Why am I crying when I wake up at 2am,parsing dreams

The truth is, I’m not better. I always declare myself better before I actually am. Like saying it makes it true. Like living that lie, while parts of me weep and wallow, while some thoughts still wreck me and leave me weeping in public spaces is somehow the path out instead of in.

I still think about what I did wrong, even if it’s the nothing you said. I think that I should have said, let me help you work it out. I guess the only explanation I have is that I felt like you had withdrawn consent. Which means, to me, full stop. Accept and move on.

Maybe I’m supposed to chase.
And while I tell myself I don’t, I do. But not when I perceive consent is withdrawn. In that case, I am a man on the shore, forever waiving to the ships that only dock seldom, and always, always leave.

Long sharp note, played slowly underpinned by minor key resonance

Feeling tired
Too tired to wake up
Back hurts from work out
Stomach empty and cramping
Back into a groove of hurting to be normal
This normal
My normal
Loving all my people
Fumbling to help
Sitting alone
Hoping to hear from people you’ve reached out to
Never really expecting an answer
But stopping myself from wandering down that razor blade road
Just wanting more sleep
Just wanting to get going
Get the day of work over with so that I can get on living
Hoping when I get home that someone will be waiting
Knowing they won’t be
Can’t be
Physically gone or physically distant
Doesn’t matter
Same result
Talking on messenger
Only connection from day to day
Broken lines of communication
Needing to hear from you
Knowing it won’t happen
This is my normal
Walking tall
Slight smile on lips
Meeting eyes
But not intruding
Going home alone
Wondering
Calm strength hiding the churn of yearning
But it’s normal
My normal
Ready to be broken again

Waking from a dream, realizing a truth

Have you ever remembered something that changed how you thought about your past?

I know that many of my readers have. Generally those memories rip you apart. They are wounds hidden by scars that the mind has hidden.

My dream this morning featured a man from my past I hadn’t thought about in a long time. We fell out of touch. Basically because I felt he was using my generosity too much. Something that was probably true but I never told him about it. I just let the friendship drift off.

But this man was someone who I was kind to for no ulterior motive. No profit was to be had from helping him out. And we used to hang out and talk and go to raves monthly. This was when I was much younger.

I’ve always thought that the man I was prior to Morgan was a monster. And, viewing things from a certain, even common, perspective that’s true. But there were also this man and a few others who I was generous with my time and availability.

My friend had a bad home life. He was homeless most of the time. I can remember, at the end of some nights where we had gone out, that me taking him home consisted of taking him to a particular dumpster behind a office building. Because that was where he was living.

I would buy him food. He would shower at my house when we would hang out there. For a couple of years there he was one of the few people in my life not tied to family or the job.

One day he told me that his uncle had died and left him a place in Hawai’i. I hope that was true and that he is living there off his uncle’s money, like he said. After he told me that, I never heard from him again.

I can picture everything about him. Where he lived, all the various places. His presence. His laugh. The sound of his voice. But I can’t remember his name.
That makes me sad. Like he’s lost somehow.

But he was in a dream tonight. And despite the content of that dream, which is complicated and I won’t get into. Despite that I woke remembering all the little things that I did to try and help him. And this was pre Morgan. So, the generous, kind man. The man I’ve thought for years was the product of my harrowing. Existed before her.

Maybe that’s who I am. I won’t say that I am not the other, the man of darkness and blood. But that it was, apparently always tempered by light.

I’ll never be a sunlight creature. My heart and thoughts churn too heavy and turgid. But neither am I a creature of absolute darkness, nor(apparently) was I ever. So here I am. A creature of the twilight.
The grey. Between one thing and another.

But knowing that if I fall, it won’t be into complete darkness. Instead, there will be a path out. Forged of the things that I am.

Knowing your experiences, your memories. Accepting them. Sometimes they burn away who you are and break your mind and world. Sometimes they remind you that the false image built on fear and despair is just that, false.

I cannot truly show you my pain, without first dying

If I knew how to talk about what I want maybe I’d be in a different place
If I knew what I was willing to sacrifice for what I want
Maybe I’d be there
I am sometimes afraid that, despite jumping off the cliff so many times, this last time is the one that I should have done
Safety and you
But leaving everything behind, trapped in the lense of my own making
I can only blame myself
Because who else can bare the burden
Stripped raw
Crying for no reason
I wonder at the wounds I’ve inflicted
Following my heart so often
Except, it seems, when it matters 

Prattling on about loss and life(belittling what I feel because talking about it makes me uncomfortable)

I want to talk a bit, briefly, about loss. Specifically the loss of a not only someone you love, but also someone who made you feel as if you were worthy of love. I think that’s what people miss when they hear that my Morgan was killed. They get that I loved her, but they don’t understand that prior to that, I had never felt completely accepted. I had not felt what I term as love. Not just a feeling but the seeing of who a person is, the accepting of who that person is, the knowing that they have your back. To me that is fealty, a bidirectional exchange of the thought and deed that this person, this person has my complete support. Maybe that’s a strange concept, or not something that most would conceptualize as love. Personally, I keep my word. And I am very careful at how I word things. Because, If I give my word, I am bound to it. Lie, my entire identity is bound up in it. So to break my word, would be to break this self-image I have of myself. And maybe, it’s an artificial construct, some framework I’ve built in the hopes of being this better man that I believe I was not. But that just makes it more frightening to me, because I know how I was pre-Morgan. If I were to somehow lose myself now, to the point where I become what I was then, I would literally be a different person. my whole personality and outlook would be different.

That is who she was to me. Not just the person I loved, not just the person who saw and loved me, but also the person who began to change who I was. Who allowed this man who sees his road as one of honor, maybe not honor in the chivalric sense, but honor nonetheless. Not through her direct actions, but by being someone who I wanted to change for, needed to change for.

And then she died. Was ripped from me. and I lost it. I literally have almost no recollection of the following years. Bit and pieces. Drips and drabs. But it was like a fugue state. I didn’t feel alive in it. Like a ghost in the world. An angry one. People who know me in that time, think of me now as cruel and mean. And rightly so.

So after that time, I came, not out of the state but realized I was in one. If that makes sense? So I tried to crack out of it. Like it was a stone egg around my heart. And I didn’t do anything healthy to do that. I wasn’t in a place where I could judge what was healthy and what wasn’t. I’m very surprised I lived through it.

No surprise, it took someone else who saw me, knew me, and took the care to break me out of the shell. I can’t say he loved me. Because to me, if you love someone, you are willing to sacrifice something for it. And he wasn’t. I’m not saying sacrifice of everything, that’s a pretty tall order, but something. Given his line of work, I don’t think that stopping taking solo work was too much of an ask, but it was to him.

So after him, I began to wake. I say it’s where my life began again.

But to touch on loss again. It’s a process. It took me literally years. Years to get to this point where I no longer cry because of a memory surfacing, now I cry because, as a plot point, they kill off the spouse or the love of someones life to set up a revenge tale. And years to get to the point where it no longer sits heavy on my chest, a weight dragging me back to fugue state.

Everyone is different. But I know that it took someone external to myself, seeing me for who I am, to beak the terrible cycle I was in. Because when you are that deep in despair, you can’t see it. It’s just how you are, what your life is.