Still hamster wheel spinning

Same story, same story, same story.

Not sure what steps to take to go about getting what I want, in both life and relationships.

I say "I hate you" to people a lot, when what is closer to true is, "I feel hatred towards you at this moment."

If I'm angry because I'm in a stressful situation and there is just too much LIGHT and NOISE and SENSORY junk to process, and someone, say Garret, does something completely innocuous, I might say, "I hate you." What I actually mean is a big long list of things, like that I'm angry I can't think and jealous that he can and I hate that. And I hate that he doesn't understand what it's like to be in my head and I hate that I don't understand what it's like to be in his. And a whole lot of other things, too hard to sum up in the moment, so it's easiest to just express all of it with- I hate you.

Or if I want attention, and I'm not getting it, I might say "I hate you" when what I really mean is a combination of things like- I hate that you are neglecting me right now, and I hate that I'm so needy, and I hate asking you for what I need and feeling rejected, and I hate feeling like I'm not allowed to ask for what I need because you need to sleep or work or do other things, and I hate that there is distance between us, and I hate that you have the power to affect how I feel, and I hate that this moment is so hard and I don't know how to make it easier between us, and I hate feeling lonely, and so on and etc.

So I feel like I want something new and different, or I feel like I want something old, like Mike. But, I don't really want the whole and complete reality of those choices, just parts. I wouldn't want actual Mike because I need someone I can be completely comfortable with and who accepts me for who I am, and  lots of other reasons like that. The "unknown future guy" is undesirable for the same reason, I don't want to give up my current reality of being safe and accepted and loved no matter what I do.

The "I love" or "I want" this or that is like my "I hate" that.

It's not always that I love/want the actual thing.

But my "I don't want Garret" feeling is a jumble of things like- I want to be challenged, and I want someone who can make me laugh, and I want to be pushed to think about things, and I want someone to disagree with me sometimes because that process helps me clarify my own thoughts, and I want someone who is driven and constantly setting goals, and I want a partner who I can envision doing MORE in life with, and a bunch of other stuff like that.

So. I'd like to figure out how to eat that cake too. While still having the cake I have.

Apparently, you cannot have your cake and eat it too, but I remain unconvinced...

I WANT CAKE!


Oh, and I wrote some emo poems about how I feel. "Pull" is about feeling drawn to something you want and "Jackdaws" is about all the clattering inner voices that hold me back from what I think I want.

So here are those two:

Pull

want

desire

that mad rush of lust

slushing my brain up silly

everything gone slurry and breathless,

like lungs being knocked empty from being slammed up against a wall...

that perfect crushing craving

as his mouth and my mouth-

mush,

smush,

clash...

a tangled fight...

i submit.

wholly consumed by the force of this gravity,

nothing in the world but this moment,

this kiss,

and then perhaps not even that-

as the power of these 10,000 black holes suck us down and flat and inside out...

reality melting away into insignificant details

there is nothing, i am nothing...

only fragments-

tongue and teeth and all the muscles in my body relaxing into this languid, wanton cat...

boneless- even as the electric tension mocks the contrast,

the pleasing tease of that irony,

the stretch of my neck as i arch into a laugh,

the slow slide down as he drinks in every inch of my throat,

all circuits short skirted, completely fried-

leaving me purring, speechless

curled up and warm

passive

willing

happy to be pulled along by the current

Jackdaws

always standing on ledges

new cliffs, old cliffs, the same old fears the same old song

never brave enough to make a dive,

it's always a fall...

fighting myself the whole way down

trying to jump and not jump at the same time..

(like harry potter, ending up looking dazed and stupid on the floor...)

what's at the core?

what's at the core?

the voices, the claws, the tide, the jackdaws...

tearing you down, pulling you back

shrieking and screeching and mocking they laugh

stuck in the past...

stupid and cowardly, and stuck in the past.

so many things require balls...

afraid to seek victory

not wanting to play the game

wanting to somehow outsmart the game

wanting the thrill of the win

without the pain of a loss

undefeated...

(but silly girl, there's always a cost.)

so much risk

the fear of so much to gain

being frightened to feel

because happiness is it's own kind of pain

seems like a bad gamble when looked at that way

why even play?

why even play?

well then.

better step back from that ledge then, girlie.

stay where it's nice and cool and dark

away from sunshine and sunburn

just toss a ball around in the garden

at people sitting in wheelchairs

staring at you, smiling and armless

bouncing the ball off of their chests

bouncing the ball off of their chests...

they'll sit there agreeably with placid smiles of cheer

happy to nod along, call you sweet and dear

but they never get up

never throw you a pass

(they're armless, see?

so you never have to worry about them trying to fly away either.)

grounded safe and still and waiting for death.

nothing too hard or sharp or bright.

nothing to inspire you to fight.

you must belong in this garden, because that's where you are...

if you wanted to race headlong and fast and far,

you would.

you'd jump off of those cliffs and break your legs.

laugh as you bled and screamed and bled.

getting knocked down and up and knocked down again

laughing with blood dripping gruesomely down your chin

"IS THAT ALL YOU'VE GOT???" you'd manically scream,

shaking your fist up at the sky,

spitting defiantly in your own eye.

drugged so much by the adrenaline,

but yet still not quite enough...

you fail to develop a hardcore habit, an addiction to love

occasionally driven to fight for that rush as only a junkie can,

but the highs always crash down,

leaving nothing but blood and vomit on the floor

and the long, slow process of waiting for broken legs to heal before you can run again

the wait during which that sad little garden looks like the picture of perfect mental health

because... this madness...

this madness...

this madness i feel...

is madness...