I wish I could blame my lack of posting on writer’s block. It’s quite the opposite, I spend most of my sleepless nights gripping my pen and letting my soul bleed on the pages of my journal, as if it can cleanse my emotional palette . Callouses, a pained wrist, and sore fingers later, only the remnants of guilt seem to bore through in my moments of self-reflection.
No one wants to be around a manic person. No one wants to hear about all the cool, fake important shit you read in the New Yorker, the new song that sampled Prince melody, you love so much, or how aesthetically pleasing Ricki Hall is in a fine tailored suit.
I still need that reformation that I’m cool and my thoughts are appreciated. Days pass and I still miss my old thing.
I’m scared of who I am becoming. I’m nothing more than a stranger housing the body of a girl she used to know. A mess in and over herself at least that girl could control her emotional upheavals, who used creative outlets to mask all the voids in her life. Always emotionally overwhelmed, my breakup was the climatic apex for my downfall. Everything has become foreign and awkward. I finally reached a leveling plateau with learning to cope with the detachment from my former self. It peaked when I spoke to him for his birthday and our conversation flowed as organically as it would the Nile. I felt at home again, giggles over awkward details, intimate secrecies shared only between our synapses, reminders of why I fell in love and why he still holds permanent residence in my heart.
Later, crushed by the fact that once those messages end, our relationship is still over.
Being through all I’ve been through, letting myself love was hard enough but nothing like the construction of trying to convince myself to let it go.
So I need time to figure out who this new girl is. To find a new normal amongst the chaos of emotional instability. I want to do all the old things again sans wanting to share my benevolence with a former lover but 4 months later, I still haven’t gotten there yet. I shun my friends because I don’t want to be lectured. I write because it’s all I can will myself to do with all these bottled emotions.
All I want to do is scream and beat sense into my heart, like, “bitch, learn your lesson and move on”. Escape this emotional abyss. But I can’t because writing is all that seems to bring me peace these days, even if it means analyzing the one thing that got me here.
The words that pour out into my journal are things that I want to remain private because love has turned to shame. Memories thither through my cursive, I miss you’s linger for pages – none of which I can say.
Quite frankly, I’m a mess.
Currently there’s no greater truth than the words of F. Scott Fitzgerald, “all life is just a progression toward, and then a recession from, one phrase–“I love you.”
What’s the new normal for the girl who found her beginning and ending
in such a simple phrase?