Holy shit was today ever hard. It snuck up on me, unimpressive to start but impressively debilitating by the end. Why am I so used to this difficulty? Just a clusterfuck of butting heads, only made possible because she and I are so close. Without the closeness, you don’t have the bumping (same reason why this happened with Family Friend and Mom, and probably old University Friend too). But without the closeness, it isn’t worth fighting for.
I will try to recap the important parts as much as I can, without going too much into what happened or the actions, since the feelings matter so much more.
Normal – I don’t feel like this is normal. I don’t feel like shutting down for an hour on the couch because things are so overwhelming or that I just don’t know what to do to feel better and no one around me is picking up the flashlight (AKA torch) is normal. I don’t feel like getting as angry or sad or frustrated (so much so that I would rather break things than talk about it for one second longer) with my lack of normalcy is normal. I don’t feel like my self-sufficiency being a shield or barricade for others’ salve is normal. I don’t feel like having to search for my emotions or appetite or love button is normal. I don’t want to believe that others go through this; not because I think I’m special or unique, but because I would rather not believe that others have to go through this gut-wrenching mind-fuck of a situation whenever they come up for air. Because whenever the world calms down enough for me to come up for air (usually whenever I put the thousand projects down for thirty seconds to take in some oxygen), I get strangled by the toxic reality.
At one point today, I said that it wasn’t necessarily a hard day, but that it was quiet enough for my head to realize how I felt on a day-to-day basis – that I feel wrong; that I feel out-of-place; that I feel outside of the world, not a part of it; that I feel like there are some inside jokes I don’t get, some terms-of-phrase that I don’t speak; that I feel different (not special/extraordinary different, but alien different). Forrest Gump, near the end of the movie, shows genuine fear that his son will be “like him” = alien different, in the world, but not a part of it. I feel like Forrest.
It is Christmas in two days. I don’t want anything. I don’t want clothes and I don’t want money and I don’t want things. I want love. I want to see how people love me and if they’ve been listening over the last year. I want to feel better. I want someone to sit across from me and think that I am worth doing something drastic for, that I am something worth crossing that line for. I don’t know if that will be enough to re-magnetize me, to re-polarize me into the proper North direction, but isn’t it worth a shot? Aren’t I worth the shot? My wife is trying and that is admirable, but it took more to put me in this well, she can’t do it alone. She needs help too.
In the last year, I have seen more promises broken than kept. I have had soothing words but not loving actions when they counted. Am I just hoping that people are paying attention? Am I asking for too much? Am I so hung up on not having people run when I scream that I stay silent? I wish they could see inside my head, into the fear that I experience. I wish that I could understand if this was normal. I want someone to see this and tell me, “I will help you,” or, “don’t worry, we all go through this.”
This is not living, this is surviving. This is not admiring the lights, this is hoping that they’ll be there when I wake up.