I'm Just Me

I wrote today's posting last night while I was in a very different mood. I almost posted it last night, but I didn't have the energy to edit it and make it look pretty. When I woke up this morning, I almost thought about not posting it at all. But, I promised I wouldn't censor myself, so I won't start now. Here it is, uncut.
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I’m just me.

I should be used to this by now, shouldn't I? Used to the sound of my own breathing, used to the quiet, the waking alone, the cat running in and out of the bedroom to see if I‘m really getting up, really going to come feed her. I should be used to it, but I’m not. I’m not used to it. I don’t like waking up alone, so I’ve discovered.

You’d think, with this little routine I’ve got going here… rising at 5 a.m., making bean, rubbing the crud from my eyes as I wait for the computer (and my brain) to Lazarus up from the dead, throwing my mind into another daily scribble, another pattern of rambling thought… you’d think it would all make more sense. You’d think I’d have greater appreciation for the quiet time alone. I don’t.

I’m impatient with myself, with my process, with the slow churn of the universe. I’m impatient with wondering if I’ll ever get to share everything in me, if it will matter in the end, if I’m just deluding myself, if I believe my own bullshit enough to convince myself to live it. I'm no guru, I'm no prophet, hell, I'm not even a very good disciple. I'm just trying to keep myself from falling into some totally inert, apathetic existence.

I’m tired. I’m tired, and only partly because I haven’t slept well all this week. I’m tired of always being the strong one in my life. I’m tired of being strong alone. I’m tired of there always seeming to be a fucking dragon to slay, and always having to haul my own sword into battle, without even having had time to sharpen it. I’m tired of always feeling like I’m responsible for bolstering everyone else’s emotional needs, when I feel like I’m the one crumbling from the inside out. I don’t mind doing that, really, but isn’t there one person who has an inkling that maybe, maybe, just maybe… I need a moment? One little moment… a teeny slice of time to just let it all fall apart. And why to I always feel so goddamn guilty for needing to melt down?! And why to I have to fucking announce that I need to?!

I’m mad at John for leaving me. He said if he ever decided to leave, I’d know because his books would be gone. Well, his books are still here. I’m mad at all the other men in my life for not opening their ridiculously blind eyes and - for whatever excuse they think they have- not stepping forward and seeing what a jewel I am, and what an amazing companion I’d be, and that they’re wasting every fucking precious second without me. Sounds ostentatious, but it’s true. No, I’m not perfect - my teeth are never going to be white, my boobs are never going to get perkier, I‘ve got ugly scars. But Gents, you are losing out on the greatest love you could ever know. Ask the guy whose fucking books are still here.

Swear to the gods, I’m gonna sell it all, saddle up Birddog and disappear. You’ll find me in some distant sunrise and wonder how you let it happen, wonder why you let it happen, and wonder what the fuck you’ve missed, and maybe even how you could have been so stupid. So put up your walls, search for the impossible. But I tell you… the possible is sitting right here typing at you. Clue in.

Ask the guy whose hand I clung to after everyone else left for whatever so-called justifiable reason they had. Yeah. Go ahead, y’all, and feel guilty for that - or feel pissed off at me for voicing it. Because I tell you… I feel guilty and pissed off every fucking minute of every single day for still being here. For being the one to write to you all and give you shit, and toss smartass comments your way and make you laugh, when he should be the one doing it.

I’m not your conduit to John - *sardonic snort* - I'm not a happy medium. I’m just me. I’m Barb, I’m Barb, I’m Barb. I’m worn out with reassuring you that he’s still here somehow, somewhere in each of us - can you not see that he is? I’m sick of reassuring you that I’ll always love him. Got any idea how much it hurts to have to say that all of the time, to be forced to remind myself of what's missing?! Try this as just an eensy example of the pain it causes: go out and fall off your bike and get a good case of road rash, now go out and do it again the next day, and now the next… and the next… what the fuck… do it for over nine months… and continue ad infinitum.

And if this is all too brutally honest for you - well, I make no apologies. Welcome to the brutally honest world I’ve had to live in for the past year. If you can’t forgive me my feelings, then this is where we part ways… because…

…I’m just me. No slack. On with the day. Go forth, Gypsy Girl… here’s your sword. Ye gods, I am tired. Someone else take the wheel for a while.
She takes just like a woman, yes she does
She makes love just like a woman, yes she does
And she aches just like a woman
But she breaks just like a little girl.~Bob Dylan, Like a Woman