unfinished

I have once again fallen down the rabbit hole, in more ways than one.

I have still been writing elsewhere, and other than that, generally – well, I would say repeatedly falling on my face, but it is more like slightly lifting my face off the floor and then it dropping back again.

I am not super enjoying it.

But.

I am also giving myself due credit. Not just for the metaphorical head lifts, but for continuing to breathe while I still feel like I am getting repeatedly kicked in the heart.

And for not giving a fuck about being unfinished.

And for utterly, openly bemoaning the fucking open fields of wreckage sprawling out from my present back to my beginning, that are as apt a metaphor as any for my life so far, and desperately wishing for some end to all the shit – but still hanging the fuck on.

This doesn’t need to be the most insightful shit I have ever verbalized. I don’t have to worry about the doubtless many people who would not enjoy it. I don’t have to spend my life immobilized by the fear of seeming imperfect. If anyone was left imagining my self or my life was not deeply, deeply flawed, the state of ruin that is my present existence pretty clearly corrects that misapprehension.

I don’t even have to worry about the many fucked up people of my unfortunate acquaintance who still can and might act to fuck up my life more, to try to do me harm. They are who they are, and they are going to do what they are going to do, and there is nothing on earth I can do or not do or say or not say or think or…you get the idea, it is beyond my control. If it weren’t, everyone I crossed paths with would have found their way to healing and happiness, and certainly wouldn’t be interested in fucking with me in any way.

What is the point of this? Maybe there is none, except I fucking felt like writing it. I am sleep deprived. I am too tired to do any of the many things that require focus that I have no desire to do anyway. In all likelihood, no one is ever going to read this. And I don’t give a fuck at the moment. Not every fucking thing has to be in service of something else, not every fucking thing has to be about money or success or even acknoweldgement. I just felt like making a post to break my post silence.

For now, I just want to enjoy the fact that I am too tired and wrung out to feel sad or scared for a moment, and to acknowledge that a truly unfortunate, and I wish impossible, degree of bullshit has existed across my life, and I have never, with very little reward, given up. I did that for myself. And that is huge. If another person went through the things I have, and did so to keep me alive, they would be my fucking hero. So in this moment, I am going to take a moment and acknowledge that is what I am. Not a superhero – I can get well hurt, and I can’t guarantee any success. But I can guarantee that even if I, like a devastating number of people I have dearly loved, live a life that does not end up where I want it to be before it ends, that continues to be subject to endless pointless cruelties, even if I live and die my entire life in full-blown misery, I will have had one person who cared enough to fight for me. Kind of like I had someone who loved me all along.