SeeingRred
Amidst laundry landscapes, I flop down, almost catatonic, comforted only by fading filaments of the evening sun. The minutes go by. My brain hurts. TV droning in the distant background and, except for an intermittent squeal of video game delights, the house is still. Two weeks now, and it should be better. But, it’s not. I could easily fix it. I know how. I don’t want to. A reach for his hand. A cheek’s caress. A hug. The guards will go down. The barriers will break. The outburst of tears <Release> and I will be in good favour again.
For how long?
This is why I can’t. This is why I won’t.
So much has improved. And, so much remains the same. Again and again, WE are stuck. Adolescent anger and ambivalence turned to distrust. Unguided, then tempered and left to our demise. Under the layers, years upon years, I find out it still lives and breathes. Despite care and effort, WE-ME-I dragged down again and shamed. Heckled and harassed, most recent progress denied by 6 lbs of doubt. What is the point? Is it even possible, this dream I hope to achieve? Am I fooling myself?
It’s one thing to know what you need. It’s another to believe you can get it and, harder yet, to ask for it.
Sometimes I wonder what people must be thinking reading this stuff I write. The confusion, the interpretations, the judgements. Why do I publish my most innermost thoughts, such intimate details? Without a doubt, it is and always will be about release. In the beginning, it was for empathy and compassion and connection — all selfish reasons, I know. Not so much now. So why do it? I want others to know the truth — that life (for me and many) is a daily struggle, that it’s okay to be fucked up, and that it’s normal to not know how to fix things.
Written July 22, 2018
