Sometimes the phone rings, and I’m like YAY SOMEONE LIKES ME. But sometimes the phone rings, and my mom’s name pops up on the caller ID and I’m like OH SHIT WHAT HAPPENED OH GOD NOTHING IS SAFE WHAT’S GOING ON and I can barely answer because of the panic.
Today she called to say hi and ask me if I was safe. I almost died of a heart attack receiving that call.
That’s what losing someone does. You will never feel safe again. Trust me. You will think that every time your phone rings, something has happened to someone you love. I don’t keep the ringer on my phone because of this. I have like PTSD or something from phone calls. If my phone rings and either one of my parents’ names pops up, I consider throwing my phone in a lake. Every single time.
I wish I lived by a lake. I’m not kidding. I’d lake that phone so fast, I really would. I’d probably have gone through 50-100 phones by now.
Day 128 – Don’t call me, I’ll call you
Avoid, avoid, avoid.
Still haven’t made my deadline. Of course. Still haven’t written a word. Of course. Still haven’t faced any of my feelings. Of course. Is it obvious that I hate myself? Is it spilling off this page? If I could punish myself with words, I would. If I could punch myself into feeling better, I would.
There’s no way, it seems, to erase the pain. The well is deep. The feelings in there are fucking awful.
In the words of The Grinch, “I loathe myself.”
Day 116 – Dark Day.
It happened. Half his stuff. In the house. The move-in was actually pretty seamless. But then we got in a fight about… something. I can’t really remember. It seemed important.
He didn’t want me to put dishes away. I wanted to put dishes away. That was the fight.
For the record, I put the dishes away.
Day 112 – First day fight
I was trying to walk into my boss’s office, but instead I got my foot caught in the strap of my backpack and I tripped trying to get out of it and FELL into her office. She hasn’t stopped laughing. It was amazing. What an entrance.
That moment alone reminded me of how much I love comedy. I just want to make people laugh, you guys. I don’t want to talk about murder all day. I like murder (when it’s not me or anyone I know or love or care about or have ever met…let’s not murder people). But I don’t want to talk about it all day. I want to make jokes and fall over and write comedy.
How did I get so far from my goal?
Well, reality. Bills and such. Expectations from my family. But really – I am to blame. It was me. I didn’t react well to the grief. I still haven’t recovered. So here we are. Killings instead of killing at stand-up.
I got sad. I got angry. I curled up in a ball. I crawled inside myself and never came out. Every time I think about making people laugh, I also think about how sad I am.
Can I even do it anymore?
Day 110 – I miss laughing.
We talked it out. Maybe I need to calm myself, but I don’t know how. Other people must be really good at life, because they seem to be succeeded and, even, flourishing.
I don’t get it. I just cycle through panic attacks and in between (and during them), eat a ton of food. So it goes like this: wake up, moan about being awake, start to panic (heart beating fast) so I check my phone to make sure no one has tried to get ahold of me, pee, eat, panic again about the time it took me to pee and eat because I have to get to work, start driving aka constantly panicking (heart beating fast, stomach roiling, sweaty palms, racing thoughts about how everyone is a terrible driver), get to work, panic about everything from parking to the parking attendant to getting inside to sitting down without my stomach popping over my pants to whether or not the coffee creamer I like will still be there, eat second breakfast, panic about work and whether or not I can do it and how much I want to run out the door and get on a plane and fly far away, then snack. It’s now 10 am. This will continue until I attempt to fall asleep.
Day 105 – Anxiety and Coffee
Spoke too soon. I didn’t even give him one day before expecting him to move on. Grief doesn’t work like that. I SHOULD KNOW!!!
I always think I’m so self-aware, too…
I can’t tell what makes sense anymore. Sadness has warped my sense of what “should” be and what reality dictates. I can’t expect kindness and understanding and sympathy when I refuse to give it out. But I can’t figure it out. I have no idea if what I’m saying makes sense or if I’m being cold and heartless.
Cold and heartless this time, I think.
Day 103 – I should know…
I wish I could be one of those people who had sweets in their house and…not eat them. I thought I could convince myself to do that, but then I ate everything with sugar in it that I could find. And licked the wrappers. I’m fine. It’s fine.
In this never-gonna-happen scenario, dessert lasts longer than one night. Like, I make cookies and eat one tonight and maybe one tomorrow and then freeze the rest and eat some a month from now. But, like, are those people even real? I can’t do it. I’m not one of those people. I’m not. I have to eat all the cookies. Right away.
Sometimes I think – genuinely think – that people who “just aren’t into sweets” cannot be my friend. “I’m more of a salty person.” WHAT DOES THAT MEAN? DO YOU HATE YOURSELF? I love potato chips, but I will not choose them over cake. And neither should you. Unless you’re a monster.
You’re a monster, aren’t you? Well, I’ve figured out how to distinguish the sociopaths from the rest of us. Try to let them eat cake.
Day 96 – Cookie Monster