Hell, I’ve met you before

I’m in hell. These long months, of progress, faith and trust. That I was doing the right thing, that good things would come from it. That these changes would last forever and I would constantly be improving. Blown away on the wind. It’s been months. It’s been months since this all happened.

It’s fresh, as if it were a week ago. The bombardment of contact from Carrie when I asked her not to was torture. The conversation with her Mother forced me to empathize and worry about her all over again. Suddenly instead of being disconnected I wanted, again, desperately, to save her from herself.

Everyone I talk to, it turns to that now. My attempts to unplug are completely foiled. Suddenly it’s all I think about, all I talk about. I can’t get my mind into life. I think I need to be productive. To do something with my days instead of just survive. I watch them bleed away with a sense of guilt. Dispassionately watching myself fail. Exercising less, eating more, feeling like my life is wasted.

My thoughts go from caring, to sadness, to anger, to despair in a faster and faster wheel lately. It’s starting to blur together.  I can’t gain the energy to do anything lately. I’m on a tilt-a-wheel and I want off. How do you “NOT” think of something? Once it’s wormed its’ way into your brain. My head is on fire with it. I thought by now, I thought after this time that I would be better. That I would get better.

I’ve gotten worse, now that the urgency is worn off, all I have is a sense of familiar unease. A lack of caring. Nothing seems to matter. Just not crying and not thinking about it seems paramount. I can almost understand why Carrie just needs an escape, all the time. Because not escaping is hell. I’ve begged her friends to talk to her. She wants to share things with me and I can’t, I just can’t let her.

She’s broken my trust, released my anger, forced me again and again to take blow after blow. I try every day not to act out my rage. But I’ve recognized now what a rage would be. It would be what she’s doing. It would be fucking her friends, drinking, avoiding everything, acting out of instinct and hurt. One of the keys to forgiveness is to empathize with those who have wronged you, to see things from their point of view. If my life was crushed (it was) and I didn’t have an epiphany to take something positive out of it – I might very well be a huge mess too.

I’ve tried love, I’ve tried space and distance, I’ve tried positivity and healthy choices. I’ve tried anger and rage. Depression and despair. I keep telling myself this is a cycle that will eventually play itself out. In the meantime, I’m stumbling through life, annoying my friends, wasting my time and money. Blowing off that potential I wanted so badly to fulfill. I want to be self destructive, in a different way. I want to go live like a crazy bachelor, meet crazy new people and sleep with them, date like there’s no tomorrow. Live on borrowed time and money. It’s not healthy either.

Most of all, I wish I could talk to her. She was my confidant for 10 years, I told her everything about everything. She was who I whispered to into the night. She would help me when I was sick. She would clean my cuts and bruises. She would cut my hair. If my feelings were hurt, she would get angry at whoever did it. She looked out for me. I looked out for her. We protected each other, comforted each other. Now when I need all of that, more than I ever have in my life; She has it from someone else, and I just don’t have it. It kills me because I’m jealous. Not of him, but of her. Having someone through the cold nights. Having a refuge no matter how depraved.

If I could turn off my brain long enough to indulge in pure fantasy, I might feel better. I think too much, I know too much. I’ve had too many healthy things burned into my brain to think that not being healthy will help me. So I can’t escape. Just face it, day after day. I envy her sometimes. I envy her now.