I never intended to be 35 years old and single, but here I am, killing it.
How did that happen? I haven’t loved many people in my life, but enough to have assumed one of them would stick. Oh well.
My metabolism quit. Or at least quit being able to surmount the walls all this medication erects in its path, and I’m not too in love with my reflection in the mirror these days. But it’s looked worse, and in the grand scheme I can live with it.
I have done a meticulous job over the course of the past few years to do everything I can to live a life as free from drama as possible. Yes, it manifests in staying home most every night, asleep by 9, and while I know that’s a result of mental illness and escalating issues, I can’t be mad about it.
Unfortunately, drama has a way of finding me. Not just finding, burying me, under its weight. I am tired, I am angry, I am helpless, and I am sad. As if I don’t deserve any better than to rolled into the current of other people’s bullshit.
How pathetic to be whining my way into my birthday. I’m more disappointed in myself than I’ve been in a long time. That’s been hard to cope with. But I’ll find my way through it. I always do.
Unlike last year, I have zero interest in asking for your help. You do what you do and nothing I say can change it. I can’t help thinking you’re laughing at me. And while anger is more useful than sadness, nothing makes you feel alive like fear.