I won’t

I won’t write about you. I won’t write about the excitement of finding somebody who understood me. To feel needed and valued. To have someone I could rely on.

I won’t write about arriving and feeling like part of something bigger than myself. That feeling where you get so happy, the happy raises up your throat and makes your voice squeak in excitement. I won’t write about that.

I won’t write about getting close to you, and spending time with you. I won’t write about being taken in and accepted, and then pushed away.

I won’t write about where it all went wrong. I won’t write about your piercing eyes. They made me feel like I’d never been seen before. I won’t write about how your arms felt or how my heart broke.

I won’t write about how in therapy I talk and laugh it off, but some days it hurts like hell. Because you saw me, really saw me, and then decided I wasn’t worth your time.

I won’t write about how much I want to message you, but I’m too afraid to get the cold shoulder. That I can’t be broken another time by you because I think it might end me.

How I think maybe you’re waiting for me to make a move, and I’m waiting for you, so maybe we’ll never cross paths again and that’s almost too much.

I won’t write about how I’ll avoid sleeping, avoiding the possibility of seeing you in my dreams too, along with all day long.

I won’t write about how goodbye felt like forever and how much I love you still.

I won’t write about any of that.

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I have not been able to sit and write for the last few weeks, as I have joined an outpatient psychiatric program. This entailed going to “group” for six hours every day the first few weeks, though now it’s down to three hour sessions every day. Monday though Friday.

At first I found it just outright exhausting. Being vulnerable, exposing your childhood and the lies you’ve been telling yourself. Sitting and listening, talking and writing is a lot more exhausting than it sounds.

Now however, a few weeks into the program, I am running out of things to say. My parents did their best considering all the problems I had when I was a kid. It’s not their fault that my childhood memories mostly consistent of doctor’s appointments and MRI’s.

I think, though my mother disagrees, the main reason I went into group was to learn to live without a certain group of people. Some days the pain of losing them still hurts like hell, but for the majority of the time, it’s like I’ve been stitched up. If he never comes back, I guess I’ll be okay. I don’t have any other choice.

My sister had her baby, a beautiful baby boy named Oliver, and I can interact with him surprisingly. I don’t know what it says about me, but i can hold him and read to him, and have little to not emotional response at all. For limited periods of time of course.

Would I still be ecstatic to be a mother? I think so. But I see how much work it is, and how sometimes I just don’t want to be around kids. Reality is starting to make it’s way through the fog of obsessive thoughts. I like it, looking at things logically.

And I’m slowly resigning myself to the possibility that I very well may not be a mother. Surrogates are crazy expensive, you can’t be a foster parent without a driver’s licence, and I’m sure adopting as a single mother must be hard as heck. So for now. I struggle on, though the struggle is not as painful somehow. I hope this doesn’t go away when I start going to group.

Oh, and I have a new diagnosis from the doctors at the famous university of Loma Linda.¬†Borderline Personality Disorder. It explains my tumultuous relationships, my roller coaster of emotions, and my impulsiveness among other things. The medicine I’ve been put on for it doesn’t seem to be doing any harm, so maybe the diagnosis fits, it’s been ruled out before.

I had a lot to catch up on with this post, so I’m sorry that it ran long.

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You’ve got to be kidding me

Today, I learned that an acquaintance of mine, who is younger than me, is pregnant with her third child.

Kinda speechless right now. I know that I’m not having my own kid, and I know the reasons why I’m not are valid and perhaps responsible, but it doesn’t make this less of a bummer or something to be envious of.

Just like when I see my nephew. I know my reasons, but knowing that the timeline is ticking down, and that there’s no sign of a child in sight for me, is almost too much to bear these days.

Some think I should stop spending time talking to such acquaintances, to not trigger myself, but I’m triggered by everything, from the moment I wake up to the moment I fall asleep. The obsession is in my brain and there’s no compulsion for it to make myself feel better, even temporarily.

I want to take a Lyft and there’s nowhere to go. Today is off to a really shitty start.

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Before and After

With my heart this broken, decimated mess, time takes on different meaning. Days and nights blur together into one, one long existence of sleeping or trying to get back to sleep. Feeling the pain or trying to avoid it.

There is only before when things were good, and right, and fair, and after when things aren’t. Before, for the first time I had hope. And now I have a mindful of memories that won’t go away. I wish time would take it’s regular rhythm up again. I want friends again. And outings and laughter, and singing and smoking.

But more than anything else, I want some sembelance of hope. Because with hope, I had the motivation to do so many things. And now my only motivation is to sleep, and to evade all obstacles and obligations that try to keep me from my bed.

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1 year after

Yesterday, despite attempts to turn off such notifications, my Facebook reminded me that exactly a year ago, I came home from my stay in Missouri. Which of course sent me into another emotional tailspin where I couldn’t get out of bed or eat.

I wonder if they got that notification too. I wonder if they even batted an eye. I know that despite what my mind tells me, I don’t need them in my life, I am better off, supposedly. But that doesn’t help when my mind lies to me, keeps me in bed, and keeps me from even taking a shower.

A year after, I go to bed as early as I can, and sleep in as late as I can. I miss them like crazy. I think about them everywhere I go and whatever book I read or show I watch.

I don’t know how to block them from my mind. But I found a Buddhist advice book at the library

“Love hurts-Buddhist advice for the Heartbroken”, and sometimes it helps.

Though sometimes is not nearly enough.

Today, summoning the energy to take a shower is not worth it. What’s the point? Nothing I will do will make them come back. Or care how much I want to die. I don’t know how they don’t care but they don’t, and that leaves me all by myself.

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Envy and Jealousy

Thanks mind. I wake up past one in the morning and can’t get my mind to shut up to go back to sleep. Instead I think of people that I hate thinking about.

IF i could, i would get deep brain stimulation done tomorrow. Cut into my head, I don’t want to do this anymore. I can’t be her, as much as I’d like to be, and nothing is going to ever change what has happened.

I’m not a jealous person usually, thinking I deserve something more than someone else. Low self esteem does not go hand in hand with thinking you deserve amazing things. But I’m envious and jealous and full of spite and longing.

And I can chant to the gohonzon all I want but he’s not leaving my mind. So please give me the fucking surgery. Because it’s past 1 in the morning, and I can’t sleep because my mind tells me I need him.

My mind is broken and I’m ready for any scalpel because I don’t want to think about him anymore. Please.

“Now i sleep, sleep the hours that I can’t weep,

when all I know was steeped in blackened holes,

I was lost”

Mumford and sons Below my feet

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I had dreams about him last night. Though I can only remember one of them. We were on some kind of Vespa, and he was going too fast and we crashed.

He didn’t look hurt, or bad, or anything. He just left. And in the dream I ran through what looked like an huge apartment complex, knocking on every door and calling his name, over and over. No one opened any of the doors.

That’s all I remember. I had another dream but I don’t remember any of it fortunately.

I remember how I woke up each time. Gasping for breath, choking on tears, sobbing, and feeling like I couldn’t breathe.

This is how I am because he’s gone. Because he chooses to be gone.

And I just want it to stop.

Stop brain, he’s gone. If he cared he’d be back. But he doesn’t so he won’t.

But my brain continues dreaming.

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