There is a tightness
Feel your feelings, don’t internalize them. Don’t intellectualize them.
I hate this advice.
If the call is coming from inside the house, then I need to know where. I don’t want to be out here like Drew Berrymore in Scream or something.
When I feel anxious, as I do now, I run through a list of possible things. Having it doesn’t do me much good. But it’s familiar. And familiar is nice.
My face has decided to riot against me. The right side of my face developed a small, lighter patch of skin that has only gone on to grow. I can’t afford a dermatologist right now, not with the silly loan I used to make sure I could use movers and pay my rent and deposit still gnawing away at my bank account. I don’t mind it, but I wonder if anyone else is staring at it. I’m wearing my pixie cut again, and while I love not having anything on my head when it’s hot as balls outside, I miss the coverage over that side of my face. I’m missing the implied femininity.
I know I’m attractive, but with my short hair, I feel like I have to try even harder. This is obviously some patriarchal bullshit, but who’s actually truly released themselves from the effects it has on one’s appearance? I’m hot as shit one day and slovenly the next.
I’m dogsitting for my partner for a few days. Her dog is adorable and sweet as pie. She’s still figuring out some walk manners, but for the most part, she just wants to snuggle and sniff around the small yard.
I miss this neighborhood: The familiarity, the coffee shops, the murals, all of it. But I feel so unsettled. I think it’s because I’m not in my own space, and that I have a responsibility. Although the dog is super low-key to take care of, and I can leave for hours at a time to go and do things or go about my day, I still feel this tightness. I didn’t realize how important my routine had become to me: waking up in my home and making coffee and smoking on my small porch. Reading and maybe heading out to thrift or bike or find a patio to get a beer.
I’m fine and will maybe skate at a park later with some friends, but why does a sense of responsibility put me on edge? I feel guilty about that, but that’s ok. I’m working on being kinder to myself.
I have a new therapist. She helped me with my breakup, and I have yet to tell her everything.
I want to build to it slowly so that I can figure out how to best take care of myself. I don’t get attacked in my dreams anymore and I’m more vocal in them.
I want to tell her I’m so angry, and that my anger is justified. That I want to scream and I want to fight anyone who gets near me sometimes. That my hyper-vigilance makes me want to spit venom. That I wish I could go the fuck home but to a new one I made up myself. That I feel like a bad/strange person to not have that family warmth to return to. And that I don’t know how to start building that. Maybe I’ll tell her when my heart doesn’t beat so fast. When the heaviness lifts enough for me to scoot out, scratched up and all.
I did tell her about the moon.
She asks me, “What’s she like?”, with a voice that sounded like she was actually excited, eager to hear about her. And that made me really happy.
“She’s everything. I never knew I could feel that much.”
She asks me what I want in the future, and I told her I’m not sure. That I’m anxious but happy. That there’s a tightness, but I remember that people you care about giving you a boundary is a caring act, that they are trying to find a way to live their life with you in it that best fits them.
“She sounds really special.”