I’ve been working on the next chapter of my How Boys Contributed to the Demise of My Sanity series…it sucks. Like painful kind of suck. Like, sucks the marrow from my fragile, rebuilt exoskeleton. I want to ditch the whole project. I don’t want to think about it. How I fucked up. How that man I thought loved me fucked up. How damaged I am. Relationships are so malleable, permeable. You soak up the other person; become their hopes, dreams, accomplishments, heartaches, fights, disappointments. You internalize and angst. You analyze. You break free.
You gasp at all of the broken promises.
Why dredge up hurtful memories?
Fear I’ll devolve. Fear I’ll lose everything I’ve worked for this past year. Fear my accomplishments will be lost under the mindless rubble of daily life. Fear I’ll go back into survival mode and my only accountability will be if I showed up for work or not.
Fear I’ll lose this man I love. Fear he’ll find out the worst in me is something he cannot deal with and the dark will swallow him up. No matter how much he thinks he loves me his self-preservation instincts will kick in. He’ll opt to save himself.
My fragilely rebuilt titanium exoskeleton is duplicitous, it can’t protect me from my own dark thoughts that reside deep within; damn thing keeps the thoughts caged.
I can’t let my past hinder my ability to grow. My writing is a lotus. The keyboard and pen is my lifeline as I write my way through the mucky debris of depression.
Digging through the catacombs of my memory has wrenched out the knowledge that I have the capacity to love fiercely. That love can be denied.
Must keep delving. No matter how much it sucks.
Back to the memory board.