What do I do now?

The fact that my last post was on May 18th physically hurts. When did this happen? Why do I do this to myself?

Not to mention, my state of mind at that time is not fun to read. I’m beginning to think that what I write either becomes something I absolutely adore or something I completely despise. There is no in between. There is nothing I wrote that is “good” or “fine” or “meh.” It is either fucking terrible or makes me want to call myself an actual writer.

I guess that isn’t the point, though. I also guess that everyone wants everything they do to be the most amazing thing they’ve ever done, much better than the last thing they did. That isn’t how it works. Not for me. Not so far, anyway. But I’ll keep writing. This way I at least get the chance to make the next thing better than the last thing. If I stop now and write nothing, the next thing is definitely not going to be better than the last thing.

I can’t live like that.

I will always beat myself up for not writing more, not remembering more, not doing more, not saying more. As I type that, I begin to feel ridiculous. Because I feel like all I do is think about what to write, try to forget things that happened, wish for a break, and decide that the people I enjoy talking to can be counted on two hands.

You can’t handle the truth. It’s ok. I can’t handle it either.

I try really hard not to put up with bullshit. It’s not easy to do. People don’t like when you don’t put up with their bullshit. I try really hard not put up with people treating me like shit or dragging me down or trying to make me be more like them. Once in a while I let people do this and I immediately regret it. Sometimes I probably cut people out too soon to avoid said regret. It leaves me lonely a lot of the time but at this point in my life this is how it is.  I don’t know how else to do it. I’m not strong enough. I can’t allow people who treat me like shit into my life or I will die. I can’t even let them in halfway. I will drink and do drugs and become a loser and I. Will. Die. I will gain fifty pounds overnight. I will spend all my money and then some. I will drink vodka and red wine until my teeth turn purple. I will drunk dial and text and wake up in the biggest hate/shame spiral you’ve ever seen. Do you know the only way to fix that spiral? Mimosas for breakfast.

Everything I just wrote makes me want to throw up a little. Life is a little like my posts right now. So much of it is so fucking good that I want to feel it and experience it forever. Other parts of it are so incredibly gross. If we’re talking about handling the truth here, I’m handling this part somehow. If I ask my guts how they feel about it, they tell me it’s better this way. If everything was just blah, well then…everything is just blah. At least this way we get the good, too. We even get to decide how good it is and how much we want to feel it. We get to notice that it can still be good even with the pile of shit right next to it and that the reason some of it is so good? Is because it’s next to a pile of shit.

I’m OK with that.

I’ll sit here in between my piles of awesome and my piles of shit and try to make the next thing better than the last thing. That is definitely what I do now.