circuit crash

It is a lot harder than I thought. I mask everything with a sense of humour that comes really easy for me now. It’s become second-nature that I don’t even have to think about it, really, my natural reflex is to find the quickest way to make light of a situation. Even if it’s corny. It’s a defence mechanism of the cruellest kind.

It’s cruel because it keeps people at a comfortable distance and I probably need the exact opposite. But levity indicates that I’m fine. Seeing other people smile and laugh makes me think everything is going to be fine. I want everything to be back to normal. I want everything to be okay again. I want to be useful again and I’m not.

I’m not. I’m not fine.


Photo by Cecile Golez

I’m uncomfortable. All the time. This catheter, it’s not easy. It gets itchy. Maintaining it is a constant chore, the micropore that keeps the bandages on it traps heat and it’s been getting hot as summer is proving to be extra hellish this year. My lips are drying up faster than normal. After dinner, the time I’m usually most awake and alert and at my most creative is now the time when I’m actually sleepy. I’m drowsy and I can’t concentrate. I end up doing nothing and I try to sleep, I don’t.

Showering is a big production number and while this fucking catheter is on me, I can’t go swimming.

When I get this way, I just have to throw myself in a pool and I’m usually okay.

I don’t know this place and I don’t have any real friends here. I’m not in frequency to this place. This house, my parent’s house, is my home. Everything outside it is not. I don’t feel in synch. I always feel like an outsider. I’m not used to it. I don’t like it. I always adapted so well to my surroundings and my circumstances but this fucking catheter makes me feel weak, fragile, broken.

I feel broken and like the circuitry inside me is off-kilter.

I’ve taken responsibilities, some projects, that I thought would help fix me. I thought that if I was useful — working — that it would make me feel better but not being able to write anything but my own personal shit is making things feel worse. I’m disappointing people again.

And I didn’t say a word and now I’m way behind my deadlines because I can’t get my shit together and that’s just a fucking cyclical shit storm of guilt.

But I’m just going to man up and do my thing and get this done and then I’m done. I’m not in the right headspace for this. My spirit is broken. I can feel it. I know it.

And I can hide it. I’m good at hiding it. I’ve been hiding it all my life. At the end of it all, all my disappointments and frustrations and anger finally is catching up to me and I am directing it at myself because I’m good at that too.

And I won’t heal if I keep putting myself in situations where people need me to perform when I’m out of any will. Because, really, what’s the point?

This is going to make a hell of a book when I finally stop feeling sorry for myself and I need to get it out.

But I don’t know when that’s going to be. I’m still too busy being uncomfortable and not sleeping well, and not being able to write, and not caring about anything else except going back to my old life, which is not there anymore.

The world has kept turning and I’m still stuck there; five months ago before I died when everything was making sense except my body. Now, my body is making sense but everything else I’ve lost.

Round and round it goes. Where does it stop? Nobody fucking knows.

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