The inevitable

Crashing, packing, flailing.

My plans to be “out there” are biting me on the ass like I knew they would. I know my limits for socializing, but this week I’ve been ignoring them.

I downloaded Bumble BFF to try to gain some ground on this. But the sheer amount of responses made me feel frozen. Granted, I did swipe on too many people. And now I don’t even want to open the app.

What does seem to be working is starting with the people I already know. And being around them tomorrow will be reenergizing. I’m just so excited to do something low key with other queers, and feel artsy and inspired. This open mic has been such a good thing in my life.

It’s really special.

I’m so tired. I know I’m burned out, but I dread feeling that same wave of loneliness again. I’ll just set timers like I do with cleaning to respond to people. It feels less difficult that way.

I’m looking forward to what sounds like a relaxing vacation, although part of me wishes it wasn’t so long. I want to do the workout classes and yoga and start drinking at noon every day I’m there.

Sometimes, I just miss her a lot. The feelings of wanting to be back together and accepting our current state exist at the same time. It’s always little things, these little reminders that I lived.

I think this has been one of the few breakups I’ve been through where I felt both comfortable enough to actively pursue and want a friendship after, and humble enough to hold space for hard days too. It just feels human and good.

I want to throw everything in my apartment away. And I plan to. I don’t want my studio apt stuffed with shit, and less stuff means less cleaning. I talked myself out is so many things at the thrift store today. I was ruthless with putting things back. My tendency to hold on to things I’ve bought but no longer have use for is annoying. But Like other hard things, I can do this.

My mother asked me to send her a book. I don’t know how ready I am to write about it just yet. I know I’ll include a note so there’s no suprises. But how do I say,

Hey mom. Love you. I’m (gay)queer. I always have been. I don’t think that’s a bad thing. There are poems in here about that, and about you. Some of them may be hard to read, and some might make you laugh. Take your time with it.

Maybe something like that. My fun pill, which I cut into quarters because I’m a child, is finally kicking in and my bed and this new book are calling my name.

Here’s to rest in whatever way I can get it.

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