One Day I’ll Be Happy, It Might Be Tomorrow

28/02/2014 § Leave a comment

Every sentence cuts tiny slits into my heart. It’s 7pm and there’s noise outside and I’m lying in my bed on the phone. I’m trying to fulfil the concept of ‘me’ time. I have sex toys and I’m playing with myself. It’s healing but a little hurtful too because again I can’t orgasm and so again I’m not a woman. The pleasant feeling outweighs the hurt though and so it’s worth it.

I’m clutching at whatever comfort I can get. Take care, eat well, stay warm, sleep. Stay warm sleep, stay warm sleep. Mothers give the best advice and mine has an intuition so strong she doesn’t even know it. I can’t tell her quite how good it is because it would give her too much power. If someone has power over you it’s not good to let them know. Earlier she texted ‘Don’t laugh but I’ve had a couple of men before your dad and was very upset over one of them when I broke up. It would not be the end of life if you split with ~boyfriend~. He’s nice but so are you and you must not change your character to suit him. That never works.’

You must be gentle with depression. But at what point does the behaviour of the person become inexcusable? At what point does it show opinions that are such you couldn’t make a happy life together? At what point is it not the depression speaking but him? I need what I need and I need light and love. Tonight he’s angry and there’s no light and love, his flames gone out and he’s too far away to light it. Albert Schweitzer wrote ‘Sometimes our light goes out, but is blown again into instant flame by an encounter with another human being.’ Clearly I’m not the right person to do that. Even when he’s next to me I can’t seem to find him. I’m reminded of the line ‘One day I woke up next to you and I couldn’t find you, I’ve been searching ever since’. We brought each other out of dark places when we met but I’m not the same person in his eyes now than I was then. I don’t have the same power, I’m not as good, I’m not enough.

I’m breathing deep before phone-calls to try and stop myself from crying. I cry as easy as I worry how people see me. It’s annoying when people cry on the phone to you, I try and minimise his annoyance. I try in ways which allow me to keep my identity, occasionally I don’t. Sometimes I sacrifice my joy.

I’m tired of everything I do and think being a problem, I’m tired of pulling heavy rugs off my spirit, I’m tired of myself, I’m tired of worrying, I’m tired of looking like this, I’m tired of my slow and anxious mind, I’m tired of being miserable and having to go on alone. How much of this is my own misery warping my perspective? It’s always impossible to tell until afterwards, and even then memory is a fragile thing to rely on.

What do I and what don’t I deserve? And what does that even mean in relation to this? Since when has deserving been relevant to receiving? It’s worth saving, if it can be saved. But saving requires change, and change is not a given.


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