A letter I’m not sending you,
I can’t find it, but there is a really funny break up comic that compares how women deal with break ups compared to men. You should go track it down. I miss you.
What makes it and me and this whole fucking world funny is that it’s just so cliche. I miss you.
I miss you. I miss you like I’m missing a part of myself. And the longer it has been, the more I miss you. I wanted so badly to send you the following message:
I miss you and I think I love you and isn’t that stupid that I said that we should break up. I keep hoping that the right set of events will occur and we’ll come back together. I’ve already decided that I would be better this time. I’ve decided that I wouldn’t fuck things up again. I’ve decided, I’ve decided, I’ve decided, but that’s just not going to happen. You’re starting to date again and I’ve started to date again and I guess that means we’ve both moved on. But I haven’t. I miss you.
But let’s turn that big brain of mine into a self reflexive mode. Do I miss you or do I miss being loved? What if I’m just feeling like this and feel all of this regret because I couldn’t find anyone who could fit into the hole that you left in my life? Is that the same as missing you? Ugh, I don’t know. I miss you.
But you’re moving on. Good for you. I support this. I support your moving on and finding someone else. But I’m still going to hate whoever you find because they have the pleasure of your company. I’m going to rationalize it as something else, but I’m still going to want to roast his/her guts, because I know how high you made me. I miss you.
No. I’m not going down that route. I miss you.
I miss you. I miss the feel of your back. I miss waking up next to you. I miss the softness of your skin. I miss kissing you. I miss knowing that you loved me. I miss you.
Are you going to use my condoms to have sex with them? Did you throw them out? Which is worse? I miss you.
GAH, I love you. Honestly, I’ve day dreamed about marrying you. Is that not the most pathetic thing. Why can’t I just turn off that part of my brain? I don’t want to miss you. I don’t want to love you. I want to see you as a friend. I don’t want to have sex with you. I don’t want to have to sit in this feeling of being part of what I was. I miss you.
But no, this is a good thing. Break ups are part of life. I should be better at this. What’s the worst thing is that everyone goes through the same goddamn thing. And I just want to think that this is a new or a unique problem. One that I can get over. But nope, this is what happens to everyone every time. And that sucks a lot. Because it means that even when I get over you, it can still happen again. And it doesn’t get better and it doesn’t get easier and it doesn’t suck any less. I’m not unique, nor are my experiences unique. I miss you
Ok, no, this will be fine. I don’t miss you. I don’t miss you at all. It’s going to be fine. We’re both going to move on and crush on other people and live life and fuck up a lot more and we’re going to stay friends because there isn’t a chance in fucking hell that I’m willing to give you up completely forever. I don’t have enough friends to give them up just because I was stupid. I don’t miss you. I will not miss you. I will move on. FUCK. FUCK. FUCK. FUCK. I miss you
ok, I’m done.
P.S. Dear Future Andrew, You can go fuck yourself.
Welcome to February,
I am terrified. I can barely get that out of my mouth. And so I’m resorting to the blog as mouth piece gimmick. I’m afraid and alone and shaking.
This morning I had a nightmare about the Omen. Not that I’ve ever seen The Omen, but rather a nightmare related to the things I had read about it on wikipedia. It was a strange dream. It was cold. There was a snow storm, there was more snow than can be imagined. And I had a premonition that something bad was about to happen. And so I went to lock all of the doors, but before I could lock the front door in the house that I grew up in, two small dogs managed to sneak in. They were cleaner and healthier versions of Jessica’s dog, Scout. And I knew that by letting them in, I had allowed bigger and bigger dogs to get in. And that they would start to sabotage us and nip at us and attack us and kill us. I’m no Freudian, so I’ll withhold any attempt to dissect this dream in those terms. But the fear was there. That terror that I had let us all down and we were going to die.
I missed my psych appointment this week. I didn’t skip it intentionally, I just slept through it. But if I had gone, I wonder if I would have had the bravery to tell her how afraid I am. And how prepared I am.
This is February. Two years ago around this time I tried to kill myself. It was a methodical attempt. I took aspirin so my blood would be thin. I sleeping pills to dull my inhibitions and put my to sleep. I carved 9 cuts into both wrists with my knife and waited to die. When that didn’t work. I carved in 8 more. I slept covered with a towel so I wouldn’t get blood on my covers. I wanted to die painlessly and look alright when they found me. I wanted to die.
But I didn’t and I am haunted by that attempt. And I’m haunted by the specter of statistics that says that I am three times more likely to make a second attempt. And I keep a razor blade on my shelf. And a bottle of oxycodone on top of my fridge. And I think about buying a rope and hanging myself off my roof. And whether or not it would be too messy to just jump off. I’m terrified. I’m so scared. I don’t want to die. I’m scared of the part of my brain that logically tells me to be prepared. I don’t want to die, but I’m also scared of being alive.
But then I breathe.
And files these thoughts away deep so I can’t dwell on them, just like I was taught in therapy. I start with the beginning of the alphabet and a is for apple, b is for banana, c is cantaloupe, d is for dragonfruit, e is for… and by that point I move to the next category or the thoughts are gone. So I’m safe. The weapons are away. But I’m left with the fear.
I can’t breathe.
I think it’s funny to think about how serious I get about social justice issues and people who are institutionally oppressed. I want to laugh right in my face and say, “A trans person can get killed just for being who they are and you’ve already tried to kill yourself. Black people get beaten by cops for being themselves and you’ve lit yourself on fire. Who are you, oppressor or oppressed? Can’t make up your mind? Good.” See? It’s funny. It’s fucking hysterical. Bwahahahahhahaahhahahahahaha
Lolz, this is a night, isn’t it. It’s a Saturday night and I’m sitting alone in Kafein and drinking my (herbal) tea and listening to Kanye West. I’m a college student. I’m so behind on work. But I’m good at what I do. But I’m not very good at it yet. Sonofabitch, there’s that two poled mental system again. See! I’m not crazy about being actually crazy! Crazy. I am crazy.
I’ve been watching episodes of Criminal Minds and I think that might be triggering for me. (Damn that girl’s ass is nice) But yeah, full of violence. Full of characters described as crazy or bipolar or depressed. How’s that trans people? You may not get any representation but my representations are all serial killers. I shouldn’t watch that any more. Down with Criminal Minds! Down with People! Bring on the people!
I should put together a to-do list for what I should be doing and when I should be doing it. That sounds like an excellent use of my time.
Until the Next Time,
P.S. Hey you, person who isn’t Andrew reading this. how are you? I’m fine, I swear. 🙂