I never learned how to reach out. So everything seems inappropriate and everything becomes uncomfortable and needing anything seems like an obsession. I make mistakes. I’ve made them a thousand times, and it’s different every time, but as I become older it’s almost as if things are more and more detrimental. It’s so much easier to turn to the things that will eventually push you over the edge than it is to run to the one thing that might make this all okay again.
I’ve been analyzing again. But this time I have something to analyze. Grief has stages. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance. I don’t know what stage I’m in. I know that I don’t want to talk about it. Not with most people. Not most of the time. If you get to be that person, or one of those people, then I’m sorry. But for everyone else. I’m sick of it. I’m sick of people saying that what I do or what I say is okay. It’s bullshit. This is all bullshit.
I’m not even sorry. I’m not even sorry that I push everyone away and then feel abandoned. Because I’ve done it my whole freaking life. It’s what I’m best at.
I don’t even care right now. I don’t want to care. I want to do whatever I want. I want to be reckless. I used to be reckless. But there will always be something tethering me to the earth, keeping me from being fully free like that.
I’m not an alcoholic. I don’t really have an addictive nature. But I wish I was. I wish there was a reason that getting out of bed didn’t seem worth it. A reason that was more than a state of mind.
I’m really messed up. But only right now. I’m really not okay, even when I am okay. And no, I don’t want to talk about it.