We get it, you don't know what you want.
And you’re allowed to not know in your twenties.
Now please talk incessantly about your current partner and how you believe they’re the one only to then vehemently practice avoidant attachment and you part ways with them.
I’m jumping the gun on responding to myself in such mean ways, that’s for sure. I don’t plan on leaving my current partner, there’s still faith. In a general sense, however, that is a light fixture that keeps going out and then keeps working only to not work for a little while.
But I just want to say that I am really tired.
I just want this to end.
I was honest about how severely I wanted this to end to a medical professional. And I am officially medicated for such. A bewildering concept to me for sure. Let’s see how that continues.
Temptation Expiration seemed to be a very nice way to describe the phenomenon that is my feelings about everything.
Dreams do continue. But sometimes I’m hasty about them. They’re out of reach right now.
All I’ve wanted was to be a mother and a good partner.
And I can’t get either rights
Can’t is a crap word.
Because I can.
But the part of me that says it can is definitely silenced.
I cannot say that this is the first time I’ve felt depression. True, guttural depression. But it’s the first time in a while.
One of my coworkers said that they’re really good at rolling with the punches and I couldn’t have explained it more clearly.
I’ve been getting pummeled the past few years.
Socked.
Jumped.
Guerrilla attacked.
And I smile in the face of it all.
This last time though, I really felt like I wasn’t going to get back up.
I laid there for a while.
The blood of my heart, soul and body I was letting drip on the pavement underneath.
I deal with disassociation a lot— spacing out— the momentum of your head is just stationary. I’ve genuinely felt stuck staring at the wall.
I might as well be wedged between two walls.
That disassociation I can picture myself having with that last punch as I’m watching the blood.
The blood is getting in my eyes.
I feel safe, presently, a week later, sat in my car after a shift, that I’ve gotten up. I’m not sure about the aftermath of the metaphorical punch. I believe I’m still aching.
I’m aching but my temptation renewed itself. Resurrected from the expiration.
At the end of the day, all I have is me.
And my homage to you is that you have the same.
And please don’t fucking give up on yourself.
Don’t let life jump you. Fight back. Get a good punch in.
You will achieve your goals. Even after admitting the hardship.
Yin and yang.
Good and bad must coexist in order for both to remain meaningful.
Pain is healthy.
No pain no gain.
Alright stfu Aaliyah.
Eat a bowl of your favorite cereal tonight.
[Image Description: A black and white photo, a thumb, a used bandaid. The blood stain reminded me of a heart. I am very much alive and very much reminded in signs. I recognize myself. In dumb photographs that I own. With my hardworking hands. You should do the same. I love you the most in case someone hasn’t told you lately.]