We are an
Empire founded on pelts, of animals, and humankind
both badly abused
I’m supposed to be moved out by now. It’s been going slow. Part of me is tried. Not physically tired but emotionally fatigued. This was a big choice for me and I am trying to get a handle on what should be a more adult self. I’m moody and drained. The last couple weeks I’ve been fighting with myself to get to work and to focus at work. I’m ashamed that I haven’t been the greatest.
I’m nervous about being at home, scared that I will fall into some negative relations with my parents. But I think I can be brave and avoid most of that.
I feel more comfortable with my own quiet here.
There’s still a bit to do- I told him that I’d be done by the end of the weekend but apparently not. I’m trying not to think too much about tomorrow. There’s something happening at work that I’m nervous about and might feel unprepared for.
I think I’m just getting used to my own feelings of alone. Sometimes I feel panicked and reach out too much. Perhaps its unfair to think of myself as needy.
I was thinking about anger and love earlier. I feel like I can’t keep blaming my dead boyfriend and my parents for all my psychological failings in love. I realized that I was mad about his death- I never really let myself feel that before- what with ‘God being in control’ and all.
I just want to have a temper tantrum and make the world all better. Following the news and current events makes me stomach turn and I feel like so much of what we call politics is senseless.
To see the world as not a fairy tale is hard. There might not be a happily ever after.
But there’s a lot of good things, good people, it’s just such a mess and so beyond the capabilities of any one person to understand and fix it all.
When I was sick, I felt like I was that person, that I could be that person. I felt destined to cure it all. There was a man in a black suit and I thought he was there to protect me (one of the things I want to find a way to ask- was he real?) And that I was going to get kidnapped and taken to the UN where I would dance topless and men would listen because of the beauty and power of the female body. It was a bit of a strange fantasy- ha.
Perhaps that is an easier idea than realizing how fucked things are in the world. In November/December I was reading about drones and thinking about people dying in the middle east. I don’t know the details of what was going on there but it hurt to think about and I thought I could feel far off cries.
If I was to believe in magic or layers of reality I would wonder if the pleas of atrocities ripple through the world like the butterfly effect, sparking chaos in those who are “listening”. Perhaps mental illness in one is truly a reflection of trouble elsewhere in the world.
Anyways. That got off track.
I feel more grounded at home; as much as I struggle with my family; I should be safe here. I won’t get lost like that again.
Its a strange week and my mind feels wild with fantasy.
I’m on my parents porch and my mom offers to make me a drink to keep warm.
It’s cool here. She keeps commenting on the strangeness of me being here.
It’s even stranger to me. To let the evenings pass without much fuss about where to be. I pack up my old place in the day time. Work seems to be going well.
My hands are cold.
I’m reading, writing, moving slow.
My dad will be here this weekend. That’ll be the real test of my tolerance.
It’s funny- I know when my hope for an evening has passed. I was happy to hear someone’s voice on the phone. Unquestionable adoration in me that can be damn near aggravating.
But it’s easier to dispell my hopes when I am by myself and not guilty feeling.
It’s strange- home.
(End of incoherent poet thoughts)
I always feel like it’s been too long since I’ve written here. My consciousness has been broken into all sorts. I feel strange and disconnected. I suppose that’s what I wanted by moving out. I was getting lost under stress and stuff and obligation.
I can breathe- and I find myself rushing in different ways. Today was kinda beautiful I think; I was content to be by myself.
I don’t want to finish moving and unpacking. It’s a lot of work, but I think I like this unsettledness - I’m more content.
That was a big part of deciding to move. I was staring at my bookshelf and junk and I was overcome with- none of that is me. I don’t need any of it. I don’t want it.
I feel like there is so much to shake off- I hope I can liberate myself.
And writing. I’ve been writing a lot.