I think I’m progressing nicely through all the phases of grieving; we’ve done denial, anger, bargaining, and now we’re right in the middle of sadness.
And by sadness of course, I mean anger. Again.
Consider this “Anger: the Remix” with a brand new chorus of “oh, FUCK this shit.”
I’ll try to navigate this as eloquently as Wise did over at her spot, but I’m making no promises.
I’ve been in Atl for the last week, seeing family, trying not to tear up the city too bad with my sister. The thing about vacation is that it allows you downtime.
I haven’t had any of that the last couple months.
Seeing as how I wasn’t working, and I made the trip to Atl with my sister aka the WORST road trip partner in the HISTORY of mankind, I had a lot of time to think. Lots of miles of road to get inside my head. Lots of periods of silence I could roll around in. And get myself worked up.
Very worked up.
So worked up in fact that I could barely sit still. I started mumbling to myself under my breath. Rocking. My hands started shaking. I started twisting the hair at the back of my neck, yanking it hard at the roots. Biting my lip. A certain song on repeat. And before I knew it I was crying. Hard. But not that nice cleansing cry you get when you need to release something. More like that all consuming, hot cry that usually occurs right before I blank out and come back to myself with witnesses telling me about whatever crazy antics I pulled while in my altered state.
Did I mention all this was while I was driving?
So I pulled over, under the guise of getting gas and made my sister drive. I made myself go to sleep to make my mind go blank. Before I drifted off, I caught my reflection in the mirror. My face was flushed, my eyes darting wildly back and forth like a trapped animal.
We had so much fun in Atlanta. And one day, I’d like to blog about it. But all I can remember right now is the vague feeling of being haunted. I kept turning around expecting something to be right THERE. I spent a lot of time quiet, cursing the downtime, the lack of distraction that laid open the path to the resurrection of the dead. Or semi-dead. Or, whatever. Maybe that was part of the denial phase.
I’m not sure who texted who first. I’m gonna go ahead and take responsibility for it and blame it on the liquor and my already agitated state. We texted for awhile and with each word, each letter, I felt like I was swallowing fire.
I love you so much.
It’s hard for me to breathe without you.
I love you with everything I have. I don’t think you really believe I don’t love you.
By then I was trembling. Violently. The edges of my vision going slightly black, my eyes fighting to focus. I’m choking on this bullshit. I was trying to jump in and out of two worlds; the present where I’m the laughing, dancing girl hanging out with her girls, and This one where I feel like someone is behind me, pushing me. Like just, PUSHING ME.
The texts kept coming, my hands opening and closing, making fists so tight that the edges of my nails started leaving marks in my skin. I kept my head down, rocking and shaking, trying to stay to myself. I musta been giving off at least 50 feet of don’t fuck with me. I was so far gone that I knew if anyone even almost provoked me and I put my hands on them, I was going to jail. And whatever I’d do to them, they probably wouldn’t have bail for.
What scares me is that I didn’t care.
I’ve always had a temper. I always hate saying that because people assume I’m a hothead, which couldn’t be further from the truth. I’m actually very reasonable. I have very specific buttons that set me off. And only those few buttons. But if you push one of those buttons… well, it sucks for you.
One of the biggest things that takes me from zero to 120?
Being lied to.
I have this sharp, almost metallic taste in the back of my mouth. I’ve bitten a hole through my bottom lip. I feel so hollow, carved out from the inside. My skin is on fire, but insides feel cold. I’m so agitated, I always feel right on the verge… of… something. It’s not a good look.
Wasted time. That’s another button.