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I’m not okay.

October 29th, 2020 Leave a comment Go to comments

So let me start out by saying the last four years have fuuuh-uuuhh-uuhhhcked me up. I have become OBSESSED with the goings on of our government, and I don’t mean it in the cutesy way the Instagram models mean it when they talk about whatever brand is paying them as much as M makes in a year for one post that says nice things about them.

It’s unhealthy. I’ve lost friends over it. It’s caused problems in our relationship. It’s not good.

But my obsession has resulted in a lot of navel gazing and some breakthroughs. Silver lining, I guess?

Thing is, I’ve always readily admitted I am an asshole. And for a really long time, I was like, “that’s just how I am. Fuck it.” Who cares, right? If people don’t like it, they can fuck off. Everyone eventually fucks off anyway. What difference does it make?

And, ya know, in the long run, maybe it doesn’t make a difference. I’m a speck on a speck among infinity specks. What chance do I actually have of influencing anything that matters? But on the small scale…

I’ve been having flashbacks. I guess that’s what happens when you don’t heal past trauma. And I was loath to call them flashbacks because…I don’t know. Other people had it worse than me. Some still do. Admitting they’re flashbacks means I’m more fucked up than I’ve admitted even to myself. The people who caused my trauma refuse to acknowledge their abuse. Including myself.

I don’t think I’ve ever really been a “good” person. I’m not a “bad” person, either, but I’ve definitely done “bad” things, made “bad” decisions. Sometimes because it was the best I could do at the time, but others because I just didn’t give a shit what the repercussions would be. I had reached my limit and the nuclear option seemed like the best one at the time.

A few years ago, we went to this concert at Northern Lights in Clifton Park. It’s called Upstate Concert Hall, now, and I guess it’s moving out of Clifton Park. It kinda makes sense. It was in an old strip mall next to a church, which was also in the strip mall. Waiting to get in was always interesting. The bar did mostly metal and hip hop at the time. So there would be people streaming into the church in their Sunday best, shielding their children’s eyes from all the scantily clad women with or without demons and other occult symbols emblazoned on their clothes and bodies tailgating in the parking lot.

So while we were at the concert, I was standing behind this older biker. He had on a club vest and talked about riding with Hell’s Angels. He knew my uncle, who used to travel to rallies and sell shirts, and flags (but not American ones…he gave those away), and all sorts of bike decorations and accessories. My favorite were the pig tube caps. Small world.

I bumped into the guy when the crowd surged and spilled a little of my beer on his boot. I immediately apologized, because I was raised by a good Christian woman who taught me good women always apologize, and he got annoyed. Told me not to apologize for some shit somebody else caused.

I bumped into him again, sans beer, and apologized again. Then I apologized for apologizing. I fail at being a tough biker chick, I guess.

I can’t really say that I’m sorry I chose the nuclear option, because I’m not sure I am. I guess I’m still holding on to some old grudges, and I feel like the people who fucked with the ram and got the horns deserved it. I’m not going to apologize for some shit somebody else caused. But some people didn’t deserve it. I did it because I was hurting and I was flailing and it made me feel better. And that is fucked up, Daisy.

God, I miss Brittany Murphy.

I’ve matured. I’m working on healthier ways to manage reaching my limit. I haven’t dropped a bomb and ran, leaving others to pick up the pieces, in ages. And for a while, that was enough. I’ve changed. I’m not that person anymore. I do my best not to hurt people, and I help when I can, and I listen more, and try to learn from what I’m hearing.

But I’ve kinda hit a wall. Because the people hurt by that version of me will never know that. And when you’ve been so struck by the damage you’ve caused that you start working to be a different person, and you were raised to believe that nothing is worth doing if you aren’t getting some sort of recognition for it, you want to preen in front of them. “Look how good I am, now! I would never do that thing now! You can like me now! We’ll be great friends, and things will be wonderful, and it’ll be like I never did that thing.”

Sometimes, it doesn’t matter how good you become, or what good things you do, or how hard you try to fix what you broke. The pieces stay broken. People don’t forgive you. And you have to live with that.

I’m trying to live with that.

But the state of our country is scaring the shit out of me. And I’m running out of steam for the constant panic and dread and self-loathing.

I live in a really red area. I like to assume the best about people, but when you get outside of my town to the east, there’s nothing but Trump signs and flags, and I’d say about half say, “Make liberals cry again.” And ya know, maybe it’s just a stupid thing they say to hurt anyone who isn’t voting for Trump, but it somehow feels more ominous.

I feel like we’re sitting on a powder keg. November 3 is the match. And to be frank, I’m not sure the outcome actually matters. It’s going off either way.

Maybe I’m overreacting. Maybe I’m letting my paranoia and the Twitter instigators run away with me. Maybe it’ll be the same as every other election. Faces and names change, but country mostly stays the same.

I mean, I’m hoping not. We need lasting change. Something so drastic that it sticks and we never end up here again.

I’m just really not okay, right now. I can’t really remember the last time I was okay. And I’d really like to be in a place where I can stop waiting for everything else to slow down so I can try to figure out how to be okay.

Maybe November 3rd.

Anyway.

Vote.

(For the record, I’d never do that preening thing. I just want to sometimes. Which means I’ve got more work to do.)

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