The world drags onward. America rolls back abortion rights. Spring sluggishly creeps into my neck of the woods. I went to lunch with the relatives and totally regretted it.
No, I had no idea California was, like, totally allowing brown criminals to just do whatever they wanted because to prosecute such folks was…okay. Oh, you got that from the Epoch Times, did ya? Did you know that’s a far right rag started by a cult guy?
Should I say that out loud or just inhale chips and dip until I gain even more pounds, which will send me into panics where I go purge in the nearest bathroom with the water running? Should I admit such things at all?
No one is reading this or anything I write. So. Yeah.
Maybe they are?
I’m just in a sort of weird bubble-vacuum, perhaps.
Maybe I should go write even more stuff about isolated shitty clowns that live on the fringe of everything as some needy cry for help or attention that makes me retreat even more when anyone responds at all in the least tiny way. Wheee.
I can feel the depression smacking upon my inner shores like a tide of vomit and pus. Great. Should be fun. I’ve been doing all right, as the kids say, for months now. Nothing too low or want to smack my wrists against a razor blade fun times.
Maybe I need to Netflix and paint rocks. I do have Netflix right now, just to watch Bridgerton. And British Baking Show. And possibly the Witcher. Because why leave the house at all or my tiny room. I can sneak out and get some water. My cat goes in and out of my open window. I yet have enough cat food for her. I don’t have a job right now so I can stew in my own juices, live in my own head and generally wonder what it’s all about. Which is probably not good at all for my mental health. I’m gonna say it. Not good at all for my mental health.
I don’t want company. I don’t. I find people confusing, wearying, stressful and ultimately, so painful to deal with on any level I just can’t anymore. I just can’t. I’d rather spend time with my tiny pumpkin sprouts than try and make small talk about ‘what my story is about’ or ‘what I’m doing now’ with anyone. I’d rather drive somewhere, by myself, go rock collecting and return home to arrange my finds. I can live inside my head, have conversations with beloved friends I can invent and send away as needed.
I suppose I am intensely lonely but I’ve lived within that state so long it feels intensely natural. And that’s okay. I have such troubles hiding the bewildered, loud, brazen, savagely honest me from others that I’d rather be alone than treated like a monster escaped from a cage. My mother taught me, from earliest memories, that being me was about the wrongest thing to be on the planet. That being ‘nice’ counted for far more than anything I was or could be or actually had inside me. That the real me was not wanted, that the real me was some horrific embarrassment to her, to my family. And yes, to some of my friends over the years. Who “like” me but told me to be someone else entirely, someone ‘nice’. Which cut me so sharply every time. The real me had to be hidden and suppressed unless she escape and go on a rampage!
Which is sort of a Dr. Jeckyll/Mr. Hyde thing?
In my life so far, I have never belonged anywhere. I never quite fit in, I felt. I felt that every year, every day, every minute, every second of my life so far. I belonged nowhere, people just tolerated me but only if I performed to their liking.
Which is boring and self-pitying but feelings are seldom anything but dull recitations of perceived flaws or declarations that this time, it’s really love. Really, truly!
I didn’t mean for this to venture into therapy for this poor schmuck time. But nobody reads this and nobody responds, so I guess I am very safe writing these blood-stained words torn from my tired self’s flesh at all.
ANN WUEHLER 