sometimes it’s just too much.
i’ve been having constant nightmares. dreams that feel like weeks, complicated plots. these last few days have been harder.
lately it came to me: physical pain is a true form of mindfulness. while it aches, it is impossible to escape the present moment. you are there, all of you. and it hurts.
emotional pain, on the other hand, it the exact opposite. i’m both in my past and my future. i long for those days, i fear what’s to come. i question myself about what i’ll regret later in life.
i contemplate present regret, but i cant just yet.
there are so many holes in my chest that it’s hard to stay up sometimes.
i think of myself, a year ago. crumbled, drown in my readings, repeating to myself that i did my best.
sleeping with lesser men, only to block them the next day.
fearing the new years.
so. hurt.
i also think of myself, seven years ago. unable to get up. unable to eat. needing an iv for hydration.
so tired. and so hurt.
but in the meantime, though, i was able to bring myself up. i sure most of the time felt as lonely, but not a bit desperate. i try to remember the feeling of happy days, how was it to get up in the morning and what i thought of it then, if i knew i was happy, if i felt like i made it, if i felt it was real.
i mentioned 2012 just because it is the one ex right now that i see and i don’t feel a thing. nothing. it feels like a complete stranger, actually.
everyone else, for different reasons, add up to the pain. not for missing them, actually, usually that’s not the case.
usually.
the one thing changed for good, though: i don’t feel as lonely. not as close to what my life in sao paulo made me feel. not hopeless, not abandoned. i’ve been thinking that sao paulo, more than anything or anyone, was the core of my vulnerability – and me being so damn vulnerable and abandoned was too much for everyone else. (and i – oh, the irony – resiliently kept on going.)
maybe sao paulo was my true abusive relationship.
and though i don’t feel as lonely or abandoned now, and though i feel so strong, so damn strong now, every bit of pain i felt in that city i keep carrying on.
And sometimes I wish I didn’t even know that fucking existed.
And I know that my body, as it is now, really is the only thing I have left, and when that gets old and unfuckable I may as well just kill it. And somehow there isn’t anything worse than someone who doesn’t want to fuck me.
You know, everyone feels like this a little bit, and they’re just not talking about it, or I’m completely fucking alone which isn’t fucking funny.
Fleabag
