time: 1:06

time: 1:06

Dear Internet,

When you start wiping tears off of your phone, while playing solitaire, you know shit just got real.


I don’t feel good.

Well, what does that mean exactly?

It means the following conversation with TEH, TheBassist, and Kristin (roughly the same conversation, individual times.).

“Having a hard time getting out bed, sleeping 10-12 hours a night, and barely eating.

“(Anything else going on?)  The only things that have been going on is increased stress about being homeless, jobless, moneyless.

“I thought it was related to my period but it’s not – that tends to be mania and BPD. I am just incredibly paralyzed right now and often feel sick to my stomach.

“And this isn’t throwing up sick, it’s the pit of my stomach feeling.

“This feels differently.

“I told TEH I really dont have much left in the tank. He argued I must have something since I am hustling on the (writing) job front. So I conceded I have 1/8th if a tank left. I just don’t feel emotionally any more. I just dont. I cry all the time because I need to protect myself.

“(From what?) The world.

“I cry, it gets rid of whatever feeling I have left; then I can crawl back into myself.

“(Why?) Stay safe. I protect me and me alone.

“I don’t know. I am often too tired to check. I keep my bear close. I read. Sometimes i shower and get dressed.

“All I know is I am really scared. And tired and emotionally exhausted and drained. Something has to give and I think it’s me.”

(Meds changed? No. Dietary habits, etc changed? No. Are you smoking? No (mostly). Are you drinking? No. Are you doing drugs? No.)


This has been going on for months.


I am not suicidal.


I can trace back to January, of this year, when I was hysterical on the phone with TheBassist. He calmed me down, we made plans for me to come out to the East coast, things in my brain cooled to a smolder. In February, much was the same. March was the epic road trip of 2771.7 miles in less than two weeks. Same month the #teamharpy dismissal came. I survived that; it would reckon I could survive everything.

No.

April, May, June, July, August, and now I flipped between the East coast and the south. Four weeks here. Six weeks there. When I was in Michigan, I couldn’t bear to be in my apartment alone. I couldn’t bear being apart from anyone, seemingly specifically TheBassist. I was chainsmoking (when I could) and when I was home, it was jimjam and no shower time.

I put up a pretty good facade.


I have a friend or two who live near the cabin, whom I get in touch with immediately when I get into the area. The other day we went malling and lunch, which turned out not be that great of an idea — at least for me. As we walked around the mall being basic bitches, I watched my reflection in the mirrors as we passed. My friend looked great, hair perfect, make up on point, outfit cute. I on the other hand looked frumpy, my hair was out of control (It’s not been cut or colored for months). No makeup on, even mascara. I was slumped like a semi-colon.

I felt horrible and looked even worse.

I didn’t recognize the person in the mirror.


Earlier this week someone inferred I was a hack. Boy howdy, it didn’t take much. Tonight I rocked in my bed, in my head calling myself every terrible thing even remotely possible in the English language. “Hack.” “Untalented.” “Lazy.” “Worthless.” I could go on, but I think you see the point.

When will this ever end?


Malling friend said I put so much shit up on the Internet, I am asking for comment. I could see her point and I think I even agreed with her. But now? No. I create this space to navel gaze, operate, and exorcise my life. I make it public because I’m not ashamed of who I am and I’ve never been one for keeping things bottled up. So what if I keep regurgitating the same #content. When was the last time your life was picked neat and clean? Yeah, I thought so.


I climbed into bed about midnight and it’s going on six. I spent most of the night/morning playing solitaire with the requisite tears and staring at the slant of the A-frames ceiling. I cried some and sniffled, then cried some more.


These are not big fat ugly tears, this are small baby tears that just keep leaking from my eyes. Talking to TheExHusband was painful because my eyes immediately welled up as soon as I opened my mouth. He said it was good I was doing that, I was letting my emotions open up and be honest. I felt like a fraud standing there because nothing seems to be real anymore.

I felt the same talking to TheBassist. To Kristin. To anyone who asked.


I’ve meditate for 79 straight days. When I could be arsed to put clothes on and go outside, I walk. I am happy for a few months and it all comes crashing down. Again.


Will this ever end? I hope so. But honestly? I have no idea. All I do know is that I’m having an attack of The Sads.

And I want my teddy bear.

Lisa