I think about getting rid of things as I move. I try on things. I don't see the point in putting things in my my closet or bringing things over that I won't ever use. It is redundant to just move it in if I will never use it or if I don't even want to look at it. Because I want everything to be fresh. I don't want reminders from anything past.
Everything from last summer is too big on me now. This astounds me. Because I don't remember losing weight. I never noticed. But that seems insane, how could I not have noticed this? And I know that it is taking forever to move in.... last night the furniture. It was such an emotional night. I feel exhausted. I want to curl into a ball and be a snail. I don't want to go anywhere.
I'm not confused. Maybe over-wrought. I don't know. Sometimes my mercurial moods irritate even me. I don't know why I am like this. There is one part of me that is over-sensitive. There is another part of me that decides to shut it all off and be neutral. And I know that the latter is just a defense. But I have no control over this when it takes over. It is my protective shell. I am submissive to this safety mechanism that has been my survival.
It was so awful last night. Packing the books. Shuttling up the stairs. The denouement of my relationship with Dean. You see, he offered to help me move. And the maintenance man from the old apartment. Hank, remember? Oh shit. What a mess. How do I bring this shit on? I don't think I do. I really don't. I don't seek this. And it isn't that I'm fucking drop dead beautiful. I'd never be that egotistical to think so. Vera said that it is my unconscious damsel in distress energy that I exude. I don't even know what she is talking about. How do I exude this? Fuck. Let me turn this off. I am so not conscious that I do this. I mean, I like to be alone. I love this day alone. I have seen no one all day. I don't even want to go out. I want to hibernate from the fucking world. I am using too much profanity. I must be angry about something. What is it?
So my therapist says that it's bad to repress things. I must be repressing anger. I don't like anger. It scares me. Maybe I thought, long ago, that I could just snuff it out. Because, you see, it was my mother who taught me to repress. She told me that if you make yourself believe something, you can make it true. I know now that she was seriously demented. So I was trained in emotions by a demented person. So no wonder I am fucked up. But no, I am not. My therapist tells me that I am actually normal! Normal? This is crazy. Crazy!
I really don't want to go out today. It's after four PM. I decided that since it was a holiday (Martin Luther King day) that toasting a glass of red wine was not only healthy (because it's red and good for the heart) but also appropriate. If I wanted to be honest with myself than I would say that I am being passive-aggressive with myself by making myself too tipsy to drive. Avoid going back to the apartment to get the rest of my shit. Avoid the hornet's nest of the maintenance guy and Dean. I mean, I explained it all to Dean. Explained because I need to be clear here over why I find the means to help me rely, often, on.... whatever may be available to me. But I would never compromise my ideas of truth. As in Truth. And I really fucking do intend to pay Hank for his help in moving my furniture. I'm just broke now and my car is falling apart. And what was it that got me out of my ticket with the policeman? Almost crying about being broke because the break lights are out and my exhaust is dragging on the ground and I just moved and I have to pick up my daughter.... I don't know, it is the truth, only. I'm not calculating the facts over what really is. This is just how the fuck it is. And this anger is only because I never wanted it to be this way. I never wanted to be an idiot who is trapped in an intellectual mind. Stupid and genius at the same time. Like why I get lost going in a straight line (am I now quoting Sting? Time for more wine....), distracted by the sights. And senses. In love with stimulus.
So I want to put up the barricades. I get a fucking message from Hank saying, “we need to talk” after last night with Dean ready to kill Hank because he is sure that Hank wants to get into my pants. Which I don't dispute. In fact, it troubles me and makes me nervous. I don't want complications. All I want is peace. So isn't it better if I hide? Barricade the door and let my phone battery die on purpose. I want to be alone. I don't want to come out. And this isn't cowardly, I think it is very tactical. I shouldn't go out. All history, all evidence shows that interaction is trouble.
So I won't. I tried on clothes and realized that everything I own is too big for me now. Even the bathing suit my daughter gave me that, with some adjusting, looks pretty good. Freaking over having to talk to the maintenance guy who resents that I text him instead of calling him back. Bullshit. But he says it's about a hope chest he wants to give me. He is giving me some furniture. But it's nice. It goes with my other stuff. And Tim is giving me a table and a chair.
Today is John's birthday too. So maybe I'm also toasting John. And sometimes I think that maybe I really do understand the meaning of it all. Why they never leave me. And the purpose of love. Because I have loved them all. All my exes. And I don't believe in bitterness. Once I love anyone I love them forever.
But I have only ever been in love once.