i sort of have this feeling i could write. right now. but i'm terrified of it. of writing, of the feeling like i could. what if i try and i fail? what if i DO write something, then tomorrow i'm back to what's lately been "normal," the extended power writer's block of this millennium. i'm not going to try. i'll just do my normal thing here and write what i can.

i went to the gravestone today. at the memorial gardens. i didn't feel like i was going to cry when i pulled up, but i always cry at the memorial gardens, sitting next to that impersonal gravestone marked Edward E. Schorstein, who's my dad, but how can it possibly symbolize reality? reality: he's gone. he's dead. he's not coming back tomorrow, or next week, or when i'm 50. that's the real and terrifying kicker... he's gone forever.

that's all i have for now.

just got really bummed out by something so silly. my mom cashed in this bucket of coins, that i thought we'd agreed not to cash in. it was my dad's, and we jokingly made it my "dowry." but we seriously spoke once about it belonging to me and now the bucket's empty with bills.
i know it's silly, i just miss my dad and get sad when my mom goes through these purging stages, when she gets rid of things that were his because they're useless to us now. they're not useless to me. they're his things, and they make me feel like he's closer.

excerpt.

i reread this tonight, and got teary for only the millionth time. it's an excerpt from the velveteen rabbit.

"What is REAL?" asked the Rabbit one day, when they were lying side by side near the nursery fender, before Nana came to tidy the room. "Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?"
"Real isn't how you are made," said the Skin Horse. "It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real."
"Does it hurt?" asked the Rabbit.
"Sometimes," said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. "When you are Real you don't mind being hurt."
"Does it happen all at once, like being wound up," he asked, "or bit by bit?"
"It doesn't happen all at once," said the Skin Horse. "You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in your joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand."

a poem for now.

to hope for seconds
hurts worse than no hope at all

to believe for a minute
hurts worse than a meaningless lifetime

these things end
expire
dissolve

reality is that
no hope
no belief
is so far less painful

than the disappointment
the sorrow
the burn

of having never
believed
or hoped
or dreamed

at all.

i have to focus on the positives today. like i'm going to be an auntie! and how many wonderful, true friends i have. that i live in COLORADO, and that everyday i wake up to fresh air. i have to focus on truth. like the Lord. that he loves me, even though i feel nothing. that heaven is truly moments away, though a lifetime stands in the way.

i still love him today. maybe a little bit more. sigh.

i wish i had someone i could ask to stay with me this week while my mom's away. i'm so lonely and when i get this way, all the terrifying symptoms visit me and i do stupid things.

i don't want to sleep alone anymore.

i don't want to be alone anymore.

my heart aches.

warning... stream of consciousness...

i shouldn't have even bought tickets to come out here. or i should have come with much more serious intentions of honoring my Lord and giving even a tiny little shit about how HE loves me.
how is it possible that i think this much, and still make this many mistakes? how do i end up making so many rash, poor choices with insufferable consequences, when all i do all day long is think-think-overthink?
i miss life as young. i miss being four or five or three and being content, quiet, pure, and loved.
maybe i'll feel different tomorrow, sometimes that happens, but what if i don't? what if i stop taking anti-depressants? will i make better choices because i'm not being so rash, or will i make worse (though it can't get much worse) choices because i'm depressed?
i'm going to love him tomorrow. i know this. i love him right now even though i hate him. and the only reason i hate him is because i can see in his eyes that he does not love me. he could never love me, and i know this. and it breaks my heart a little bit more than it's already broken.
he is funny, and so so smart, and when he smiles, i feel like i could look at his face until the end of time. he eats chips in the morning and takes five minutes to put on two shoes. he struts when he walks and does a weird thing with his tongue when he's thinking, or bored, or mindlessly, or i'm not really sure why he does it. i pretend like all of these things annoy me, and maybe the first time i saw him biting his tongue i thought it was weird, but now i know i pretend to be annoyed because if i can find things to dislike in him, then maybe i don't actually love him, and maybe it won't hurt as badly that he doesn't love me.
but it does hurt. it hurts so badly because of a million little things in my life that have led me to this point, when and where i believe that no one loves me, and i'll try anything to find that love. and with hopes so high, yet buried so deeply, i jump in - all in - and i just fall, fall, fall. but hitting the ground is not nearly the most painful part. it's the healing. it's the mending of the cracked ribs and the fractured limbs and the broken, broken body that takes the longest, hurts the most, never ends. i will heal until the day i die. i will die a broken, pasted-back-together, healing creature, in the process of constant mending from cracks old and new, but i will never be this thing people call healed.
is that what tortures me most? that i will never heal? i will heal from him. i know i'll heal from him, but my fissures are deeper and fuller and fresher than silly little him with his tongue-biting. they must be filled and casted and loved tenderly by something, someone, else. for some reason i can't say who. i can't bring myself to say it. and i wish i could stop trying to figure out why i can't say it and just be fixed.



now how do i proceed in my relationship with him? ideally, i will continue to be his friend, and when he treats me like a dick, which is unavoidable, i will laugh it off and proceed as his friend. a good friend, maybe, even. but i know i'm not that cool, i will never be that cool, and there will be times when i'm so so mad at him i will tell him, "fuck you" and try to be done with him. and there will be times when he will sleep with other women, or when his status will change to "in a relationship" and i'll be broken some more. predicting it somehow makes it less painful. but of course not really less painful. just less humiliating.

this is why i hate boys and relationship, and why i love fiction. this is why i spend my hours reading charles dickens and jane austen. because they write stories that win. they write endings that warm. they cure reality with tender plots, and for the hours i spend absorbed in their stories, i can be convinced that the world, and boys and relationship, are not horrific things.