roz-zen-blog - Tumblr blog

[roz-zen-blog]

(12.28.17)

Hahahahaha everything I just typed deleted. The only conclusion I came to was that I am under qualified for what I want to “say” with my life.

[roz-zen-blog]

(12.27.17)

There’s a lot on my mind. A lot of topics and posts and sentences I have imagined while I brushed my teeth and put on pajamas. Yes, I actually got dressed today. Sort of. Only the pants were different. But I didn’t pull a 12-hour day of Shameless. (I’m on the last season and trying to pace the inevitable end and still fucking rooting for Jimmy.)

I left the house today. Also a first, in the past three days. I stayed up until four, woke up at ten, rolled over and ate some BBQ Pringles, and somehow felt like cruising the Christmas clearance at Walmart. There are three little “B”s I still have to exchange gifts with and it doesn’t bother me one fucking bit that I can top off their gifts with 50% off shit. I’m extra. I’m overwhelming when it comes to gift giving. But it was the first time in the last several days that I wasn’t totally repulsed by the status of those relationships and the idea of me throwing more gift tags at it. So I went. And I cruised. And I didn’t eat dinner totally alone in the middle of the night tonight.

I guess I’m just slowly getting over things. Over the shit that went down on Christmas. Of course, New Years is hurdling right around the corner — which means prime time for Family Shit 2.0. Which could very well slam me right back into bed in a few days. I keep trying to process things. I keep trying to come up with solutions and understandings and new perspectives. Maybe it’s as simple as family sucks sometimes. I don’t know. I do know none of the problems got fixed. I do know that I’m not comfortable with certain conversations, actions, and words used. I know that every other time I have brought up my concerns, they aren’t well received. We just spend the whole conversation debating their legitimacy instead of dealing with the (legitimate) matter. So I don’t really see the point in trying to effect change. In having those conversations. In hoping to get something different out of the people in my life. The only real conclusion I have really come to this time (in a long, long fucking line of other times things have worked out exactly this same way) is that I’m deeply disappointed and uncomfortable and I can’t depend on current people to help change that. Even though it’s their fucking words and actions I have a problem with. Negative will stay negative and I need to move forward in this next year, seeking and establishing some positive.

Don’t know exactly what that will look like. But it probably means distance. Some space, so that I have total control over what does and doesn’t get a place in my life.

I’m not over it, over it. I just recognize it’s shitty, it will always be shitty, and it will be just as shitty next time it comes up as this time. And I guess 72 hours of not having to be in the middle of that means I am a ome kind of able to get back up again for the next approaching round.

Meh.

In other news, Elvis is fucking great. I remember I had a CD of his when I was a kid that I kept in a leopard print CD-case and listened to on a portable CD player. Lol. There was this one song about a dead dog that made me feel like absolute shit and that I never listened to past the point that I got the gist. But there’s a new song I’ve discovered that wasn’t on that CD and I am fucking obsessed. It’s on repeat as I write tonight.

Love me tender. Love me true. Take me to your heart — for its there that I belong and will never part. Love me tender. Love me true. All my dreams fulfilled for my darling I love you and I always will. Tell me you are mine. I’ll be yours through all the years, until the end of time.

I fell in love this year. At least, in 2017 I realized that’s what it was. It’s been a damn slippery slope and a heartbreak waiting to happen. First time, too. Music has been a mess for me. Suddenly, every song means the fucking world to me and sounds brand new. Welcome to the club, Elvis, because all I want to do is fuck “U” to that. In some kind of dark room, under some kind of thunderstorm. Take me to your heart... tell me you are mine...

[roz-zen-blog]

I was going to matter (12.27.17)

It’s 2:22 AM and I am all hopped up on coffee. Read: able to actually get out of bed for more than a pee break. This time, it was a pee and chocolate break. And I turned the lights on in here for a few minutes. And for the moment, my veins feel quiet. My limbs feel quiet. That is the best way I can think to describe it. Momentary, caffeine-regulated floating.

Maybe coffee is my new will to live.

I haven’t tried to lay down and go to sleep... which means there is still plenty of time for late night thoughts to creep under the covers with me.

I don’t know if I they are intrusive thoughts or anxiety or just regular self-loathing. But there are certain skeletons and ghosts from my past that go bump in the night. Every night. And they always fucking find me, even when I hide under my covers.

One thought that is a particular frequent flyer is about this lie I told. The Lie.

(“P” didn’t stipulate that I be forthcoming in these - just that I write. About whatever. Therefore The Lie will remain The Lie until/unless the anxiety about going into further detail takes a nosedive off a cliff. Which, you know, it won’t. Hasn’t in years.)

It was a while ago. It was stupid of me. It was a big deal and pretty much imemedaitely after I told it, and definitely the further I got from it, I felt HORRIBLE about it. Like almost word vomiting the truth out horrible. Like I’ve never experienced (almost) not being able to keep a secret horrible. In the grand scheme and in comparison to the rest of the world, The Lie is probably small potatoes. But I think I shocked myself when I told it. When I went through with it. A scary amount of details stick out about those long, long few seconds I laid there right before I told The Lie; deciding to tell The Lie. And I have certainly, vehemently, regretted it. Even now, the quiet has vanished out of my arms and my skin is crawling and I hate that The Lie exists. I fucking hate that it exists. That I fucking formed it and breathed life into it and tried to live it.

For the longest time I haven’t been able to understand why the fuck I did that. And if I ever told anyone, they wouldn’t understand why the fuck either. But there was this moment today - this one moment in the span of not getting out of bed for two days now - where I did understand. I don’t know if I remembered why I did it or if I finally gained perspective and could sympathize with myself or what. I don’t know if I am just back in the same place that I was those years ago, feeling the same fucking feelings and being driven to the same fucking desperation. But I fucking got it.

I remember being so alone, in a lot of the same ways as I am now but in different ways, too. I remember being desperate to be important to him. To matter to him. I remember that he couldn’t give me the fucking time of day but I was such a naive shithead that I didn’t know what that meant. I DIDNT KNOW THAT WAS OKAY and that we didn’t have to be together!! I didn’t fucking know that I could move on. I didn’t know that I could slow down and break up and wait to fall head over fucking heels like I know now. I needed to be important because I wasn’t important and he just happened to fucking be there!! I was ready to be important in any way. I was going to matter in any way that mattered to him.

All this time I have been so tripped out, trying to wrap my head around that incident. Why the fuck did I? How the fuck could I? I don’t know if this is perspective or distance or maybe finally some fucking forgiveness from myself for telling The Lie.

Or maybe I’m just in a strange enough place again, desperate to be important again.

That “realization” or whatever brought some peace. Like a decimal. And it feels right back to awful and horrible, just scratching the surface of it like this. I do everything I can to fall asleep already at the foot of this demon in particular. But alongside that peace was wariness. Would I do this again? wariness. Because for the first time since I told The Lie, I understood doing it. I felt that total desperation to matter. I just want to fucking matter. I wanted to be protected. I wanted to be saved.

Those feelings are so strong that maybe I scare myself. Maybe I’m just a liar. Maybe I’m just lonely and desperate. Maybe I won’t make it where I need to be, all the way to the end of that road, to get away from all this darkness. Maybe I’ll wander off into the shadows before I get there. Get snagged away.

I keep telling myself that I just have to listen to logic. I just have to remember how much I regretted doing that. How much it has screwed with me. How bad things could have gotten, if it went further — and it could have gone fucking further. Basically, I can’t listen to myself at all in all this. Because I want to matter still.

[roz-zen-blog]

[roz-zen-blog]

(12.26.17... still)

Opening the mail fucked me up tonight. Or like I knew it should/would fuck me up. And later, it will. When I slide down that slope. Open that can of worms. Tonight, I just ripped them up and took my cup of coffee to bed. It was like getting bad news on behalf of someone else and knowing when you tell them, they’ll be fucked up. Or not bad, but just fucking obnoxious and old and tired.

Do people have a spank bank for fucked up shit that you’ll be upset over later?

They were all medical-related, by the way. Letters from doctors who either want to test me, study me, survey me, or see me at an appointment I already fucking suffered through for the year. And they’ll pay me for it, too. $200 per lab rat. Each visit has a dozen labs attached. What is that, like $15 per test? Fucking degrading. You know, I used to participate in these kinds of things. Back when all you needed was spending cash and $200 made a fucking difference and I believed their bright eyes and bushy tails about research and cures. I don’t believe it’s enthusiasm that drives them. I don’t think they buy their own BS. I couldn’t tell you why they study it - water is wet. But I can say that it hurts. And they pay out in fucking gift cards.

I don’t drink coffee, by the way. Which is why I’m doing it. I don’t have enough guts to make any kind of real decisions, effect any kind of real change in my life. I fucking hate coffee and this cup is fucking 80% creamer. But somehow I don’t want to sleep. I don’t want to drink something I enjoy. I don’t want to walk any kind of straight and narrow and I’m too much of a pussy to get drunk or cut off all my hair or drop everything and start over someplace new. Did you know I only cuss in writing? Fuck.

[roz-zen-blog]

holy fuck im stuck (12.26.17)

“P” said that if you’re stuck and don’t know the next move, write. Somehow that is supposed to miraculously reveal the next step. As if I am not already fully aware and acquainted with the realities of my life. As if there is something left in me. Some redeeming quality or life purpose or motivation that self-reflection will pop to the surface. Bring out in me. As if there is a person in there other than this messed up, worn out one.

All I’ve done - for years now - is fucking think about my life. Any realizations there were to be made about my life-, identity-, childhood-bullshit have already been realized. Anything I was going to grow up to resent I fucking grew up and resent. Does delving into all that shit actually accomplish anything other than covering you in shit?