Exorcism Fanatica

Ghosting is a shit way to deal with ending relationships. I have first hand been on both sides of them as to why this issue makes me want to pound glass into my knees every time I have to deal with it. In addition to it being emotionally abusive, malignant and shallow – It’s THE weak fucking way to back out of something that maybe didn’t go your way, or maybe was more than you could handle at the time. Either way it’s wrong, and here are MY fucking opinionated reasons why.

That Trust
What you just did was throw out a huge majority of tangible trust that the person will ever hand you again. Because who knows what life is going to throw at you or them next, you have already wrote down that if things get “unmanageable” – your behavior may prove unreliable and could possibly lead to disappearing again without fucking warning.

That Shattering
This behavior is directly abusive, especially to people who are very empathetic. The leaving without a word being said is emotionally damaging similar to people dealing with death. The immediate absence with no resolution is selfish and cowardly and shows that you had no business being in a relationship in the first god damned place.

That Reasoning
Everyone deserves an explanation (excluding physical abuse obviously). When you agree to be in a relationship with someone you most definitely are responsible for your reasons to end (and ending) of said relationship. Just because the city is not your shade of red doesn’t mean you can wipe it all clean when you still have the paint brush in your hand. BOTH parties owe each other ONE direct chance to explain themselves.

That Going On
The other person has a fucking life. And they have no reason to spend weeks or months waiting to see “why you left”, or “why you fucked a co-worker”. People need the resolution to move on with things, and your ghosting can send them into an ‘infinite loop’ of trying to figure out and resolve what they did wrong. The sooner you tell them, the sooner the healing starts. Just because you DON’T HURT and moved on quickly doesn’t mean the other party is immune. They are entitled to that resolution, YOU OWE THEM THAT.

That Respect
If you can sit for weeks after ghosting a long-term relationship without any resolution then you obviously never respected the person long enough to even commit to them. This is abhorrent behavior when there are still inbound feelings. I can’t even describe the amount of damage this does. There is no guarantee in love ever, but as one side fails the other side falls. This lack of integrity reflects upon your character, and other people in future relationships will see that.

That It’s Fucking Over
You could just say that. It may sound harsh but I would rather of heard that 100% of time, every time. At least then you know. And although blunt hurts, blunt is definite. And sometimes you need to hear that. Put on your fucking adult pants and handle your shit. Life goes on, people get over shit. The fact that you remain to ‘be weak’ and trail it on into some fucking nightmare ‘go between’ is ridiculous. Own your actions so that you BOTH can move on.

And fuck shit. I hate this post. It’s one I’ve written and deleted twice. But I guess coming back to writing it again shows the validity in that I need to leave this here. This type of treatment just really vividly pisses me the fuck off.

 

A room keyed for everyone, but you.

Note 1176
I yelled through the glass until everything began to drive in slow motion. I have no idea how that story crept upon me, but it closed off every crevice that I attempted to retreat into. People change on a whim while outside forces chisel away with a constant showering of mental debris that ultimately becomes what you thought were stepping-stones in directions that might cling unto stronger merits. It adheres like wet sand, and weighs down the attempts to find any reason, any footnote that could foretell some point of direction that you were headed. You will never know that magnitude. It sews my insides into a thousand knots, each one a pulsing reminder of how it feels to be kept outside of a crowded room. A room keyed for everyone, but you.

And then it all comes spinning down, the awards will be handed out two-fold. For someone who really won’t survive half as long as you did. It will be hollow and transparent. The cardboard walls will dampen and be flung to and fro. It won’t matter, and it will draw all to gray. People will look for you in them, and they will feel lost. Then and only then, will the spiderwebbing synapses of thoughts play out and write the story that you would “want to believe” was going to happen. The one that had already happened, you were just too entangled into believing how you wished people wouldn’t see it for what it was, and only being succumbed to what was really streaming right in front of you. It was real. More tangible then you’ll ever feel. And it slips away just as easy.

It’s written above your head, only you can’t see it. It’s tattooed under your skin, only you can’t feel it. It makes the timbering of your heart rattle when you breathe, leaving you shaken, and tired, and empty. And you will allow it to drag you behind the curtain one more time, until it spins you disarrayed back through piles of your own curtailed decisions. Decisions that now become an undertow over and over, spray painted upon the very direction that you walk. And those new stones will shoulder you repeatedly until your bruises all begin to bleed.

It’s gutting. Like meaty ropes growing out of your sides. Stumbling, with feeble ankles rallying across the grain of the floor. It’s hoping that you find that hearth, in something – anything. It’s being lost, surrounded by arms and you being blind to the touch. I leave it, pulling at my head. I lay there letting the minutes bullet across my face. They stitch me to the floor as I talk the rain into just drowning me out. Drowning me out loudly so that I can crawl under the covering of sleep, again.

 

“You own everything that has happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should have behaved better.” -Anne Lamont

 

Finding air when the heart spins.

Note 1325
Be surprised at what kinds of things you can screenplay in your head. We are our own worst narrators.

Note 976
I left there thinking whole heartedly that I was strong as a bull, storming forward through timbers one hundred feet tall. It wasn’t until later when our minds began to subtitle the projections overhead that I began to realize the magnitude of the forseeable drowning. It was an insurmountable attack that left me staring aimlessly and defeated. I’d realized that my own stories became the deafening hum that kept me paralyzed.

“Certain events, which have actually happened, are horrible, but what is more horrible still is what hasn’t happened, what has never existed.” – Solaris, 1970

Panic // Going over to the enemy of our imagination.

enough_AFE

Sometimes I sit in my car in front of my apartment watching rain break across the glass. The sound is repairing. I may even get lost in it, where I wonder if people think I’m weird for not removing myself from the immediate. It’s a medication like mental floss. It helps me to un feel things that I’ve known, like removing bandages that have long adhered around bound thighs. If it takes me anywhere away from the backsliding, then I tend to lean into it more.

It’s such a dark writhing of backwards composure. It’s your brain in reverse, then forward, then reverse, then slow motion and subtitled – followed by a sinewy commentary to extrapolate any details you may have overlooked. Just to keep telling your insides that you are wrong again. It’s your own horror performance that you cannot shut off. It’s an art of self sabotage that will chip away at the very hope of you being able to reduce your guard to points where you can at least shield off the hailstorm of things replaying in your head. To find yourself grasping for an intermission, a breath, and a lightning bolt of connection that will undoubtedly sever that assembly line of garbage you are lined up to feed yourself in the moments ahead.

Just please undo, that which is done. Wipe those fingerprints away, and begin to peel it the fuck back. Bleach the stain that lingers behind the eyes that you see when you lay down for the fight at 3am. Rewrite the ending and sew underneath it a hand written note that screams “Don’t worry, I’m here – I’m not far…it’s ok”.

Repair, reprogram, rewrite. Find that better ending that you ultimately deserve, and hold on to it with everything you have. Panic, fear and anxiety – are all only temporary, and you are to drown them as furiously as you can.

 

“Gaff had been there, and let her live. Four years, he figured. He was wrong. Tyrell had told me Rachael was special. No termination date. I didn’t know how long we had together… Who does?”  –Deckard, Blade Runner 1982

Wires and wants.

puppet_on_a_string_by_tigerash-d5pb1sc

Pleasantly made it through the weekend with only a few minor uncomfortable encounters. Few days off the radar then pack up to do it again across east Texas. My favorite part, the feeling of not having to live in the monotonous gruel of the every day grime. I just have to push through the week, distract myself with the mundane, gather all the momentum I can and then launch myself as hard as possible through the glass story that is mine. It’s all I have, and it’s all I care to do. With going this far, at this time of life you had better not stop to look at anything, since anything can and will wire you down – if you let it.

Keep as far away as possible from the familiar, from the easy and from the redundancy of the daytime. The more comfortable you get, the more breakable you become.

 

Isn’t it strange, to create something that hates you? – Ava, Ex Machina

 

Sight to sore your eyes

AFE_SOLARIS_1972

Note 1134

A discomposure, even the definition seems surreal (panic n.- sudden uncontrollable anxiety, often causing wildly unthinking behavior). Like an iron band torqued around my chest. I can breathe enough, but also not enough – to know that something is going wrong. I hate it. I won’t sedate it, I just have to lock things down when it comes. Sometimes more than other times. It’s like having a heart all filled up and at the same time layered with holes that lets everything spill out onto the floor. The more I fill it on the upside, the more it drops out on the downside. Again and again..over and over.

Note 1137

Dark winding arms of anxiety, I’ll always see it that way. Bending, constricting, telling you things in your head that feel like staples and bone. Always trying to foreshadow to you that the worst is on its way, and the weighing of your breath is just too heavy. Being tied to poles with bending hangars, being able to stretch just enough. It’s the giving up, to giving into the backslide, like a backwards dance into the streams of anger’s roar. And sometimes you need that push, that feeling of drowning and you don’t have any more air. That you have to pull your self up to breathe. And for that one short moment, when you forget all the damage on the inside, you find yourself ultimately feeling again, and it’s quiet. And calm. Until you have to fight with it again – not really knowing every time, the next time that you will be able to hold on to anything.

Note 1140

I only know what I know. I always believed to be what I thought was a good person. I can only choose what feels right at the time. I miss a lot. I miss feelings a lot. I drown myself in destructive memories. I pick apart every fight, I pull my own strings, I push my own buttons that open the doors to anxious thoughts. I don’t even know how to unwind the coil anymore. It just gets closer and tighter. I can only be strong so long, until something breaks. I don’t like that rabbit hole. I just don’t get it and I’m so exhausted from the fight.

“…what nobody seems to understand is that love can only be one-sided, that no other love exists, that in any other form it is not love. If it involves less than total giving, it is not love. It is impotent; for the moment it is nothing.” – Andrei Tarkovsky