Hey Jude

April 14. 2022

I spent far too much time in tears in the last few months. And not nearly enough time smoking or ingesting cannabis. The Venus in Pisces transit kicked my sad sorry ass all through my hormones before showing any mercy. I haven’t been that low in many months. I wonder if part of it is to do with being back at El Atico. I just named it that now, I wonder if it will stick? Big parts of me are making strides forward, parts of me are still in denial and parts of me need a rage room, no a rage habitat, environment. Let me fuck alllll this shit up without consequence.

I have trouble adjusting to the return home. The parts of me that are moving forward are dating a wonderful guy. He and the dog are the core reasons I still walk the earth with any sense of…sense. I am remarkably lucky. I did not foresee anything of this sort happening, nor did I entertain the possibility, so to have what we have found truly has reshaped my vision of the future. Not that I see one in particular, or ever did. Not sure if that is a brain flaw or part of the neurodivergence. There is only now. And ever more so since losing the Philly. You know the future doesn’t actually exist, right? It’s just a concept of the construct of time. We only have now when we’re in it. And I’m grateful there are other human types that can manage thinking about what’s to come, but literally none of it is promised. Ask any widow.

It’s fine to prep and save and store and all that. But when the world blows up in your goddamn face, all there is is you and the now. You attempt survival in service of the unforeseen future, but it is even less a solid concept in the wake of sudden death and explosive loss. Eat now. Sleep now. Drink water now. Pack boxes of your life away to put into storage or move somewhere equally inaccessible now. Cry so hard you piss yourself now. Oh look a week has gone by, you’re such a champ. Let’s do it again, ad nauseam… 

Surviving does not equal bravery. There are large stretches of time where you do the bare minimum to keep existing. Usually because you’re under some delusion of not wanting to put someone else what you’ve just gone through. Pfffft. Or because you are a caretaker of another living being, human or canine, etc.

I will readily admit I have envied those who have lost, and then their bodies or minds gave up too, shortly thereafter. Even with some of the amazing growth & changes I’ve since weathered, the passive dream to cease existing doesn’t really go away. And not even really because I think I’d end up in reunion with him somewhere on another plane, but because I’m fucking tired and there’s no end in sight. Lost him, lost my home, lost most mental freedom. Living an abbreviated lifestyle as a consequence of not having planned for the future which offers the absolute minimum in comfort. Then COVID arrives. So all forward momentum is thwarted and exponentially higher amounts of anxiety, anguish, languish and don’t forget, stress. Ultra mega survival mode.

And now expectation to rebuild on a more externally acceptable timeline. Everything inside me rages against this. Is it because it’s not time yet? Do I have a choice?

Is it because I’d prefer to decide for my damn self? Don’t have that luxury when you are all but dependent on the kindness and generosity of others. 

I swear my ‘inactivity’ has nothing to do with being lazy versus being rendered inert by trauma and lack of meds. Seeking the ADHD diagnosis to get meds after a lifetime of fighting my own brain. Grief and trauma has exacerbated all things problematic. Something’s got to give.