i get epiphanies at unassuming moments. i was reaching for…something…at the supermarket. that was one, though i don’t remember which
but here are some:
i am very hard on myself. when i am glum, my mind abuses me. though perhaps, now in a saner mindspace, it is not wrong to do so. i suspect that one of the reasons i suffer so (this is no longer debatable) is because of some kind of human-value privilege. that is to say, the ego is constantly indignant that someone like me should suffer so. and what does my ego mean ‘someone like me’? the truth is that somewhere deep inside, i (my ego) or my ego (i) am outraged that someone that is smart and warm and witty and attractive and and and… is not immune to constant bouts of severe loneliness and–what is that word Nabokov tried to explain? ah! toska. toska, toska, fucking toska.
“No single word in English renders all the shades of toska. At its deepest and most painful, it is a sensation of great spiritual anguish, often without any specific cause. At less morbid levels it is a dull ache of the soul, a longing with nothing to long for, a sick pining, a vague restlessness, mental throes, yearning. In particular cases it may be the desire for somebody or something specific, nostalgia, love-sickness. At the lowest level it grades into ennui, boredom.”
but who the fuck am i not to be unhappy? doesn’t that imply that, on some level, i assume others deserve it? of course this BULLSHIT. but hey, the human mind, right? maybe i feel this way because people are always surprised (i think i am also always suprised) at the resilience of my isolation/unbelongingness.
here is another epiphany:
i have never been with a man who was even close to being able to handle the twisted solar system of my mind. i do not doubt that i have been choosing the wrong men but nonetheless, not a single man that i have been in love with, not a single man that i have or would have devoted myself to…actually, even platonically, men seem to be incapable of swallowing the ocean of my mind. they are either overwhelmed by the depth of darkness into which i descend, or i see the i’m-a-hero light in their eyes and slam the door on them.
how marvellous to realise that what this collective of men have failed to do, i have been doing my entire fucking life
“you know you are on the right track when you become uninterested in looking back” first i thought no, because i’m looking back, haven’t stopped looking back since i was back there. but actually it’s true. because you can yearn for a past and still not want to go there.
i was folding jumpers at work when i realised he was part of my past. it doesn’t feel that way yet, not completely, but rationally, he is no more anything but my past. he is something that was and will never be again.
getting over something happens in increments. i know i’m not over him. but there’s no rush, you can’t rush. it’s been almost ten months and some days it’s still a struggle (the way i was violently ill this one time and there happened to be coconut soap in the bathroom and so, for years, ever time i smelt artificial coconut, i’d dry-wretch. that’s what he is to me now: dry-wretch). it’s been ten months and i’m still getting used to not having him around. and this is how i know we are finished. because you can’t look back on something that has a painfulbreakuphorizon longer than the relationship itself. it’s like almost finishing the race and running back to help the asshole that tripped you over in the first place. and how long it takes me to get over someone is how much i loved them (no excuses, no apologies) and it’s funny (not haha, more sixfeetunder funny) but that struggle is precisely why i don’t look back or go back. hence, according to this instagram quote, i am on the right track.
wait, did that make sense? i’m not over him so i can never go back to him. do you understand what i mean by that? i can’t forgive him this years’ pain. not that he wants me back. but you don’t need their question to know the answer.
what else is there to say? the usual, i’ve had too many days like this, sending casual messages asking if people are busy, invisible ink saying i’m having a bad day, i need people, i need a person, but i still have not learnt to say: i’m terrified of imposing. so i’m sitting on my front porch, already drunk (it’s 3:48pm), getting more and more used to being alone, reminding myself that this could be the way it always is so i might as well get used to it. when you’ve been dating for a dozen years, and every relationship has ended in you breaking someone or you being broken, how can you still not be used to being alone? when you move countries or cities all the time because this is what you do, haha, aren’t you hilarious and wild and unpinnable? shouldn’t you be used to belonging everywhere and not belonging anywhere? shouldn’t you be used to not being happy anywhere (is this why you’re not happy with anyone)?
but you know, it doesn’t matter, or you do get used to it. either way, it doesn’t matter. either you don’t let people save you, or you haven’t met someone worthy of saving you, or you need to learnt that no matter how much you save yourself, there will always be more to save. but shit, it isn’t about being saved but about sharing. and there is no shame in wanting to share the saving. i think that’s what i’m saving. i never needed him to save me, never needed any him, just wanted to feel like someone could hold me sometimes.
i don’t know, i don’t know
i had something to say and maybe i said it. maybe the wine washed it away before it was said.
sad on a sunny day, that’s me. and i’m even used to that
but whateverwhateverwhatever with the blue posts. this year has been super, i can’t lie. but Lonely in Melbourne…those are two things i don’t want to be anymore.
this will not end neatly so let’s just end it now (maybe this is what my ex was thinking)