WRITTEN…. moments from a dead relationship: entry 1

10/17/19

Patience tested tonight.

“When did you get the tortillas?” you ask me.

“For burritos last week,” I answer, smiling.

You never ask for tortillas, but today you do.

You say, “What? You don’t eat tortillas.”

I say, “You’re weird today.”

I told you a few times today that you’re distant but this time you reply, “but not with you,” & you squeeze my hand a little tighter & I remind you that I can feel your emotions before you tell me. I remind you how I just guessed yours & you agree that I’m right but you still don’t relax because I think you may still not know yourself very well.

I am not upset with how distant you are because of this ex popping back up & taking so much from you & I am doing a REALLY GOOD JOB of being supportive & asking you challenging questions & reminding you that the past isn’t the present & that you don’t have to be the same as your were. You say again that you don’t want to talk about it.

I start a new conversation but you aren’t listening & you aren’t interacting with me & you are physically uncomfortable because you are emotionally uncomfortable & you are REALLY BAD at being uncomfortable. So we move & I ask you to take off your boots but you refuse until I beg you to lay down with me so I can be the little spoon because physical intimacy usually calms you down but you tuck your hands away from my chest in less natural places. I remember how you wouldn’t let me kiss your nipples earlier & I guess I’m just not the medicine you need today.

For twenty minutes that seem like an eternity I forget to breathe with you, even though I always do, & a few times tears well up in my eyes but I hold them back because I am thinking too many things that I can’t speak.

Like… maybe you’re the last thing I need to let go because you need to learn how to take care of yourself & right now it feels like I could never give enough to take care of you… that I cannot make you see your own agency… that your past relationships don’t dictate your present & your future unless you let them… that caring about someone else’s kids more than you care about yourself is another excuse to keep you away from your dreams & from yourself… that the love you have for someone does not give them the right to misuse your kindness & to manipulate you…

I think that maybe I’m just in this learning another attachment lesson- actually the same one again- & that I should quit dreaming with you because today you quit dreaming for yourself. It feels like you’ve abandoned yourself & I don’t like the shell that’s left.

Even though you didn’t have sex with her, you still laid with her, & cooked with her, & parented her children, & then you left because you didn’t want to leave your family.

Are we all just doomed to repeat the same fucked up patterns? I don’t think so, but I think it’s crazy hard to break the cycle.

Balance vs Contrast

I broke my watch yesterday and since I’ve been unable to attach myself to a single idea.  It’s unimaginably weird to find yourself toppling into a depressive hole over the slightest physical change, but I’ve come to realize (although particularly slowly) that this is my life.

Barely able to focus on the written words, never mind the narrative story, I trudged through an article earlier about the American way in moving.  This peaks content on my list of interests, and yet, I could barely make it through a paragraph without my mind wandering to one of my current anxieties.  I also read earlier that one of the main psychological therapeutic issues my generation (read: millennials) is facing today is the overwhelming anxieties of life.  

In one of my three (read: too little) therapy sessions of the recent past, my brilliant therapist questioned me as to whether my dedication to work, amongst other things, is merely a conditioned action, that is, am I only succeeding out of desire to please those around me?  

This, naturally, I denied strongly at first, defending myself with predictable reactions (well I just care a lot, I really invest myself in things, etc) and from there denying her suggestion arguing that for me they intrinsic motivations.  The second reaction only came after hearing myself babble such cliche reasonings aloud.  In the midst of the words, I felt embarrassed, mislead, and generally confused about how and why I’d been living this kind of professional, adult life for the last six years.  Finally, I shut down my mouth, realizing her question was not only valid, but certain held some truth.  I’m still not sure how much of it I’ve fully digested.

Here I am, six months later, practically jobless and poor as dirt, but with all the time in the world to do whatever I want with my life, but instead of writing narrative or playing my guitar (which I haven’t this week), all I could manage to do was sleep.  I joked earlier ago that I was challenging the cat to a sleeping match.  Until about an hour ago, I had him beat, spending just less than 5 hours out of bed today, but he retired again, curled up like a tabby baked potato on the couch, and here I am realizing (read: for the first time today) that I’m in a hole and that yesterday I was on a cloud.  Mania seems to come in mild forms for me these days, but I couldn’t tell you why.  I’m guessing it’s just because I have less to do, so it stretches its legs throughout a variety of stresslessness, but I still crash.

Yesterday, I was so productive.  A weightlifting session, six hours of driving people around, a few hours working on the pickup, an attempt at touch rugby, a load of laundry and a shower.  It took seventeen straight waking hours to get all that done, but I felt good about doing it all until the end of the night.  The tired crept on me slowly.  By ten pm, Rach found me sitting on the floor next to the dryer folding clothes, because I didn’t have it in me to stand anymore.  By the I was done weight lifting this morning, I had started the mental battle of ‘to be or not to be’.  I eventually decided the only reasonable action was to come home and ‘not be’ in the sense that I’d lose myself in sleep.

Now, it’s nearly eleven, and all I can do is relive the contrasts of the last two days.  My mind wanders some more, mostly back and forth about what to do with my life, but it still doesn’t settle on any idea.  It seems the entirety of my twenties has been spent not settled on any idea and that these swings between highly productive and beyond reasonably tired have always been apart of my life.  Since I was a kid, I remember having swings like this, and for the fifth or sixth time this year, I just said aloud to myself, “Maybe I do need some kind of medication.”

I have an interview for a full time, benefited, PTO, sick days, sign-on bonus, trucker job the Tuesday after Thanksgiving, and although I’m sure they’ll want to hire me before I leave, I’m not sure that I want it.  To be completely honest, I’m not sure that I want anything at all, ever.