I Write

Too much coffee

Too much weed

Whatever can keep me from thinking of you

Coming to the end of the sugar from our home

Nights and days, they're all the same

No longer on that bench,

just another couch

Someone pushed my shoulders up the other night

Asked me what I was reaching for

So I'm going to write something

something about you

maybe one day it will be a song

my stage and lights up bright

for you

thank you

thank you

thank you

allowed to be free is now my choice to see

all of that anarchy

gave me glory

love got me sober enough

gave me a story

got me back, to here and there

back to you again

I rip up the pictures, walk to the next home

thank you

thank you

thank you

allowed to be free is now my choice to see

you never would have loved her

you never loved me

free, free, free

love got me sober

never about you

it was me

thank you

thank you

thank you

no need for your permission

now my choice to see

that I was always free

He taught me that it was me.

Not everything is about me.

My roommate has been off these last few days, and I've been in panic. Has my leaving of rinsed dishes in the kitchen sink pissed her off. I've been super depressed, and I communicated that to her. We tried to communicate everything we could before moving in together. Our boundaries and needs. Some shit to expect. I fucked up. I fucked up. She is pissed at me. She hates me. I fucking suck. My cat has been annoying too! I spiraled.

So today I talked to her. I asked her if there was anything she needed to talk about. I asked if she was upset with me. She said she's going through shit. I know she has anxiety and suffers with depression. I know she lost a friend to suicide right around this time of year. I know she is seeing family for the holidays. I know she is discovering herself right now. She has her own shit. 

I don't know why I think it's about me. Everything in my life, when someone is upset: It's because of me. Am I self-centered? Is that why I blog? Do I write because I love to write or because I want to feel tall? Am I a Narcissist? Am I a Narcissist who is attracted to Narcissists? Who did my dad make me? Who have I let myself become?

Am I bad like him?

I'm o-fucking-kay.

    I have been having issues with my car. I have cried because it was the shit icing on a shit cake. I have felt disappointed in my luck. I have chain smoked about it. What I haven't been though, is furious. I haven't been alone. And what a fucking difference that has made. See, I believed that I was a shitty girlfriend because I handled stressful situations badly. Yet, all of those situations were me doing it alone. I had to beg for any effort shown from my ex. Labor on top of labor; that sums up my time with him. So yes, I yelled and screamed and threw things. I was taking care of me, I was taking care of us, I was taking care of our home, I made sure the bills were paid on time, I took the car to the mechanic, I made sure the parts we needed were purchased, I took care of keeping our cupboards filled, and I was taking care of him; all while he treated me like shit. I didn't know he was treating me like shit at first, then I knew but shoved it down because I loved him and I just knew he was a good person deep down. Then I knew he wouldn't change but I couldn't leave, every time I tried it felt like I had cut out a piece of myself. It was worse than withdrawal from cocaine and booze. I was addicted to him, and he had made sure of that early on. 

Sometimes I wonder if his "wingwoman" isn't also an awful human being. Did she help him plan it? She gave me Molly and encouraged me to text him after a break-up to a dirtbag. She left us alone even though she usually hung out late. She gave us comfy clothes and said we could listen to music. Music. I had always thought we had bonded over music. We had sung karaoke together when we were co-workers. I thought he loved the same bands as me. So imagine my surprise when all of a sudden, he didn't love karaoke and never wanted to do it. And he stopped listening to music with me. He started shit talking what I listened to. I started not listening to music as much because we were always together and I didn't want to hear him say mean things and honestly, I was scared to let him know what I liked because he would make me feel stupid about it. I stopped writing because he said poetry wasn't talent and I never showed him what I wrote from before I stopped writing. So imagine my fucking surprise when a survivor of his wrath informed me that one of the things, he told her was that he wrote and loved writing. I didn't see him write a damn thing for the entirety of knowing him. Even cards he gave me were quotes from movies or TV shows I loved. Looking back, I know it was all filthy lies. Everything he does is a lie. He has played so many characters that I don't even know if he knows who Zackary (Zachary) Andrew Couch is.

What a sad existence that must be.

I however had car issues today. I said to my supervisor "It's gonna be okay. I'll figure it out tomorrow." It had been a long, hectic night at work and still I felt acceptance that I couldn't do a damn thing about it. Even now I feel a sort of calm. I'm poor, depressed, anxious, and struggling with my sobriety. Yet I am still doing better than I ever was following him around.

It’s going to be okay.

Charlie St. Cloud (10/23/2022)

 I needed to cry. I keep having these blocks. Like I get stuck. I can't proceed forward, and I can't necessarily look back. I fixate on one moment, shut down, don't feel anything and do not move forward. I don't want to feel and then I detonate. I relapse. I cry, but I don't fully feel it. It's survivable. It's a pain I am familiar with. Then I start again, trying to take on more pain this next time around. How many relapses do I have left in me? I cannot answer that. I just know I am getting closer to the edge. I'm growing familiar with the idea of my death. I roll it around and ask a new question each time. Getting the same answer: I don't want to go on anymore.

Then I get these glimpses of moments. Moments that I am smiling about. I should feel completely happy. Something isn't there. I am prepared to watch it fall. Nothing real feels that swell. Anytime I've let myself go; I've been wrong. Happiness isn't a guarantee. It's an option that I know nothing about.

So they used drugs. They controlled my emotions and latched onto my traumas. They made me their mommy, their daughter, their maid, the step-mother to their children, the wallet, the pocket pussy, the moldable plaything, and their "best friend". They wanted to play on the deepest most dangerous emotion: devotion. An emotion I've come to see as love, just like my daddy trained me.


DAMN. I found that tonight and that is rough to read. Sometimes we forget these moments. That's why my therapist told me to write when she found out I'd stopped. She told me to start writing again and when I started writing again, I finally got out. Our thoughts are poison. Our trauma will kill us if we don't get it out. And if we don't talk to anyone then abusers will abuse us for as long as they can. We get killed or we fade away until we become hollow. We can even end our own lives due to the pain forced upon us by men.

And I found this months ago. So the colder months have always been harder. I am so glad I have things to go back over. When I can finally afford therapy again this is going to be really important. I am seeing patterns in myself. I am hoping this will help me better understand what leads me to relapse and the suicidal ideation.