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It happened

On Tuesday, November 8th, Donald Trump won the election to become President of the United States. I'm devastated. I'm numb. I can't create. I can't feel. I'm disappointed, somewhat disgusted, and saddened by the state of things in this nation. I haven't been able to cry. I feel since Michael I've shed all of the tears I can. I can't believe our nation would elect someone who is a sexual predator, racist, bigot, supported by the KKK, and doesn't believe in climate change. This person who is a celebrity, who has no government experience. This person with a Vice President who is extremely homophobic, a group who would like to reverse Dodd-Frank and Roe v. Wade. Someone who may have the chance to appoint 3 Supreme Court Justices. I'm scared of what will happen to the country in the next four years. I'm afraid for my LGBT friends. For Somalis, for Muslims, Latinos, Mexicans, anyone who is a minority. I'm afraid in my own community. I live in a small town in Iowa. I know there are other Hilary supporters here, but there are a lot of Trump supporters, too. I'm afraid to wear my Nasty Woman t-shirt in public. The people here are nice, and kind, but I don't know how far that extends. I've never felt this way before. I've never felt like a minority. Now I know what it means to be afraid. And that breaks my heart.

one

There are too many stars and not enough sky.

I feel like crawling in the hole again and closing the lid. I'm so sad and angry and I know that it will pass eventually but I just feel like breaking stuff. Death is a part of life. I know that, it shouldn't come as a shock to me, but it always does. And one death triggers the others in my life. It turns into a spiral and I can taste it on my tongue like a sour cherry sucker.

I talked to The Wolf today and I feel mixed up inside. I like him, it feels as if I've known him forever and I have to remind myself it has only been a month. I like him and I'm angry at myself for liking him at the same time. Am I ready for this? Emotions say perhaps I'm not. I look past my previous writings and see how many times I've dived in only to be hurt (but sometimes not). Maybe it was just that one time that turned out so badly that it has spooked me for others. But I want to know this person. He has things in common with me like art, creativity, and photography. We have an understanding of one another. But I can tell this will most likely be a volatile relationship. With his moods and my moods playing off one another. I'm not saying we will fight, but we will go to dark places, places I haven't been in a long time. Places I visit, where I create destructive beauty. I feel like going off my meds but I can't. I have obligations now where what I do to myself matters. And it is good that I recognize that because a few years ago I didn't and it put me in a bad place.

I'm looking forward to Friday and what does it say about me that I enjoy pain? That I'm a masochist for one thing. I need it and sometimes that fact annoys me. But at the same time I'm looking forward to it. The pleasure that comes from it and can come from no where else. It is electric and makes me feel alive.

At least the drinking is slowing down.

Driving down

He would tell me to write.

After this nothing will come for months at a time. It will be pills and sleep and not much else. I’ll want to write but the words won’t come, the spark will be missing and I won’t be able to find it again without some sort of catalyst. Some sort of break that will let loose the ideas again. I want to put my head down on the desk and cry the sobs of someone who is heart broken because I am. I don’t know how to get through this, if I want to get through this, if I’m meant to. It would all be so much easier to drift away. Fall into that pool of ooze and tar and sink to the bottom while the sticky liquid fills my lungs. And maybe that is too easy, rather than facing the disappointment I have in myself. I don't understand why people think I'm great and special and I don't know why they do things for me when I don't ask them to. A heart is a heavy burden and all that.

And my heart aches. It aches for him, for his hands, for his voice, for him calling my name. He never called my name during sex and I know it is probably because he was worried he'd say the wrong name because who knows who else he was sleeping or talking with, but still I didn't care. I know he loved me but he couldn't let me go before he met someone else because he was afraid of being alone. I know that now. He did so much for me and did I ever do that much for him? Was I ever anything other than a brat and I think of all the times I made him hurt and I regret even though at the time it was what I needed and he knew it. It's why he was always there with his patience and his calm and his constant love. Like I ever deserved it. Any of it. And for as much as he understood me he didn't understand me, not at the right level. Sure, he knew my moods, how to get me out of them, how to get me to cry and face things better left unsaid but he would never understand my words. The depth of them. He read my writing and he liked it but I was always writing for him, never for myself because I thought myself would scare him and it probably would. But he is gone now and there is nothing left of him but my memories and some photographs that I can't look at without crying. I can hear his voice in my head, telling me it's alright to feel.

Now my eyes are all swollen from crying again. Every time I cry I think it will be the last time I cry for him but it never is. It is always waiting there, around the corner every time I take a turn in this maze that is emotion and I wish sometimes I didn't feel at all rather than feeling this raw pain like an open wound, like flesh that has been cut off but you can still feel that phantom limb and it still aches when it rains.

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178

I miss him. I miss how his arms encircled me with a big embrace after I hadn't seen him in a while. I miss how his lips felt on me, like he was thirsty and my kiss was the only thing that would keep him from dying. I miss his hands on my skin, squeezing and remembering every inch of me.

I miss his voice, telling me he loved me. That he would always love me. That I was his. I have his voice on a voicemail that I can't listen to. It hurts too much.

When I need him the most. At my most vulnerable. He isn't here. God I miss him so much. I didn't know you could miss anyone this much.

I miss you.
I miss your touch.
Your kiss.
Your breath.
Your laugh.

I know I will always miss you. And there will be times when I cry into my pillow, years from now, about how I still miss you.

The dark pool

I'm still getting used to the knowledge that I'm bi-polar. I can see the warning signs for mania, and am able to call for help, luckily, in time. Having a mental health disorder isn't dealing with one condition.

I'll be fine for a while. Skating along ice like glass doing some circles. And then stress starts to build. A little at first, making cracks in the ice but I can skate around them. Then the cracks get larger and more difficult to dodge. I keep skating because this is life, this is the kind of stuff that happens and I'm a person damn it, I can handle it. I'm an adult. While I'm busy concentrating on acting normal the cracks get bigger until suddenly there is a hole and I fall through. I try to get out and most of the time I crawl part-way. There are the other times though, when I can't get out. And no one is noticing. I'm getting colder and colder in the water but help isn't coming and the water is starting to make me feel numb. I'm watching myself behave in a manner unlike myself and I can't stop it. I'm getting worse. Still no one notices, they just think I'm drunk or acting really happy. This is when I need the help most, because I am on the verge of doing something dangerous like sex with a stranger (which I haven't done), hurting myself, or spending money like water.

I had a break the other night. I was out of control, but getting used to the warning signs enables me to finally call out for help. I needed help, I called, and I got it. Thank you. I need to dry out my skates before I can put them back on, but I'll be back on the ice soon.

No more love

No more love. No more light. I feel like these things have been taken away from me. I had a friend. A good one. We'd been through death and life together, gone on many adventures and now suddenly that friend is gone. No reason has been given, just that I'm no longer welcome as a friend and I am devastated. I can no longer go to some of my favorite places or see things because of this and no one will tell me anything of the why. I'm just left to wonder if I'm a terrible person, if I've changed, or what I did wrong to push this person away from me. To say it hurts is an understatement. I've been hurting for three days and can't seem to push through it. I'll just have to keep trying and relying on the friends that I do have. I know that one friend would be afraid of this persons behavior. I wish he was here to do something about it. But he isn't so I'll move on, I hope. To new and better things. I'll try to keep past memories happy.

Cocoon

I wish I could zip myself into a cocoon and break free in a few years. A new person who knew what the hell she was doing with her life. Who didn't break things. A woman who dressed properly, didn't wear t-shirts.

The smoke rises from the stacks of the old soy bean factory. It smells of water vapor and socks. At least it doesn't rain down small flakes of ash like a coal plant from a hundred years ago. These buildings, hollowed out carcasses of a city, like Chernobyl but no one lives here. It is devoid of human population. Why would anyone come here except to die. To drown themselves in the oilslick water. The puddles that are deeper than they appear. You could so easily just fall in, face first, breath in the oil, let it fill your lungs, your senses overtaken by the smell. Light a match. Like Bukowski, you can drown in fire. The burnt hair smell moving across the air, melding with water vapor.

You could lay in a bath that is nearly boiling hot. Slowly getting used to the water, taking your pills so you can't feel anything anymore. What if you have no fears to face? What if you aren't afraid of dying? You think about the people that you would no longer hurt. People who may be better without your meddling. Of course there are people who will miss you and who will be hurt by your abscence. And that is the reason you stay. You put the pills away, stand, dry yourself off and begin again. Tears my roll off your cheeks, tears of frustration, of cowardace. Tears of needing to go on though you don't want to.

People want to be saved. But what is it that they want to be saved from? Why do they need some existential being to clean up their problems? Is this the Protestant Work Ethic kicking in? We can only save ourselves. What is it that most people fear. Is it death? Homelessness? I fear failure. Isn't suicide failure? The final admitance of it? Is that facing your fear?

In which I break stuff