breakout

Thank you all for the kind comments, I'm always touched anyone should identify or find this interesting. And writing is a compulsion for me, so if it is appreciated in any way, all the better. It actually makes me quite happy. (And in leaving a comment I guess you are already a tiny little part of the adventure, this life-o-mine, no?)

The compulsion thing is a bit of a problem though. It makes me uncomfortable. I'm feeling too the disparity between what has been said here these past two months and what has actually made its way to T. It's all good and real in my mind, and the events accounted are real, but if it's not being at least partially communicated to him, if he does not have any idea of my impression of the events, actually it's not even that, he probably has some idea, but if I'm not even making a real effort to put my thoughts of him across to him, so that it can be shot down or supported, in the very least changed, then there is no point really. I might as well be making it up. I might as well be masturbating to his complete fantasy in a corner of my room...you know what I mean? This is the point where him and I begin to really break down, if I continue like this. The writing helps maybe, to solidify my thoughts, (which is scary enough as is), but it can turn into a bit of a cop-out if I don't watch out.

I've said this before, damn.

(But he calls me, and everything just leaves my head, I'm just asking him if he's tired, what he's been up to, how was his weekend.)

I'm also growing uncomfortable with the amount of time that has gone into this writing. It seems out of proportion with the amount of time that has actually been spent with him.

Most of all, with all this writing, I'm losing focus, from living my life. And it is not totally because of him. Probably when I get like this, I could write missives on my relationship with my refrigerator. No but seriously, it's just the same as the last time this happened, I have been writing so much, a lot more than is being posted. About my family. About past relationships. About where I grew up. About how I started having sex. I've been retreating, really totally retreating. I feel like I could fall through the cracks any second and never actually have to live.

I could become completely mortified, stagnant, comatose. I know the feeling now. I could be the one whose drool is being wiped off of her wheelchair in an institute somewhere. They never did find out what went wrong. It is not as far as I first thought, though I wish it were, I wish this were a complete, remote dramatization.

Nothing is getting done, and I have to break out.

It may be that I will post again in two days, it may be a month, I could never venture a never-again, I don't know. I just feel, and I think we all feel this a bit from time to time, that I have to re-state the boundary, re-gain control. Actually put it up here. Not just talk about how I need to focus, but actually focus. Start to involve myself where required, not just where desired. In writing this I've already failed, but I'm hopefully moving there slowly.

I feel sad now. :(

Damn.

What if I'll never be able to take these steps fully? What if I find myself here over and over again? How many times will I just pull through ?

I don't care if it's genetic. I don't care if it's experience. I don't care if it needs medication, if my hormones need to be engineered and tweaked. I don't care if I need to learn the right thought processes, need to be positive, am looking at this the wrong way, am just making mistakes, if my distorted perceptions need a new lens, whatever. I don't care if it's a natural stage, if its 'normal' or 'abnormal'. I don't care if I am just like any other, if I need to snap out of it, if I'm just feeling sorry, if I'm self-absorbed, if I'm spoilt, if I'm weak, if I'm a baby, if I'm confused, if I'm dumb, if I need a therapist, a parent, a sibling, a friend, a pill, a life.

I know too much of the lingo, I feel like the reproach and the advice have always been inside, before anyone could open their mouths, I don't care, whatever it is, I just don't want it to be, it's a pain.

My heart questions its own throb, tirelessly, tiresomely, time and time again.

I don't want to be at all. But then I do. I cannot choose.

(Cannot. It is always true, what they say. Don't ever think the girl who took one pill too many was the girl who was finally able to make that choice.)

I'm tired again. Damn.

Stepping back now....