I moved my things out of his apartment today. I tried last week, but all I did was cry and send weak texts and cry some more.
He had already redecorated me out of his life. Flowers and all.
The walls were no longer bare, his things on the shelves I’d insisted we put up, and no sign of my existence anywhere except for the black and white courtesy printout of the first ultrasound of Nugget. My name might’ve been in the corner, if you squinted.
Bless Dave for lifting the heavies and making me laugh. And smelling of whiskey.
It is a new feeling, feeling like discarded trash.
I don’t recommend the experience and I feel the karmatic guilt and pain of every break up where I have been on the trash tossing side. The painless upper hand, the view from the righteous road, and the blatant disregard for my wake are all catching up with me through this ultimate dumped process. There’s a lot to mourn. A lot.
I feel it and I see it.
I can’t seem to get ahead of this depression and I’m afraid it won’t be going anywhere until (hopefully) Nugget arrives (healthily). The anxiety is transforming... mutating every day I stay indoors, cancel plans, avoid texts, wake up at four am and go to bed at eight. I haven’t walked or yoga’d in a week and yet I’ve lost weight. I’ve had many people reach out... but if it’s not the hand of him.... I don’t know what to do. I’m fucking paralyzed with shame and embarrassment. The thought of leaving my house is mortifying and the offer of anyone to come over is equally burdensome. Even as I sit in my house, my mom’s house, hours on end... The knowledge and acceptance that there’s a kid coming out of all of this is slowly sinking in, but the sadness of it is sinking in with it.
Like a tint or tone or veil.
I’m trying to paint out of it. That’s what the articles say to do.
i have the attention span of a gnat and mostly I just sit at my paint perch and cry, flip over my phone, check it, cry, and flip it over again.
There are more tissue than canvas now. I even thought about collecting my tears in a jar to paint with... but even that’s too emo (and expensive and time consuming and efforted and driven) to come to fruition.
As a visual thinker...someone who paints pictures for everything in her head... this corner... or dead end or turning point in my life feels like the bleakest thing I’ve ever created. I feel undone by my own hand.
I have no idea what’s to come. I have very little control over it. My emotions run me and run me ragged. All the things I could stress about are turning into a heaping pile under the rug and pretty soon I’ll have to sweep it somewhere else cuz that’s where the crib goes.
where i'll post the in's, out's, tween's, and twixt's of my world of art mixed with pictures, links, opinions, and rants. (oh, and curse words. lots of curse words)