A high-support kinda week

looks like this...

This is a harder and sadder read than usual, please take care: mental health struggles; self harm; and death.

Nip/Tuck: a retrospective is on its way. Your patience is super appreciated.

Helloooo,

This is, simply, a harder week for me. My brain has been less inclined to motivate and less able to scale unplanned obstacles. That is life, but…

I kinda hate it. I don’t love the duality of being both capable and incapable. I sometimes wish I would do what I see so many people do, push it down and ignore it. Wait for it to pass unnoticed as it nestles itself back into my muscles or nervous system, waiting. Lurking in a shadow for the time being. Because, while it will still come out at an inopportune time…

At least it wouldn’t be right now.

I want to crawl into the smallest spaces in my home and hide. Take up as little space as possible, remind myself that:

“I am nothing and no one, I am nothing and no one.”

In an attempt to intellectualize my existential dread covering the very real thought that:

“I’ve never deserved love...” in the first place.

Banging my head against a cabinet door, knocking to see if anyone is listening. Or if I am, in fact, still alone. Gripping the sides of my knees to keep from falling over into a pit.

Hearing:

“It’s okay.”

Hearing:

“Everything is good.”

Hearing:

“I love you.”

But struggling so intently to listen and absorb the words. I can’t feel them come into my body and fill me back up within the crevices of this exoskeleton that has become hollow. Decaying, like fallen tree.

Unaware if I’m made of blood or wood. Goo or sunlight. Forgetting if this experience is real at all. Or if I’m just:

“…making it up.”

Feeling a sting as each thought runs down my face and over the flared up lesions of an autoimmune disease.

Another thing I deserve.

To be irritated and in pain.

“Who could love a thing like that?” I think to myself. Why would you even pick it up off of the ground, when it so dearly wants to be buried.

Yet again staring at the tiles in the bathtub, watching them melt. Hoping that the water will wash away the wickedness that I feel towards you. Fighting against myself, naked and cold, though the water scalds my skin.

I’m here.