I Woke Up Today,
"I don't know what tomorrow brings" were the words of my last post and that was in October, 2k25. Now it's the middle of June.
You know what I think? I think I'm only active for part of the Summer and the Fall and then I disappear again. I actually wouldn't even say I'm going to be "active" now; I think I'll start screaming at the internet via bearblog and then go back in hiding sometime.
In the dark, when I lay in bed holding on to my self- my hands are where it hurts. My heart aches and my chest feels hollow and my back is cold and my belly twists itself around and around but my hands are where it hurts the most. They burn. The muscle in my palms sting and prickle and my skin feels like its on fire. I hold the fire up to my eyes, palm to cheek and lid and hope to God the pain would kill me. It doesn't. I endure. I lay in bed and I endure. If someone would please hold my hands; I just want them to be held. Out of all my aching desires, I just want my hands to be held. But who would share this fire? Who would look at my red trembling fingers and gladly take hold? Would your touch smother the fire and let me stop burning or would we both be set ablaze?
All of it is backwards.
Fall is my Spring, Winter my Summer.
I've learned that I don't do well in the Spring and Summer. They're bad for me. They have been bad to me.
Spring is when I wither. I die. I isolate. My dear friend says I might have BPD but I think it's just this Spring. It weighs on me, heavier each year, and the only thing I know how to do is to be alone.
I deleted my socials, I vowed not to ask for help, and I laid myself in bed so as to be alone. I do this every year. I go through this process of self-mutilation, ripping from myself everything that I want so badly and even have gained. I become fully convinced that I don't deserve it, that everyone secretly hates me, that I'm a monster who hurts people and can't be trusted with friends. I can't be trusted to have friends. I am too selfish, broken, and needy. No one wants that.
Or I'll say, I need to focus on being better so that I can have friends in the future. Better how? Better, as in less pain. Once I am dulled to the pain again, once I am no longer foaming at the mouth for love and affection, then I will be better. Once I can stand not to ask, beg, please love me; I will deserve love.
As it happens, this year is a little different. Lily didn't let me isolate myself. She took my phone and downloaded my contacts again. Instead of going months without my friends, I only went a couple days. She made soup for me in the kitchen while I grieved and sobbed over so many things.
This year, when I feel alone, I can go outside. I can take myself to a book store and I can wander around a mall and try a new restaurant, all by myself, with no one's permission. I took myself to lunch and found the weird Asian-fusion shtick to be wildly underwhelming.
It still feels very sad to do this alone but at least I can do it. Every once in a while, while I am wandering, I realize that I am thinking about my Mother and how much she would like this odd little shop I found. I look for her everywhere, even when I am trying not to think about anything at all. She's the trees, she's the plaza, she's the line in the sky between the clouds and the square buildings. How did I ever leave you? How could I not have left? I love being alive and being myself too much to have succumbed to your tyrannous rage. And yet I believe myself to have deserved all that rage. I believe I deserve that rage because I hated it, because I wanted to live. And so, I go back and forth.
I flitter between belief that maybe there's a spark in me, maybe there's a fire inside that I can stoke and it won't burn but it will glow and I will be beautiful someday. But then I look down at my hands and I see how my burning has hurt everyone I have held, and I can't believe I would think that this can be anything but blackened, scorched skin.
This article was last edited 1 day, 15 hours ago