Run like hell

“It’s a slow decline into nothingness.”

That’s what I heard, anyway. Those words that vibrate beneith the thin disguise of hope and dream and make believe. Where sometimes some thing is said, but it means another thing that’s totally different or a thing that’s the same but more or it could mean exactly what it is and less. 

The fragile state of Make Believe.

A friend who I want to love said: “The city has its talons, gripping tighter, bleeding us out. Dont play dead, break the hold. Run like hell”

And “don’t stop”

No one said “don’t take my advice”. So that’s what I’ll do. Not listen. Make shitty choices. Crash.

The city is gripping me by the throat. Half it’s bite on my scruff saying “you’re safe here, I’ll carry you home to total destroy.”

And I’m thinking, what the fuck is home anyway? What the serious fuck. And how do all you people do this shit every day of your lives? Because I don’t belong here. I never will. I can’t make myself fit in anywhere. I’ll keep trying.

Dear (Friend),

We’re getting old and I miss you.
Sometimes I miss the days where we were curled up in the fetal position, orbiting each other and everyone else like wounded satellites. Too broken to fix anything, too beat to care.
We’d roll around on dirty floors, in dirty jam rooms. Nap on thread bare couches with tears resting in our eyes. We’d walk the cold streets of a city I can’t name in our shredded shoes, our big hearts resting in our throats and trying to strangle us. We’d search, aimlessly trying to figure out how to breath again. How to breath deeply and with meaning.
How to breath through the cigarette smoke and smell of dirty laundry. The dumpstered jokes and food bank treats rotting next to the compost bin. How to breath through the oppressive smell of our sweaty dreams shouted out like threats all over this city. Threats used to cover up the fact that we’re cowards as we roll another smoke, roll another bitter joke over our lips, roll another piece of paper into a ball. Another piece of paper containing a failed letter to another failed friend. Again and again, because practice makes perfect. Ball your fists, balls of paper. One better than the other to throw around, one better than the other to fail at I suppose…

Dear (Friend),
We’re getting old and I miss you.
Sometimes I miss the nights were we spread our arms wide and yelled out at the dark. Our thoughts falling all around us into ideas and dreams as we believed in anything we could wrap our minds around. Our hearts exploding with hopes and desires and caring.
Sometimes I miss the idea that things could be that way again, before you were broken, before you broke trust with me…

Dear (Friend),
We’re getting old and I miss you.
Nothing will ever be the same again, and for that I am grateful.

Dear (Friend),
We’re getting old and I miss you.
Please stay strong. (I’m trying to forgive you)

We’ve built bridges to reach our dreams.
Once we cross them,
I plan to stop and watch as they burn.
I want to be sure I’m on the right side of everything.

I want to be sure that I don’t have anything else to live but my dreams.
So I can move forward knowing that I don’t ever have to go back
to how things shouldn’t have been.

I don’t ever have to go back
to living something closer to a lie.

So I can warm my hands on the flames,
and move forward knowing nothing ever has to be the same again.

 

Emo night, no cover.

Sometimes I get hit by a wave of sadness so hard and fast that it feels like a sucker punch to the gut. Taking the wind right out of me and leaving me disoriented and in pain.

There’s so many people I’ve loved over the years, and now I’m sitting here in my room at 2:44 on a Friday morning wondering how so many friendships just faded or went on hiatus.
How so many people can fail each other. How much someone (me) can miss because shit went sour and then went even worse.
I’ve made mention to leaving, to change, to running away.
I was so fucking broken when I left that I didn’t know what else to do. I spent three years drunk as fuck and shit got bad. Sometimes it was better but worse than before. Other times it was just worse.

I came out of those years yet again wondering what the fuck happened. Again destroyed even further with hurt, pain, lies, abuse.
I came out of those years with a fucking drinking problem and a concussion.
Some more scars and chips to put of the list of shit I’ll never, ever fucking let happen again.

What ever friendships I had saved from before those years really struggled to survive them. I lost more friends because I was broken and becoming more broken. I was hurt and becoming more hurt. I was losing myself and for all I fucking cared I was about to drowned in the bottom of a 20 pack of Caribou green and set my self on fire with a pack of Canadian Classics. Preferably every night. Or die trying. Hopefully.

And now I’m sober. I’m trying to give up smoking.

I’m starting to see folks around that I haven’t seen in years. It looks like a lot of people are moving out this way. People I used to be closer to and miss dearly. I’m terrified to open back up again, I’m not sure if anything has actually changed. Some of them still hold parts of me. Some of them I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to forgive. Most of them probably don’t give a fuck about me anyway.

I miss so many people so fucking much, but maybe it’s better off like this?
Maybe some of the bridges need to stay burnt.

Tonight is a night of sadness and loneliness.
Of remembering the ones that are lost to me, but not gone.
Tonight is for missing you and wishing I could erase the hurt.
Wishing you would come and hold my hand like you used to.

Tonight is for mourning parts of myself that are better dead.
For believing in my ability to find strength even in my darkest times.
Tonight is for honouring the feelings I have and respecting that I can miss people who hurt me deeply in the past.
It doesn’t make me a contradiction to have feelings, It makes me human.

Say what you mean, don’t be mean with what you say.

It’s hard to not take something personally when it’s something personal.
You said you won’t talk about it because no one wants to listen, but if that were the truth, then why did I ask to hear you?
So you lump me in with all the people who were here before me, because you’re afraid to be hurt by opening up and saying your truths out loud. Afraid to answer questions asked in honesty. Afraid to be hurt.
So you hold it inside yourself instead and shut me out with cryptic statements and hard to understand truths.
It hurts me too, you know?

And I’d say sorry for being true, for being honest, for trying so fucking hard to be a good person, a good friend.
I want to say sorry, but that’s a reaction I’m trying to unlearn. I did nothing wrong. I’ve done nothing wrong.
I don’t want to hurt.

Honesty in caring, holding myself open to accept and hear you, communication in ernest.
These aren’t things to be sorry for.
Why should I be sorry?
If I were to take back my attempt to be a good person, you might spare me the hurtful words and emotional push-back? But then I’d be living another lie, because there wouldn’t be honesty in between actions.

Fuck that, fucking fuck living a lie. I’ve lived there before and it’s an ugly and horrible hell. I’m still trying to navigate parts of myself out of it’s darkness. I can’t and won’t avoid or circumnavigate parts of myself to please you or anyone else. I can’t let my feelings and truths be over shadowed by another persons, not when there’s enough space for everyones truth to come out. Not when I’d be risking the safety of the small place inside myself where I’ve finally found refuge. Not when every act of letting someone in risks that safety. Honour what I’ve offered you, don’t take it for granted.

Don’t try to hold me hostage with my feelings, I’ll cut that shit lose so fast and slip out into the night without a sound.
I am wild. I am fierce.

Sometimes I’m afraid to keep trying because I’m not sure how much strength I have left to keep picking myself back up.

I am strong, but I feel defeated today.
I feel so fucking frustrated.
I feel sad.

 

(*I want to kick something, but not hard. More like a tap. I need a hug.)

Not Sorry

Today I woke up at Chase’s house and realized it’s 2017. How much has changed over the years. How many parts of me have come and gone and how many things are different.

It’s been 6 years since my exodus to the western seaboard. 6 years since I tried to leave a lot of hurt and pain and suffering behind. A lot of things have happened. A lot.

I woke up this morning with the words “I’m sorry” on the tip of my tongue and tears staining my face from dreams about shit that happened so long ago and about things that happened in the space between these last 6 years.

It’s been 6 years since I tried to leave an abuser and tried to remove a toxic community from my life, but the reminisce and reminders of abuse never really leave a person. They change us, somewhere down in our core, for ever.

I’m not sorry.

I didn’t do anything wrong.

I tried to believe in something and got sucked into more pain and hurt than I had bargained for.

I left to try and get better and it happened again, but in a different way. And that time too, it snuck up on me while I was trying to believe.

So yeah, I believe the sentiment “If you keep doing the same thing and it keeps going wrong, then you’re doing it wrong”, but not all the time. Because if I believed that as an absolute I’d have to stop trying to believe in people and things and I don’t think that’s right. I think that sounds like giving up.

Fuck giving up.

So fuck no, I’m not sorry. I’m not going to say those words. I’m going to try and stop feeling them and thinking them all the time too. I didn’t do anything wrong and the things I’m afraid of that make me feel this way aren’t even real most of the time. You just made me believe they were.
It’s 2017, you’re gone and might as well be dead. I won’t forgive you or believe you’ll ever change and I don’t have to. Knowing that is one of the most positive parts of my healing process.

Forgiving any of you is not my responsibility.

I am only responsible for myself.

H-NYE2U

December 31st, 2016
11:58 pm:
Peter farts.

 

January 1st, 2017
12:00am:
Peter says, in a false dismal sounding voice “happy new year” from the couch.
The stench of 2016 still lingers in the air.
I hope 2017 smells better soon.

Peter and I go for our last smokes of the 21st century.
Peter says “Tonight was perfect, exactly what I wanted for New Years Eve.”

I point out to him that he started 2017 by smelling a fart from last year.

 

January 1st, 2017
12:16am:
I’m sitting in my room laughing so hard I feel like I might have an asthma attack.
This year is gonna be hilarious.
It’s time for bed.