a new relationship, the clarity of its walls being unknown. Keeping definitions to a minimum. I want and am excited to learn someone new.

 

I am curious and crazed. My book shelf as of late not helping (Fifty shades of Fucked Up).

140 Characters

Jamey M. H.@jigglejams

I thought it was IBS but it was really WRT.

Things like this make me laugh. Hysterically. And for days. Why? Because to me it is hilarious on multiple levels.

Level 1: The stress, anxiety, albeit hardship of my relationship (on multiple occasions) has literally made me ill.

Level 2: Ha! Just called the ex the “shit.”

Level 3: IBS – A widespread condition involving recurrent abdominal pain and diarrhea or constipation, often associated with stress, depression, anxiety, or previous intestinal infection.

As you can see Level 1 and 3 are related, more exclusively then in Level 2. Level 2 really is to make me laugh. Now the Tweet is fully explained. (I received some confusion)

Personal issue: I do not like giving credit where credit is due. More exclusively in the male category, when the males behaviors affect my life. I do not like to feel less than. More importantly made a fool of. In my situation both of those things happened. So now I have this self-burdening aftermath.

It’s always interesting to self examine. The things you can realize on your own, though inspired.

My “personal issue” as stated above also has a “silver lining” that I pretend* is the route cause. I feel it’s immature to put it all, whatever that is, on to a guy. In each scenario I must have had a downfall as well. The seed growing the plant of failure was that of my own. I am that seed. My life being the plant. Here we sit in the garden of WHAT THE FUCK IS HAPPENING. This I know is not true in all interactions, however.

Why do I like my tweet? Because it’s giving credit where credit is due. That SOB can suck a D.

Jamey M. H.@jigglejams

Emotionally I am #Xena but physically I am #Gabrielle.

*Other life events have made this a regular thought process of mine, since childhood. We are addicts of rhythmic insanity, cycling our insignificance that only we legitimize.

Just to Clarify

Can I clarify? My Blog, I will clarify.

What do I miss about love? Love. Ha. Just reading it makes my heart sink 5 feet into the ground. I almost feel like I’m not quite sure what that is. I know what it’s not. I know I’ve become friends with aspects of it. Visited it. Pretended in it; like dress-up.

Because of new/old people in my life, revisiting, I’m seeing things I never would have noticed before. Things that I need in someone else and in myself. I can’t get by in life only having my work life. I can’t get by without writing or taking pictures or being excited about life and it’s possibilities. Previous to my Divorce I was on a one way, no rest-stops, no exits. Just careening towards the inevitable.

What do I miss about love? Romance. The innocence of it all. That at the base of every moment there is only one thing, love. That sickly, can’t shake it, death-bed please be by my side at my worst, love. Currently I don’t want those things. I don’t want to start over. I don’t want to be naked.  But I miss it. More than mourning the loss of my best friend, I’m mourning love lost. It’s what hurts the most.

What do I miss about love? Having it.

Next episode, please.

Too many thoughts, jumping around my head. Banging into one another. It’s a mad house. Not the song, a mad house. Untethered human beings set free. Free to find the crazy in the average and continue to misunderstand it.

Parts of my life are repeating themselves. Simplest description: I’m freaking out. It might be a strong translation of my thoughts but that sums it up.

5 years I lived hindered beneath the weight of someone else. I can’t do that again. Sadly the actions that began that long journey are repeating themselves in a manner that is…a mirror image. Different players, same game, same key moves.

I know things are bothering me when I become obsessed with a show on Netflix. Silly. But that instant gratification of you being someone else, somewhere else, doing “else” things. With books you have time for thoughts in-between the sentences or in the spaces between words.

I don’t want to be a typecast in my life.

Happy Anniversary

This time last year my relationship was in complete turmoil. The kind that makes you obsessively contemplate, “what will make this better?” Your desperation to fix your relationship is multiplied by your desire to no longer feel…destroyed. I’m not sure if that’s a strong enough word for how it feels when the world has lost it’s shape and all things seem to be unrecognizable.

Quite literally I was crushed. Crushed beneath the weight of it all. I couldn’t crawl my way out of the pit that I had fallen into. For some reason the happiness that I could have, easily, didn’t align with the happiness that he needed. And he would not live without what happiness he desired, there was no room for compromise. But to try to figure all of this out with someone who could not process their own feelings. What is there to fix?

Somehow we carried forward. Limping. And the emotional toll was taken from my body. My physical health deteriorated quickly with a flu that was unwavering followed by a cyst in my chest. Horrible. It was as if the emotional damage was taking a physical manifestation.

Fast forward.

Here I am again, the anniversary of it all. Divorce is final. Sickness has returned, as well as the cyst.