I am a hot mess.
I mean, anyone who’s met me more than once has PROBABLY FIGURED THAT OUT. But then, I don’t let people into my apartment, and I don’t talk about my job, because there are limits to how vulnerable I can be when I’m so frighteningly aware that I am not emotionally healthy. I have to draw those lines, because other people knowing what I am means I have to acknowledge it myself. And, honestly, that doesn’t make it better. It just makes me want to lock the doors even tighter.
I feel like… I don’t know. I guess if no one knew me well enough to judge my actions, I’d probably be dead by now.
Not, like, on purpose. But because, I don’t know. Heroin sounds pretty cool? And so does everything else that’s super self-destructive but delicious?
It seems that it’s only the knowledge that other people might tsk-tsk and finger-wag when they see me fondling a bag of heroin—or maybe powdered sugar because I probably don’t know how to buy drugs?–that keeps me from sinking utterly into hedonism. I don’t like planning, I don’t like thinking about my future, and I’m probably willing to accidentally kill myself just to temporarily stave off those thoughts.
Thankfully, people DO know me, and they DO judge me, aaaaand I don’t really remember where I was going with this.
Right. ACCOUNTABILITY. It’s what keeps me… semi-functional.
I had a visitor this weekend and had to get approximately 1/3rd of my shit together just to contemplate letting anyone so fully into my world. Obvi, the Bee Eff sees my nightmare lifestyle, but he… either doesn’t care, ooooooorrrrrrrrrr is a figment of my imagination that I created to make puns and enable bad decisions?
I don’t know, man. I guess I’m just working through some thoughts, all up in your FACES, because inside voices are for babies.
When I was writing in this semi-regularly, I was way the heck better at getting out the door to DO THE EXERCISES.
And now that my apartment is KINDA OKAY, I find myself getting up earlier for work, and when I come home, putting in a load of laundry before I sink into the oblivion of Netflix. WHAAAAAAT.
It’s such a fine line, though. Accountability versus obligation. I’ve been doing this dance with myself for almost 26 years, and I still haven’t learned the steps.
“I’ll make a list!” Oh, naive little past Jess! Lists feel like obligations. ERASE THE LIST OR AT LEAST AVOID LOOKING AT IT FOR WEEKS AT A TIME.
“I’ll tell people what I intend to change!” And then lie about it when I fail, or simply never mention it again and hope they don’t either.
Is there an answer? Is there an ANYTHING? Whoaaaaa deep shit there, Jess, keep it up.
Maybe I have to make my life entirely visible to another person, just so I’m forced to constantly see it through their eyes.
Maybe it’s time to get a roommate?
I’m okay at living with other (moderately sane) people. Because they care what the fuck happens in their general vicinity, and they notice when I fuck up, and as long as it doesn’t instantly spiral into mutual hatred, I suppose it could be a positive thing.
Sometimes I wonder if my constant urge to be alone is less about being an introvert, and more about my terror of other people’s perspectives.
I don’t know, you guys. I guess I’m just posting this shizzle to get back in the ZONE.
♪ ♫ AUTOZONE. ♫ ♪
… I am not yet holding myself accountable for editing.