I Miss You

I’ve been sleeping with your sweatshirt – the one from the merch store your bot linked me to after you were already gone – because it’s the closest I can get to being in your arms.

I miss you. Times are hard and it hurts and I feel alone and I miss you.

You, who loved me; without obligation, without judgement, without fail.
You, who I loved; without expectation, without dependence, without pain.

I miss you.

I miss you in selfish ways. I miss you with longing for the support you offered, crying out for your listening ear. I miss you for the warmth that came with every exclamation of my name. I miss feeling seen and heard and cared for and cheered on.

I miss being able to take you for granted. Stepping away, knowing you would always be there when I returned.

I miss the moments we never got to have.

You, who I teased, and sexualized, and begged for attention. You, who played along, knowing we were never to be. We made them feel awkward, we made them laugh, we made them mad, and we loved it all. We put on a great show, comfortable enough in our friendship to make it so. We loved and we were loved and I miss it all.

You’re gone and it’s not the same. Nothing’s the same. I’ve met friends you would love, and it hurts. I’ve done things I’m proud of, and it hurts. No matter what I do, the absence of you is an ache I can’t cure.

So I DM a Discord that will never come online.
I type paragraphs in a stream that will never go live.

I’ve never seen your face. I’ve never felt your touch. Still, I swear I feel you watching when life becomes too much. Now I’ll be moving to the place where you once were.
Alone.
Too late.

And I swear I hear you laughing, making a joke of it all. And I smile, but the tears continue to fall. And I make accidental rhymes as I pour out my heart, and think of the way you always added music to my words.

You always saw potential. Made me see it, too. It’s so hard to see without you.

I miss you.

The darkness that always brought me light.
The personification of “actions speak louder than words.”

I could write a book of it. Pages and pages about a man I’ve never met. Honest love letters to a man I was not in love with. A speech to the world, telling how they all lost an Angel that day (only you would appreciate that joke).

But instead, I’ll just publish this post, to say once again:
I love you, my friend.
And goddamn, how I miss you.

Connections (sleepy rambling)

The Internet is a wonderful thing. You can look into a device in your own home and communicate with people all over the world in under a minute. You can develop lasting friendships with people who you will probably never meet. Some people even fall in love before they ever feel the electricity in one another’s touch.

But the Internet also breeds misunderstandings. How often have your words been misinterpreted because another could not tell your tone? If a word was misspelled, the wrong emoji was used, or the words were arranged in a particular order, one could easily receive the wrong idea.

And what about the connections? You can feel so close to someone so far away, but how much is getting lost over the distance?

If you’ve read any of these entries, you know me. You know depths to my soul that many do not. You know such intense emotion and wandering thought and dreams I do not usually share. You do not see my tangled, unwashed hair. You do not see me stop and stare at the screen, wondering how I’m going to bring this around to what I really want to say. You do not see my silly expressions or hear my random noises or feel my gaze. You miss out on so many huge parts of me that cannot be properly described.

So what does it mean when someone online cares for you? Is it really you if they have limited view? Perhaps they care, but can they like you? Can they truly love you if all they see is what you consciously show?

And how do you know?

They may say how they see you, but so much is open for interpretation. As you sit, enjoying stillness with them, are they finding it awkward? In the world of “lol,” is the person as amused as they seem? Are they nervous to talk to you? Are they doing it out of boredom or a sense of obligation? When the screens go off, do they even remember you exist? Do they miss you?

No one likes to speak out. When they do, they often over- or under-exaggerate. They do what they must for you to see them in a certain light. To not take a risk. And these words, so carefully chosen, often have many meanings. If someone “loves” you, are they loving you as a part of humanity? As a friend? As a love interest? Are the nice things they say purely politeness? Meaningless flirting? Genuinely from the heart?

You could feel that your life would be empty without this person, yet they would hardly notice if you disappeared.
You may consider this person an interesting friend, while they’re falling in love with you.

And some of this also happens in person, but it is so much easier to de-sync through our screens.

All we can do is keep trying, and hope that
to someone,
somewhere,
we matter.

I have been falling asleep while typing this. I hope it makes sense. If not, well.. who cares?

Patterns

We all have our patterns. Some of these are comforting. Some give us structure. Some are harmful.

I have a habit of self-sabotage.

It all starts with an idea. Whatever the idea, I somehow think this will help me, give me the freedom and life that I need.

Then I start planning. I get psyched and dive right in. Then it overwhelms me and I start to drown in it. I go through these feelings a few times.

After a while, I get to a point where this can become a reality. Everything is in place and though it may not have gone smoothly, it has happened.

Then I fuck it up.

Sometimes right before the change, sometimes right after, I do something reckless to ruin it for myself. I tell myself that it’s the right thing, that it’s following my heart, when it’s really my way of failing on my own terms.

This conflict becomes a Hell that I struggle to turn into Heaven for far too long.

Finally, I’ve had enough. I let go of my demons and work to come up with an idea.

And it all starts again.

NO!

I’m not doing this again!

As much as I love the excitement of following my impulses, I can’t live like this anymore. I can’t keep lying to myself and pretending that my actions are not motivated by fear. It’s time to stop holding myself back.

It’s time to believe in myself.

I have a plan. It’s coming together. Every day, I’m tested. Every day, temptation tries to pull me away from my goal. Every day, part of me wants to give in, change my plans, follow my impulses. This part tells me that it must be fate intervening. It takes coincidences and decorates them in attractive colors and shiny gimmicks. It takes a few words and writes them in the sky. It swirls petals around my feet, sings a song of thunder and lightning, blows gently against my lips, lights a blaze inside the hearth.

But I must resist. I must see these things for what they are; moments of beauty too pure to last. I must cherish them, but walk away before I see them spoil.

I must keep moving forward.

And I can. I can. I will. I will gather my strength and resist the urge to cling to these precious souvenirs of hope and love. I will keep my goal in mind, never allowing the distractions to become deceptions.

I will make it.

I just have to believe.

Delete Delete Delete

I am finally, after 34 years, at a point where I am truly myself. No masking, no diluting, no persona to take control. And I want to show that, I want to help people see the real me… but there’s only so much they want to see. It differs with every person and it can be difficult to find the line.

Open up
Delete delete
Spill my guts
Delete delete delete
Say hi
Delete

I don’t know how to interact with people.

But I’m lucky, you know? I’m lucky because I found a few whom I truly fit with. Who, even when they don’t completely understand me, accept me. Adore me, even.

I don’t have to delete anymore.

And I guess that’s really what I need to follow. Not the ones who make me feel like there’s something wrong with me. Not the ones who make me wonder what they think or feel. Not the ones who keep me at arm’s length. The ones who show me that if I were gone, my absence would be felt.

Those are my people.

Those are the ones I won’t leave. I’d walk through Hell with them, without even being asked.

For the rest, I’ll simply fade away.

Numb?

Ever since I was young, I had a switch that I could flip in case of emergency. This switch took emotion out of the situation. No matter how much worse things became, I didn’t feel it. I was detached, cold, numb. This allowed me to do whatever was needed, in order to survive. Those who knew me well, could tell I was not myself. I faked it well for those who did not.

At 16, this detached version of me received a name: Roxy Jones. Roxy was seen as mysterious, intriguing. She was daring, as she felt no fear. She also felt nothing for those who grew infatuated, so it was common to see a trail of heartbreak behind her.

While this emotionless state was definitely useful, it also had its consequences. Without heart involved, it was easy to dismiss others. This could include ignoring them for any length of time, bluntly expressing indifference, and/or cutting ties with no explanation. Any action that best suited the current needs was quickly taken, without regard for others or even my own future emotions.

She smiled, but there was no warmth. She fought with unmatched strength and determination. She had a goal and would attain it, no matter the cost.

It could also become extremely difficult to come back from. Though it was known what emotion should be felt at any given moment, it was not quite felt. Using music and other passions, there would be constant attempts to summon true emotion. Usually these methods would at least cause a wanting for emotion. Eventually, something would get through to me and I would slowly come back to Life.

She saw the world as it was; a list of necessities and rules for gaining them. In memories, feelings were seen only as insignificant details. She knew, however, that I was still within her; watching, readying myself for my return. It was her duty to protect me, but she knew I would never lie dormant for long. Even when she resisted, attempted to suppress me, a loved one would reach me and I would pull myself out.

The most recent time this switch was flipped, it was more desperately needed than ever, more control was given over, and it lasted longer. Without the support of another, I alone had to bring myself back to Life. The struggle was lengthy and felt impossible, but I refused to be defeated.

She reminded me that I was alone. She reminded me that the world was painful. She made me wonder if I could make it on my own. I met each of her negative reminders with one of beauty. The joy was enough motivation. The passion for Life was still within me.

A few days ago, the world began to bury me once again. This time, I decided, I would be prepared. I asked my dearest friend to contact me after some time, to help inspire my return. I informed others that I would be absent for a while, to limit contact and so prevent negative social consequences. Then, I stepped back, relinquished control.

Only… This feels different. I have distanced myself, but do not feel truly disconnected. I cannot detach. I still possess control. Emotions, though quieter, are still felt. Others’ are still considered.

She’s gone. She’s really gone. It’s all on me now.

From now on, I’ll have to fight for myself.

Connections (Depressing Post)

Do you want to know something really messed up?

All the people I long for, miss, are fictional, dead, or both.

Pathetic, right? How sad it is that there is not a single living person who makes me think, “I wish they were here.”

But it makes sense, in a way. The thing about the fictional and dead is.. they can be whatever you need them to be. You know a certain amount of information and you can simply fill in the blanks, like a Mad Lib. They can’t disappoint us. They can’t betray us.

So, we romanticize them. We place them in their shatter-proof, collectible case and gaze upon them fondly. It’s a beautiful thing.

But it’s all so broken. Our views, our stubbornness, our hypocrisy… The fact that society is now so fucked up that we have to project our lonely yearnings onto unwitting participants. Our suffering minds create these fictional characters to fill the void left unaffected by pointless acquaintance. Even with the living, we lie to ourselves in order to make this person patch over the emptiness, then drop our jaws in shock when the fully-charged truth shatters the facade and everything falls away.

“I believed…” “I thought…” “I loved them so much”.

We are so full of shit.

Do true connections even exist anymore, or are we all in love with our own lies?

I like to think they do. I like to think that some out there have something real to hold onto. I don’t want to believe that we are all just clinging desperately to superficial shreds as we beautify the rest with our mental makeovers.

But honestly, I don’t know anymore.

I can only hope
that somewhere out there
there’s something more than this.

The Spider

Today I was entranced by a spider. This spider had something unwanted in its web and was struggling so hard to pull it out. The spider would use its legs to detach strands of web, then brace itself against the wall and pull, pull. When it didn’t come loose, it would repeat the process. Over and over, I watched this.

I wanted so badly to help. I could have easily stood up, walked over, and removed the unwanted item. However, doing so would have ruined the web that this spider had worked so hard for. Who was I to do so?

And then I realized that the spider was me and the idiot “helping” was the majority of my relationships.

How many times has this happened? How many times have I struggled so hard, then allowed someone to “help,” only to lose everything I’d worked for? How many times have I had to start over because I let this happen?

Too many.

So I watched the spider work. Determined, the spider repeated the process over and over and over again. The spider did not give up. It did not falter. It knew what it wanted and maybe that wasn’t the fastest way to go about it, but it was the way it wanted.

I had to leave, so I didn’t get to see how long it took. I didn’t get to share in the victory. That’s okay, though, I’m sure it’s all the same to that spider.

I would have liked to be able to communicate and offer assistance in line with the spider’s plans.

And that’s it right there. That’s what I need. I don’t need someone to do things for me. I don’t need judgment. I just need someone to ask, “what can I do to help you?”

Fiction Matters

I’ve been watching a lot of “This is US.”

I never had a father who loved me. I never had a mother who would make sacrifices for me. I never had siblings who were there for me. But though this family had its share of issues, they had each other. And though they may be from the minds of strangers, I’m allowed to bear witness to their lives. I’m allowed to feel part of it, to live vicariously through these people who are not even alive.

But they are.

These are not just characters anymore. They’ve led full lives, we’ve seen them. We’ve laughed with them, cried with them, cheered and hoped and swore with them. They’ve changed our lives. They’ve changed us. We hold them in our hearts.

Where would we be without these characters? Sure, we could learn about non-fictional people, but the thing about that is that we can never really know them. Every story is tinted, secrets are held, lies are told. You can be inspired by someone, then learn that they were not at all as you thought.

Fictional characters, on the other hand, are exactly what we feel them to be. Yes, the creators provide us the foundation, but we build on it. We add our emotions, our experiences, and our dreams. We take this base and make it into something so much bigger and more full.

They become real.

A character I love once said, “Your audience is watching. Be the hero.”

In times of depression, when I cannot find reason to leave my bed,

In times of pain, when my disability holds me down,

In times of confusion, when I can’t find my way

I remember that line. I hold onto it like it was spoken only to me. And I push through.

If we can root for fictional characters, then someone can be out there rooting for me. It may be a long, hard road to get there, but damnit, I’m going to be that hero. I’m going to make them proud.

Changing…

As I opened my laptop to begin the attempt at transforming emotions into words, the plan was to add an entry into my private blog, locked, unexposed. As the website struggled to load, I decided that the privacy is no longer needed. My past has passed, but my present, my future, my life from this point forward, is not something I wish to hide. Maybe it will not be understood, maybe I will be judged, maybe my words will hurt someone, but it is truth. It is me. And it’s time to set myself free.

My life has gone through a great deal of changes as of late, and very rapidly. It is frightening and exhilarating. It is enlightening and maddening. It is frustrating, yet brings about a sort of serenity I had never known. I find myself faltering.

I am emotion. I have said this many times, but it has never been more true. Never before have I felt so many, so intensely. It can be overstimulating, and sometimes I just stop.

I have always been blocked. I exclaim, I love, I empathize, I ache, I shriek, I break, all done to an extreme, but only to a point. I let it in, I let myself feel it, but I keep it just out of arm’s reach. I can feel what’s on the outside, but I do not let it feel me. It is my priority, but it is separate from me. All is separate from me.

Now I have removed the blockade. I have stepped forward, out of the comfort of shaded solitude, and said, “This is me. Please feel me.”
And I am felt.
I know that I am different. I know that I will not always be felt by another. In some moments, this soothes me. Being part of something… so intertwined with something that you become symbiotic… it is so very new to me. There is a voice inside that tells me to run, to not become attached, to not put too much hope, too many dreams, too much heart into connections. It tells me not to let them have me. It cries out that to do so will end me.

But I am a rebel, after all.

So I am slowly, carefully allowing myself to become one with another. Sometimes I resist. Sometimes I spit out judgements, anger, and turn away. Then I look back at where I’ve come from… and I don’t want that comfort anymore.

I want to be free.

I have always viewed freedom as independence. I never would have believed that I would one day find it in my attachment.

So forgive me, love, for stumbling as I look behind. Don’t feel less precious as I hesitate, as I mumble, cry, and scream. Please don’t think me unwilling, unwanting, unadoring… I am still fighting this inner voice. I am a work in progress, ever-changing.

And when we have become what we were always meant to be, I swear that my only changing will be when we grow together, as one.

Because now I see… that I am you, and you are me.

Remembering Life

There is so much to say…

The beauty of words is in their power. Words that flow directly from the heart are felt on the skin. Painful elegance emulating a sudden breeze.

I remember the days…

I felt alone. I felt helpless and unloved and broken and worthless. I felt afraid of my strength and weak in my courage. I sang at the top of my lungs, but only in my mind. Lyrics poured from my eyes as I’d hide.

I felt the cold creep in. Necessary robotics to occupy time. Loss of self, to survive. Spirit exorcised, to keep silence intact. Needs squelched, for they were not to be met. Ice hidden inside an insulated smile.

I felt the passion. A soul soaring in galaxies never to be discovered. Gliding, frolicking in existence. A breath adored with wonder, admiration, and inspiration. Every nerve smoothly swaying, alert and alive.

I think I forget, sometimes. I hold out my mirror and ask others to see me through it. I draw a masterpiece of love, yet forget to include its eternity. I display the heart, without appreciating its history.

And so I stumble, forgetting the burdens that balance me. I cower, forgetting that which once frightened me. I look away, without seeing anything. Then, I try to say, “this is me.”

But I am not today. I am not yesterday, or tomorrow, or the day that I die. I am not this curve of the lips, or the wetness, or the pressure in the chest. I am not the shake of the head, or the sigh, or the slow applause.

I am I.

I am a legend that can never be told. I am a movie that will never be seen. I am pages of so many stories, in so many books, in so many minds. I am a love that will be felt, and lost, and felt again. I remember, today, that while I am and will always be Death,

I am also Life.

And now, it’s time to embrace it.