- Lost another couple of pounds this week, despite having to stay off my right arm. That means even without real exercise I’m still able to keep myself together. I’m still kind of young so I can take advantage of that while it lasts.
- I pulled the post it notes from my routine and just focus on getting basics done during the day, then just do everything else if I have the energy. I recognized I was setting myself up to fail and stopped.
- Still searching for a psychiatrist, but seem to be handling the bipolar II well enough with the meds I’m already on. Maybe I don’t need to go back on mood stabilizers or anything else? So even if I can’t find anyone, I should be fine.
- It’s been a year since I started the blog and I’ve never deleted it all, even though I’ve been tempted. A lot of posts are still set to private, but that’s more of a boundaries thing.
- The kink stuff is mostly all private, and probably will be for a while. I’m still exploring in the capacity that I can. But I’ve realized I have too much baggage to really participate with others in a way I think is ethical or healthy. There’s just a lot more going on than I thought there was.
- I’m talking to people, and slowly learning to lower my guard. Healthy boundaries are in some way permeable, and I’ve been able to let a few people in, if only briefly.
Useful, but the utility is exaggerated. Sometimes I need to dream and forget where I am. Being grounded constantly is a transmogrification of something meant to be transcendent. I have enough in the mundanity of living. There has to be something else, and if not I should be allowed to mourn for its loss.
One of those mornings that aren’t mornings yet. Somehow more rested than if I’d slept in. I’ve always been in love with 3am.
acrylic razor blades scrape dried choler from a desiccated husk
the little thing crumbles staining sheets pale yellow
still granular and inescapable, memories of yesterday’s tomorrow
no sense of the present, just recycling the past into dead futures
pretending there’s no way out
Whatever’s left of your voice is lost forever in magnetic tape and a dead flip phone. If you died yesterday, I’d never have had the chance to forget what you sound like. Maybe it’s for the best. Like your ashes, the warbled sound of your laughter would just be a hollow reminder. Another part of your corpse put on display until it blends into the background of everything. People leave more traces now, so it’s probably easier to haunt ourselves with dead futures. Regardless, there’s nothing I can do.
There’s nothing more obnoxious than doing coke past 30. Past 50 it’s just sad. You’re literally almost dead, can’t you stay home? Do whatever it is you do when it’s too late for change? Unless that’s just hanging yourself. If that’s the case, just go wild I guess? I’d rather you spare your wife opening the closet door, even if you talk too fast and never shut the fuck up.
I’m the only one to blame for my problems. After this bowl of scrambled eggs I’m out of food. Poor planning. The day program was bullshit anyways. Let them kick me out.
Please don’t let them kick me out.
It’s one of those things left over from childhood. Anything but scrambled makes me retch. Without that extra level of processing, the palpability of what I’m eating is too obvious. Even though it was never really alive.
When I was little, my parents were too proud to go on food stamps. I ate a lot of eggs, or at least I remember eating a lot of eggs. When I’d go outside, there’d be nothing but waste and farmland. Is was all so bland and gray and brown it made my head hurt.
Rural poverty brands you for life. It’s not even the isolation, it’s the desperation in others when you’re finally not alone. You learn to keep to yourself, where it’s somehow less lonely. It’s hard to put into words, but you can probably smell it on me. I can smell it on me.