Saturday, January 10, 2015

Insert automatopia of your choice *here*

I am blogging on the toilet. If you read me often you probably won't care. If you've just stumbled in, this may be your last visit. Either way, I don't care. At least not today.

I have this thing. It's somewhat karmic. Most people call it January.

I spend it in chaos. I spend it figuring out that my idealism is not ideal. This is the month I most often live up to Ex No. Nightmare's diagnosis of Borderline. I am all the scrambled colors on the palette. I am trying to make sense of the shift of light. I am balancing on the fulcrum that hinges Atlas to the world, the point that holds up the first tortoise. I am the underbelly of so many gruesome things.

This is a lot of self pity, a lot of things fallen apart. This is the end of three of my marriages; the ones that have ended. This is the pit of abandonment. This is the flight mechanism. This is PTSD. This is angst. This is reinvention. The dustpan. The ashes at the bottom of the phoenix next 12,000 leagues beneath the surface of the heaviest ocean. There is no spark here. Just desperation.

This is the month my husband told me the spark is gone. I am still loved. But this is where the dopamine tappers off for him. And thus, for me. 

This feels like the end of the universe and yet, I think, this is how all the sad married couples live. This resigned stasis. 

This is who we never wanted to become. At least, that's what the dopamine said. 

Except, I find it difficult to find the drop-off. I can't delineate. Maybe this is where I'm still really ill because I don't like the prognosis at the end of adoration. How does one do this? 


I think, it might be because I have gained 15 lbs. It might be because I have shaved my head. (Welcome the Ugly Narcissist.) It might be because the Manic Pixie Dream Girl I am self-programmed to be gets boring, or at least not so fascinating as anything more than that constancy of impulse and bubbling engagement with the world. 

But I guess I'm the one who's distant tonight. And riding too many suitcases from too many years past to know how to effectively communicate how it feels to be the luggage weight on a baggage car to nowhere.

January.

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