We had sex. Yay!
I didn’t freak out. I enjoyed it. I didn’t ask him to degrade me. I didn’t need to imagine him raping me. I didn’t once close my eyes or tune out or start making out my grocery list. I was completely involved, present, and pleased. Just a week ago, I questioned my self-worth as a sexual being. Today, I was the one who made the first move. I wish I could say this was a sign of healing, but I’ve been at this long enough to know better. This is all part of the up I’m on since my breakthrough the other day. Soon, an event will transpire that will send me on a fast downward spiral toward an ocean of insanity. If I survive, I get to see another up. That’s the prize. I wonder if everyone lives this way. Or is it just bipolars and depressives, et al? It’s a dirty idea, but I hope it’s everyone that suffers this way. At least if that’s so, I’ll get to feel normal. It’s not very healing and healthy of me to think that, perhaps, but I have to be honest: I think a lot of unhealthy things. Perhaps you hadn’t noticed.
I’m fucked up. I’m a mess. I’m a failure. I’m a loser. I’m dirty. I’m disgusting. Sure, I have a killer body, but my jaw is too square and my glasses hide my eyes. I’m crazy. I’m an idiot. I’m a bitch. I don’t care about anyone but myself. I’m selfish. I’m incompetent. Everyone can see what an incapable fool I am. I’m forgetful. I’m clueless. I’m unaware of my surroundings. I’m clumsy, so clumsy. And I’m slow, too slow for this world. To make matters worse, I’m a lefty in a righty world. It’s in my genes. The very way I’m built, the way my chemicals interact, the thoughts those chemical reactions produce, all of that made me fucked up. And then came my family–an ignorant mother, an intellectual father, and my sisters, supreme deniers both. What I call “dealing,” they call “dwelling.” So in the dark, when you’re asleep, I’m thinking, “everyone must tire of my whining.” And nothing argues with me. Friends urge me to keep writing, so I keep going on, hoping dearly they’re not humoring a fragile, crazy girl. I hope desperately, too, that they’re not lying. I see it all very clearly: I can’t trust my own head.
The war with myself. It’s constantly waging. How am I not yet tired? I should be by now, and yet, I feel I’ve got a few more decades in me. I can’t give up. Losing is not an option.
Just. Keep. Breathing.
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