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She well knew that hormones were responsible for her mood since she was a fey twenty-something. It seemed to always coincide that after a mental blow down where she wanted to die like a shamed useless creature, blood would flow.
tomorrow, it would be a months' anniversary since he'd darkened her door and she'd said "you made it."
of course she had researched it all fervently - ready for her PHD in avoidant attachment, yet it all said the same thing "he's wired exactly the opposite of you - where you want connection and words - he wants silence, containment, space."
Does he always get what he wants?
Throughout their situationship that she never knew was a situationship until she knew - he always called the shots. She had of course hated that being the power-hungry downtrodden baby sister she was - but it had been the dinero to pay for his presence and she endured it.
as they say, until she didn't endure it.
She found it comically tragic poetic that she had been bleeding from the very orifice that had drawn him to her. It was like weeping. She was so tired. The cats had left her sleep after a fashion. A trend of letting the piebald one in and out at all hours of the morning.
It didn't matter.
She was just trying to endure it all.
Work would be happening soon, and she could get on that donkey.
Her fascination with him seemed to come like tides. Maybe it was the jalapeño tequila. Yesterday she had made margaritas with limeade and ordered Indian food - it was a snow day after all.... sort of.
How boring her writing becomes when it circles the same thing. But she would use the alternate form of boring - digging a deep deep hole into it all.
She had read that insight and understanding isn't going to cure her. She has to let herself feel and somatically seep out the lessons she had learned like an abused dog that keeps being terrified and shaking of the sight of a hammer.
She was almost tired of writing whatever, because it wasn't true. It was a deflection.
He had ghosted her so hard, and now her only hope was to let him fade into formlessness.
That, however, wasn't something she was going to do lightly. Instead, she texted him febrile musings, accusations, what have you.
Today, she had been hoping she might write something about the interesting social study that st.domingue/haiti was - anything to divert from the flow of blood into her misery of being scorned.
Something to live for - you'll one day hear about Haiti from her own fingers.
for now, she self-flagellated and bled and realized yet again that she was likely going to be rather alone.
(please god no)
whatever.
She had washed the dishes (yay!), taken some ibuprofen (who knows maybe that will stop some pain), and the Paris Review was going to be open for submissions on Feb 1st.
She'd be fucking ready.
It had to mean something - all this dirge - all her ridiculousness.
it simply had to....
and she was a crone alone.
it pissed her off gently that she was the only person in her entire family who was alone. Why couldn't she find a mate?
She had already had two husbands. And those stories were old now.
Her theory as to why she was an alone and bleeding crone was that she was just fucking nuts. She was a whack job who was better served to just be away from everyone and shut
the
fuck
up.
It was kind of hard to live that way she must admit.
And her father was the most fucking nuts person she'd ever met.
and he got action
constantly.
he preyed on the weak.
perhaps that was her problem.
ethics.
she had a lot of problems.
Talking to her fourth cousin last night, she wondered how she could ever be in the world again.
"fuck him. text the shit out of him. he's a fucking coward."
but weren't we all.
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