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I'm tried of this. It feels like bullshit to complain. As if that's all I am now. It's my personality: the leg, the leg, the leg. I try not to let it ooze out of me, but sometimes I feel like I can't help it anymore. Like it's the only thing that's real and the rest of me is just a gray blank space. Frozen in time, mouth open, waiting. Even though I know it's not logical.
I tell myself, and sometimes it works, that I need to find other things to do. Other things to be. Because, imagine: what if there is no light at the end of tunnel. What if this is your life now.
Who are you then?
I don't want to look at the answer. I've always thought there's nothing to me. But always hoped there was. But in this moment, lying down, curled up under the covers, the small pulse of pain just barely within awareness, I think that I am no one at all.
I wonder when this will end. If this will end. Sometimes I want it to end, to be blown away like ashes into the wind. I think it will be better than waking and remembering that I am still...not better. But maybe even if I did wake up better, I'd remember that I have nothing, no one, no dream to live for. I've never been a happy person. But before this, maybe at least I was not unhappy. I thought, I was starting to feel the glimmer of hope, not that I would achieve anything I could be proud of, since I've long since given up on that, but that I didn't need achievement to be happy. That the little things were enough to pull me toward that mythical dream we call happiness. I really thought I was getting there, finally, at the precipice of my 30s, at the end of last year. Because those little things didn't seem so small and pointless anymore, the movement of my body, the beauty of nature, the friends I still have--though truly I wonder, who among them do I still see on the regular? Who would care if I'm gone? Which is selfish, I know. No one has any obligation to care about my personal life or reach out to me, but sometimes, I wish they would. I wish someone would. Someone who doesn't have anything to gain from me. I wish I didn't feel so fucking lonely. I wish I was like my other friends, the ones who seem to have closer relationships with their friends but still seem so content in themselves. Who have hobbies and skills and aren't so fucking needy. But maybe it's like my mother said. My whole family is a little 'nie be'. I don't really know what it means in any other words than the ones she's told me. That we're not good at being social. That we don't know how to behave to not be alone.
I've been trying not to put as much weight into the things my mother says. Logically, most, almost all of what she says is only as true as I want it to be, and it's never meant to hurt, it's almost always just an observation, or her way of viewing the world. She's never said it had to be my way of viewing the world, and much of it isn't. But illogically, she is a prophet to me. I don't believe what she says but it seems to come true anyway.
She says, you are weak and sensitive like your dad. And here I am, crying about my leg. So she's right, though she doesn't know the specifics. Boo hoo, so upset every day I wake up and things are at all worse than the day before. When I do my little stretches, and feel that's there's still the tight stretching, the staticky tingle that runs down my leg when I press in with my fingers, the burn in my abdomen when I stand, the small stabbing twitches when I walk, the pieces of me that feel like they don't fit in place. That they might never fit in place again. 10 fucking months and I still can't even lie down and find a position where nothing hurts at all for what, 20? 30 minutes, where I just feel right. So it's true. I am the sensitive one, the child who's still struggling to grow up. I've never been much good at putting my problems in perspective. Even now I'm tearing up. Much good that will do me. I just want to be free of this.
She says, none of our family is good at having friends, and while it is true that no one else in my family has friends, I thought I could be different.
But I look at myself now, and I am not so different. Am I.
I want to wake up better. When it's 11:11, that's what I wish for. But maybe in a way this is good. Harder to feel sad about the little I've done with my life when I can focus on this instead. Helps me ignore the other things, the mild ED, the way I feel like I'm running in a hamster wheel, waiting for the ride to end, that I hate what I see in the mirror, the distance I feel from people I call friends, this empty feeling that could be loneliness, or regret, or... I guess it doesn't matter what I call it. Maybe this feeling is my true friend. It has been here a long time.
I should get a hobby.
I tell myself, and sometimes it works, that I need to find other things to do. Other things to be. Because, imagine: what if there is no light at the end of tunnel. What if this is your life now.
Who are you then?
I don't want to look at the answer. I've always thought there's nothing to me. But always hoped there was. But in this moment, lying down, curled up under the covers, the small pulse of pain just barely within awareness, I think that I am no one at all.
I wonder when this will end. If this will end. Sometimes I want it to end, to be blown away like ashes into the wind. I think it will be better than waking and remembering that I am still...not better. But maybe even if I did wake up better, I'd remember that I have nothing, no one, no dream to live for. I've never been a happy person. But before this, maybe at least I was not unhappy. I thought, I was starting to feel the glimmer of hope, not that I would achieve anything I could be proud of, since I've long since given up on that, but that I didn't need achievement to be happy. That the little things were enough to pull me toward that mythical dream we call happiness. I really thought I was getting there, finally, at the precipice of my 30s, at the end of last year. Because those little things didn't seem so small and pointless anymore, the movement of my body, the beauty of nature, the friends I still have--though truly I wonder, who among them do I still see on the regular? Who would care if I'm gone? Which is selfish, I know. No one has any obligation to care about my personal life or reach out to me, but sometimes, I wish they would. I wish someone would. Someone who doesn't have anything to gain from me. I wish I didn't feel so fucking lonely. I wish I was like my other friends, the ones who seem to have closer relationships with their friends but still seem so content in themselves. Who have hobbies and skills and aren't so fucking needy. But maybe it's like my mother said. My whole family is a little 'nie be'. I don't really know what it means in any other words than the ones she's told me. That we're not good at being social. That we don't know how to behave to not be alone.
I've been trying not to put as much weight into the things my mother says. Logically, most, almost all of what she says is only as true as I want it to be, and it's never meant to hurt, it's almost always just an observation, or her way of viewing the world. She's never said it had to be my way of viewing the world, and much of it isn't. But illogically, she is a prophet to me. I don't believe what she says but it seems to come true anyway.
She says, you are weak and sensitive like your dad. And here I am, crying about my leg. So she's right, though she doesn't know the specifics. Boo hoo, so upset every day I wake up and things are at all worse than the day before. When I do my little stretches, and feel that's there's still the tight stretching, the staticky tingle that runs down my leg when I press in with my fingers, the burn in my abdomen when I stand, the small stabbing twitches when I walk, the pieces of me that feel like they don't fit in place. That they might never fit in place again. 10 fucking months and I still can't even lie down and find a position where nothing hurts at all for what, 20? 30 minutes, where I just feel right. So it's true. I am the sensitive one, the child who's still struggling to grow up. I've never been much good at putting my problems in perspective. Even now I'm tearing up. Much good that will do me. I just want to be free of this.
She says, none of our family is good at having friends, and while it is true that no one else in my family has friends, I thought I could be different.
But I look at myself now, and I am not so different. Am I.
I want to wake up better. When it's 11:11, that's what I wish for. But maybe in a way this is good. Harder to feel sad about the little I've done with my life when I can focus on this instead. Helps me ignore the other things, the mild ED, the way I feel like I'm running in a hamster wheel, waiting for the ride to end, that I hate what I see in the mirror, the distance I feel from people I call friends, this empty feeling that could be loneliness, or regret, or... I guess it doesn't matter what I call it. Maybe this feeling is my true friend. It has been here a long time.
I should get a hobby.
