Inondation

I feel like I am falling apart. My seams so poorly done, that they slip and slide through the wide holes caused by constant restitching.

Is it because I haven’t been writing? Is it because my car, at present, which is literally falling apart, seems like a horrible allusion to myself? Or because I am letting so many things bother me that shouldn’t? So often I wonder, “Why do I give a damn? Why is it important? Why say or do anything at all?”

Perhaps it is because now, almost more than ever, I am afraid to talk to even my closest friends about what is going on. Is it because I can’t put the true issue into words? Because there is no true issue? Because their answers are not my answers, what I want to hear? All I hear in my mind are the same rationalisations for my unhappiness. They circle around and around in the drain, but never flow away. The sink is clogged. I can’t clear it.

I have not had a truly good day in a very long time. I’m not totally sure when that day was.

For someone who has as many “Tiffanies” as I do,  you would think I would have a handle on this. But I lost the reins somewhere. The horse gallops and trips–casting me off.

Maybe it’s the hormones playing with my emotions, my memories, my dreams. I have had some odd ones of late, but last night woke me in a panic. The world was ending, and my family committed suicide together. Without me. Leaving me alone in a deteriorating world, with just a letter promising to meet me on the other side. This is by far, the worst dream I have ever had to date.

It’s safe to say that I am at an all time low, and there is no immediate reprieve.

I know I have edited myself, and this blog. And this isn’t a cry for help; fuck, I’ll live, but right now I’m going to be very unhappy about it. What I need to do though, is be true to myself and my feelings, at least here, if not anywhere else.

After all, as many people have let me down, I have let myself down the most. No one seems to understand that, or realise that. And I forgive myself some of the transgressions, but in the end, I have limited myself in so many ways, I fear there is no reparation.

So how do I fix this? Without returning to the angsty 14 year old who blamed anything and everything on her mother. I definitely want to blame a lot on circumstance. That’s unavoidable. I am constantly limited by things society finds important. I feel so confined in it. I am a rabbit caught between a hawk and a fox. My heart beating so fast that I will soon expire, unless I dart, dart away, until I am far from danger.

But then again, hawks can fly, and foxes are faster.

Je me sens complètement seule. Absolument seule.

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