There is something in my heart that feels a bit disheveled. I haven’t given a resolution enough thought or time. I’m owning this loneliness until I know the cause.
My uterus is shedding (you’re welcome gentlemen) so I’m sure that has a lot to do with it. Who the fuck cries while watching American Idol? If the first sentence in this paragraph threw you off, I’m not sorry. You should know that nothing is off-limits here. And, to be honest, if that makes you squirm I can’t concern myself with your immaturity. Women bleed. That’s how you were fucking born. Deal with it.
With a million people surrounding me I still feel alone. It’s exactly like those scenes in movies where a character remains static and the rest of the scene speeds around them in fast forward. An over-crowded city bustles and the sun sets, all the while that character is flat and motionless. That’s me today. I’m flat.
I attended a party this weekend. A lot of people asked me to talk about my blog and, while I’m so thankful there is an audience, a discomfort set in quickly. Writing about myself once a week is far different from spending three hours a night talking about myself. I started getting uncomfortable after the second or third conversation. What conceited prick talks about themselves all night?
There is a sentence that keeps playing on a loop in my head: I’m in love with a man who could give me everything I want but chooses not to. It stings tonight. No matter how far I’ve come or how okay I am with the fact that I have to move away from him, sometimes love’s unrelenting hand grabs me at the chest and sends shock waves through my system, reminding me that my journey isn’t over.
I haven’t allowed anyone new to touch me since Ike. Did you realize that? Everyone that I’ve been with since Ike has been from my past. If a friend tries to touch my shoulder I feel like I’m going to lose it. Seriously. I hate the thought of someone touching me. Earlier in the week I admitted this to a friend who emphatically exclaimed that I need to see a trauma psychologist. Maybe that’s accurate. This shit doesn’t figure itself out, does it?
I know this is a darker post. I get it. I’m not sorry. I need to release it.
As a matter of fact, I’m debating starting another blog…it’ll be themed…and angry. Really, really angry. I’m sure people who like this one will hate that one. I don’t think it will be for you anyway. It’ll be for women like me. That have had their heads slammed into concrete walls and lived through it. They have night terrors too. They haven’t allowed a man’s breath on their collarbone either. Those ladies and I have a lot to discuss.
Listen to this song. Read the lyrics. It’s me in song form. Really.