Here comes a confession: I’m not tidy. It’s funny, I know, but my subconscious works overtime to the extent that I actually can believe that I might be for moments at a time. But I’ve reached a point, now, where I finally cannot, not for even one single moment, really believe that I am all wrapped up tight in a neat little package. I know I’m probably the last to find this out, but I’ll be honest with me…I usually am the last to find things out.
I need a Xanax or I need sleep or I need both right now. Yesterday I slept away an entire drug induced day, which in reality, is probably not much different from many other days I’ve had spent awake. Things are starting to line up. Getting cleaned up, it’s tempting to say.
I’ve never been one for drugs. I’ve never been the dependent type. I’m the one who loves to take shit and turn it into something else, like I’m a human compost or something. Just give it to me, I’m totally unphased by shit and can turn it into something else. Art or a poem or something. Or a shapely body from all the metabolic processes it brings on within me. I can take on anything!
So here’s my next confession: I’m also a liar. I can’t deal with shit. I can’t take it on or process it. I bury it and it goes nowhere. It does nothing useful and I put on make-up, in various forms, to face the world. I’m shit-faced, I could maybe say. I’ve been living my life as an addict.
I’m addicted to the part of not being human, not feelings my feelings or knowing who I really am.
I might have even married my perfect counterpart.
Shit really started happening and I saw shit. And I said, “Oh shit!” And shit hit the fan.
Our household has a nicely splattered decor of shit all over in it now.
But that’s not the best of it.
The best of it is yet to be revealed.
I’m up to * here* in shit.
It’s not always necessarily a person’s exact fault when life has gone to shit. It can start at such an early age, the age before choices are really clearly made. It’s the age of instinct and survival. The age of not knowing any other way. Like the age when you shit in your pants and that’s just the way it goes.
Then all the sudden you get a knock on the door and holy shit you’re, like, going on 33 years old.
“Fuck, you mean the shit is still there?! ”
I’m sorry for the expletives. I’m blaming it on the drugs (that are helping me breathe) today, but it might be something else tomorrow. We will all cope in the best (and first) way we know how until there is another way, I suppose. So judge me if you must. I might not like it, but it probably won’t make that much of a difference if you do.
I have judged myself plenty enough, you can trust me on that one.
I’m behind on all of my ceramics assignments. And what do I say to that, “Shit!” Yes, it compounds. It grows. It does not go away.
So, I’m working on breathing through all this shit. There are not readily available lessons for this. I may be swimming in it, but the local “Y” does not seem to back the demand for this type of training.
I am off to the pool of coping which I am surfacing in.
Cope cope cope. Sometimes all that’s left is coping an hoping and keeping the faith that one day, whether subconsciously or not, things will be much better.