Karen's comment about being annoyed by my posting on survivor still gets to me. I know it shouldn't but it does. I should be able to shake it off, but I can't. Kind of the story of my life. I can't even seem to shake off the things that reach inside. I try. But things always come back to haunt me. I suppose because I agree that I don't have a life, that I am pretending hoping to forget and find some enjoyment in the moments. And it works for moments. I do have enjoyment, but then things come back to haunt me.
I still come back to the sadness, to not wanting to live, to imagining how I could make that happen, to not caring, to wishing all this pain and torment was over, to thinking about how I cannot not survive this winter, to how I will get out of the house to buy food, to how I don't really have to yet, to feeling a little more quiet, to remembering how guilty I feel that it would be easier if princess died, to imagine killing her and putting her outside to decay, to wishing I were her, to feeding her, to covering her so she is warm, to petting her, to hugging her, to resting quietly, to thinking again about how at least in this moment I feel no pain, to imagining moving the couch so princess can't fall off the bed, to not wanting to clean up the shit that is in the way, to imaging fixing the thermostat so I will have a heater, to knowing I won't because I could turn on the one in the kitchen, to thinking I could bring in the wood and have that, to knowing I have time to do that, to knowing I won't, to thinking, at least it is over 50 degrees in here today, to thinking I feel warm, to realizing I am slowly slipping away and I know I am only getting worse, to wondering why my kids are letting me die this way, to knowing they don''t know cause how could anyone ever know, to wanting to find a way out, to knowing there is none, to tuning into the TV which I am half listening to, to knowing when even Craig Ferguson can't distract me with humor it is not a good day, to hoping this fucked up rant of randomness priovides some insight to someone who probably will give a shit for a brief moment, to knowing it is not real and never will be, to wishing I was not a coward and that I could let go.
All the while I am in bed and lying still, typing, knowing that it just is not a good day. I want to blame that person for breaking the illusion of involvement I was having with Survivor. It doesn't help that I did good things like trying to turn the tone from hate and racism that is throughout the posts, that I took a stand, that others did too, that it mostly just a few people being nasty. It doesn't matter the good I do, even though in the moment I feel good because it comes back and I am still feeling the hate as though it is striking me and searing into my core. I don't watch horror films because I feel them as though they were real and I cannot erase them. I can't erase it, I can't outweigh it, I can't ever shake it. Why can't things ever fade and dissipate. Why not? Why am I how I am? I t is not ok, It hurts again and I just want it to stop.
Kian will never talk to me and Christie would rather not. Why would anyone want to bring this into their life. I would taint their lives and suck them dry and I wouldn't mean to but I would and I would hate to do that.
I wonder how I will not give up when Princess dies, cause no matter how I think of it, I come back to her without me, and she either starves cause no one knows or let someone know before but so they can't do anything about it and then they kill Princess anyway, cause unlike people, dogs that are unable to walk are killed to "put them out of their misery." Why can't someone do that for me.
And again the pain subsides. I need distraction and have none that's working well today, This post is that. Sometimes I wonder how it comes to happen that people kill themselves. I wonder ironically if this blog might tell the story. I mean until I am able to, I am not able. How ironic that it works that way about everything I do?
Until I am able, I am not able. That will be why.
No one calls. I did that. No one knows I am doing so poorly. It;s ironic that I said just that to so many people and no one hears me. Now I write it for the world to see, but my voice is lost among the millions. My voice is silent, echoing in infinity.
There were many moments I loved and they added to the good pile. Every interaction with my children adds to the good pile, even the smallest exchange. I used to love to dance; dancing added to the good pile. There were moments I was loved, and moments I loved.and not just from afar. I have interacted. I have touched people. I think about the guy who friended me from Malaysia. I touched him. I have added to good piles.
Is it strength or weakness that I still endure? Does it matter how or that I do?
I am not crazy. But there is craziness in me. Craziness is in everyone. But it is like paint on a canvas. Sometimes it is just paint, other times it is a work of art.
What does it look to walk to the end and jump off? Does it look like this? What does it look like to reach the bottom of an infinite abyss? How will you ever know until you jump, until you let go and fall freely?
I have written about strings to pieces ... about forsaking free ... Cutting strings, falling freely, it seems like it will be good for me, but not those I have set free, maybe not.
How is it my dog keeps living life as though how it is now just is. She loves life today as she loved it when she was able to run freely. Dogs only know now and love and they live. She isn't dying yet. And so she lives.
I suppose until I am dead, I am not. I live but not the way Princess lives.
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