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Today ended up being harder than expected. I am exhausted. Only one person came to the thriller practice and she was really nice and enthused and patient but I felt bad that she was all alone. At least we got to dance some. I kind of want to cancel my next two weekends but maybe I'll tough out next week and just see how it goes, and maybe ask Alan if he can teach the last one.
I think part of the crash is from the alcohol last night, and part of it is from just the toxicity of this city. There were several shootings in our adjacent neighborhoods, today, and I think I felt the pain of it spiritually even though I didn't know consciously that it was happening. I was out on my bike all day going to and from the dance practice and the farmers market, which is a very vulnerable position. I often feel like I could die at any moment in this city, especially when I'm on my bike.
I just have this sinking suspicion that there is no coming back from what I've been though. When grandparents and parents die without any honoring or care or support or connection or markings or ceremony, when no one shows up to support with meals or time or financial support or even a single card in a situation in which family members died in debt with nothing to leave behind to support those who are left in the aftermath, there is just no coming back from that. There is no possible return of a feeling that one's life could ever matter. I accepted long long ago that my life doesn't matter and it would most likely be better for most everyone (aside from Josh and my cat) if I weren't alive. It's okay most of the time, I can limp through on the grace of the faeries and the tiny delights that existence offers me, little breadcrumbs of sparkles and beauty. A pretty leaf, a cheerful cloud in a blue sky, a flower, a feather, a gentle breeze. But when things get heavy, I collapse. I cannot live on sparkles and flickers of beauty and shadows alone.
Maybe this is why I feel empty no matter how many snacks I eat.
I wish I could stop snacking.
Nobody is there for me in a way that matters, aside from my spouse. Nobody can really sit and hold space and listen. They just talk about themselves. On and on and on. I listen and I nod and I give them the attention and support that I need and crave, and it is not returned. There is never space to ask for it. If I demand it, force it, then, what kind of caring is that. That is not support, that is bare minimum tolerance and that is not anything I am interested in.
I feel very lost. and very tired.
I distract myself with pumpkins and coffee and I am called childish. Surviving what I've been though is anything but. I don't share the darkest parts, because I know nobody could handle it. The child abuse, the neglect, the ongoing thefts from my family and then later from roommates - I realize now I didn't know how to sense thieves and abusers and protect myself, because it was so normalized in my family to be stolen from and abused. (Somehow I did not ever pick up the abusive habits or the stealing. Strange.)
My photographer friend that I started working with last year, his wife died unexpectedly last week. I don't know the circumstances, but I know she was younger than me, by quite a lot, and a severe alcoholic. Her name was Sarah. I feel so terrible for Max. It's so, so sad. Just crushing. And really scary. I wish I could learn what happened, but I am the last person to pry.
I miss the days when this city felt safe. I still cherish pockets of it. But I won't miss the bad memories. All of the losses, the constant reminders that nobody cares. At least in a new city, it would make sense that nobody cares. Maybe I can create new memories and connections. Or not. Just keep following the sparkles and shadows and live on crumbs, like always. I don't mind living a slight and tiny life of little significance or meaning, at long as I cause the least amount of harm possible. If I can bring any comfort or joy to others, I will do everything I can to do that.
I think part of the crash is from the alcohol last night, and part of it is from just the toxicity of this city. There were several shootings in our adjacent neighborhoods, today, and I think I felt the pain of it spiritually even though I didn't know consciously that it was happening. I was out on my bike all day going to and from the dance practice and the farmers market, which is a very vulnerable position. I often feel like I could die at any moment in this city, especially when I'm on my bike.
I just have this sinking suspicion that there is no coming back from what I've been though. When grandparents and parents die without any honoring or care or support or connection or markings or ceremony, when no one shows up to support with meals or time or financial support or even a single card in a situation in which family members died in debt with nothing to leave behind to support those who are left in the aftermath, there is just no coming back from that. There is no possible return of a feeling that one's life could ever matter. I accepted long long ago that my life doesn't matter and it would most likely be better for most everyone (aside from Josh and my cat) if I weren't alive. It's okay most of the time, I can limp through on the grace of the faeries and the tiny delights that existence offers me, little breadcrumbs of sparkles and beauty. A pretty leaf, a cheerful cloud in a blue sky, a flower, a feather, a gentle breeze. But when things get heavy, I collapse. I cannot live on sparkles and flickers of beauty and shadows alone.
Maybe this is why I feel empty no matter how many snacks I eat.
I wish I could stop snacking.
Nobody is there for me in a way that matters, aside from my spouse. Nobody can really sit and hold space and listen. They just talk about themselves. On and on and on. I listen and I nod and I give them the attention and support that I need and crave, and it is not returned. There is never space to ask for it. If I demand it, force it, then, what kind of caring is that. That is not support, that is bare minimum tolerance and that is not anything I am interested in.
I feel very lost. and very tired.
I distract myself with pumpkins and coffee and I am called childish. Surviving what I've been though is anything but. I don't share the darkest parts, because I know nobody could handle it. The child abuse, the neglect, the ongoing thefts from my family and then later from roommates - I realize now I didn't know how to sense thieves and abusers and protect myself, because it was so normalized in my family to be stolen from and abused. (Somehow I did not ever pick up the abusive habits or the stealing. Strange.)
My photographer friend that I started working with last year, his wife died unexpectedly last week. I don't know the circumstances, but I know she was younger than me, by quite a lot, and a severe alcoholic. Her name was Sarah. I feel so terrible for Max. It's so, so sad. Just crushing. And really scary. I wish I could learn what happened, but I am the last person to pry.
I miss the days when this city felt safe. I still cherish pockets of it. But I won't miss the bad memories. All of the losses, the constant reminders that nobody cares. At least in a new city, it would make sense that nobody cares. Maybe I can create new memories and connections. Or not. Just keep following the sparkles and shadows and live on crumbs, like always. I don't mind living a slight and tiny life of little significance or meaning, at long as I cause the least amount of harm possible. If I can bring any comfort or joy to others, I will do everything I can to do that.
