More of the same on a Tuesday

This week has been ordinary. I’ve been really tired. I worked from home today, crawled into bed, and slept for like 30 minutes immediately afterwards. I have felt sort of lost in my sleep the past couple of nights. There’s a part of me that knows I can’t oversleep when I take naps so I dream about anticipating the alarm and about small things from moments slightly prior to drifting off (for example, the set of DVDs next to me) that seem just realistic and mundane enough to blur reality.

Work has slowed down a bit, my manager was out of town last week. I’m pretty on top of my workload. I’ve been thinking about love a lot more now, all forms - how limitless it seems, and yet how it ends up just being the sum of whatever it is. There is no real peace in people. God often feel unreachable. I cannot envision the future as anything less than disgusting. As much as I have put myself out there emotionally, at least in my work, there is still a part of me that is revolted by certain people wanting or feeling entitled to more access of me.

I can’t understand sleeping with strangers. When I was much thinner and cuter and attracted men, I occasionally felt resentful of it. Of someone possibly wanting access to me in that way when I can look in their eyes and they just seem grimy. Someone loved me for almost 6 years. I know my value.

I can understand emotional honesty in the context of authenticity and benevolence, far more. What I cannot take, I have found, is people pushing back on or questioning my emotional narratives. Especially when it revolves around the barriers I have put around relationships with virtually any man I don’t share DNA with. I find it almost disgusting that another man, even a well meaning one, would tell me “not all men.” Wasn’t aware that they appointed you the spokesperson. Fucking eyeroll. While that may be true, the only people saying not all men are men. Women know that the real takeaway is. That’s hilarious .

I’m trying to take into the Lindsey Clancy story in appropriate doses as someone who has been hospitalized for depression x2. If one positive thing happened from that horror (and even this may be a stretch, hardly proportional) it’s that it highlights how many systemic failures there were, and how fucked up our society has become in general which creates an environment ripe for these situations. We can’t cure mental health issues completely because they are so deeply intertwined with how disconnected our society is, it seems to be taking more and more dystopian leaps . I am grateful for love, my friends, my family, my girls, and all that is good. Yes, I am a broken record. But fuck it. I would also wish my life on absolutely no one (here I go again!). I can handle it because I am me, I don’t know what a random person could. Obviously I don’t know if I could handle their shit either.

And round and round we all go sometime, imagining what we might be to another person. We take words, acts of service as evidence. We read too much or too little into silence, or anything. I think it is true that people rarely think of us as much as we suspect. That’s probably for the best. I can never be a part of another person unless I have a child, and there’s just no fucking way. I’ll be something to myself, a few treasured others. Just keep it all pure.

I am glad I can write. I am glad I have this thing, that I wasn’t doomed to some intolerable domestic scene, a man’s socks on the floor, staring at another woman’s breasts, brushing a toddlers teeth. I don’t give a shit if my life looks boring. It is mine and I am safer.

Why would I do what everyone else is doing when I can do something else other people can’t? I was almost in “Time.” My next publication will be featured in a magazine that prints 200,000 copies. Yeah? Okay.

(Sigh.) Okay I give up. There’s just not one thing that resolves life except God, and where the hell is He?