Am I high maintenance?

I am tough to be in a romantic relationship with, I think. If I know where I stand, have affection from my partner, and we have communication every day then I’m OK. Probably even good. On some days great.

But if I don’t know where I stand, then I’m always seeking information to get to that information. Which means weird questions and anxiety.

If we don’t communicate every day for more than a single exchange, I begin to accrue anxiety and eventually spiral into a full blown spinout and possible depression.

Cold language or cold treatment can seem to be lack of affection. And it almost always means there is a problem. Maybe not with the relationship but with life or whatever.
This leads me to believe that I am not trusted. And cue eventual anxiety and depression.

I feel like this makes me high maintenance. Or be perceived as high maintenance.

Anxiety and depression reactions are not ideal consequences but they are things that can be alleviated by my partner just being there. In that state I don’t need solutions, I just need presence.

Those things seem like things things anyone would want?
Am I asking for too much?
Those seem like normal things to want.

People and the horse they rode in on

Post people hangover. It’s a thing any introvert can sympathize with. And it’s what happened yesterday and it is what led me to a short depressive episode. Ugh. I am a role-player and not just the sexy kind.

Nope, I’m also a tabletop role player and that means a bunch of people sitting in a room pretending to be something else while one person spins a world of fantasy. In this case a literal one. Because while the ruleset is Palladium, (for reasons, I know the company is awful), they are in my Split Sky world. Though they don’t know what that means.

But still, spending 6+ hours being the center of attention while spinning essentially a consensual hallucination drains me completely. And some days that means I get depressed and some days that means I listen to that bastard part of my brain that says you are fucking up. That I’m not someone who can be loved let alone someone worth loving. And since so much of my self is bound up in love and beauty, that is the things that the bastard in my brain tries to wrest away from me. Tries to control.

Yes, I’m uncertain. Because I believe that certainty leads people to the blind alleys of always being right and unable to see other perspectives and inability to change. It is when we are our most static that we are our most dangerous. Pure chaos burns itself out. Pure order spreads and destroys.

So it takes this element of uncertainty and it spreads it like cancer through everything good and I can manage it but not stop it. Someone who is mine, can stop it but only if I believe that they are mine. Which generally means someone who has said and I believe that they love me. It can’t be family. I feel too distant from them to believe it when I’m depressed.

So that’s my story of my weekend. Introvert plus center of attention for extended periods equals depression. As I say in real life, generally half sarcastically, good times.

Tired, so tired

When I was without communication, without Facebook, without texting, I think I was happier.

Without this constant potential connection, But no actual connection. Because I’m drowning here. I thought I knew how to swim, but maybe the waters are rising. Each attempt, each failure, breaks me further.
Until, at last, there’s nothing left to give.


When the nightmares begin
I’m your one and only sin
Dream with me, I’m all in

Love is not for the faint of heart
I tell you this from the start
It’s so hard we often fall apart

But I tell you that when the nightmares begin
I’m your one and only sin
Dream with me, I’m all in

I’m not walking away
I’ll be here till my dying day
I’ll be the one who stays

And when the nightmares begin
I’m your one and only sin
Dream with me, I’m all in

Dream with me, I’m all in

Love is another word for empty

Love is the breaking of your soul into tiny pieces
Pieces that fly away looking for a better home than your own desolate heart
Pieces you secretly hope will find their way back to you
Bringing with them the person they found a home in
That that person will be wanting to stay with these pieces and not looking to shove them in the junk drawer
But love is knowing those pieces are lost forever
And if they are smart and they are because they are you
They will stay gone

Unexpected wrecking ball

I’m looking at my phone. It’s with me all the time with the Internet and Facebook and games and texts. And I’m thinking, there is nothing this phone can do that can distract me from this pain. There is nothing it can do to give a moment of peace. Nothing that gives hope. Nothing that gives purpose.

Just this endless pablum of white noise that does nothing to stop the screaming voice that sobs out, “You are unwanted. Unloved. What are you still doing here.”
And I think of the people I could reach out to and just who would that be? It’s not ok. It’s not going to be OK. I’ve had my fill of I know what you’re going through or I wish you didn’t know what that feels like. I am going through it. I do know what it feels like. The only thing that stops it is when I don’t feel alone. This is just what is. I try my damndest. But I’m right back where I started. If anything, more bruised and jaded.
Nothing is good, nor will it ever be again. That’s what today feels like.

That’s depression talking

I don’t see myself as less, except on alternating Wednesdays or when I haven’t gotten enough sleep and my brain won’t stop telling me that this is all my fault. I am mostly aware that people love me and that I am a person worthy of love, except at 2 AM and the clock keeps ticking by and I’m sitting alone without someone who wants to hold me. I know that I laugh and make jokes that people find funny but I’m at my most cutting edge of laughter when I’m in such pain that there is no other outlet. Other than shouting and crying, and that’s frowned upon while sitting at my desk at work. I know I’m alright most of the time but sometimes I’m not.

And creeping along, I find myself filled with the need to get out, get out, get out. Just a flick of the blade and a few minutes till it’s over or jump from the roof, the fall will be interesting, or get a gun and go out to the desert to watch the sunrise one last time.

It’s not because I don’t love this world, because I do. I love the stirring of the trees in the wind. I love rain falling. I love watching people be unselfconciously themselves when they think no one is watching.

But I’m also that broken thing, this bag full of glass and I think it would be easier to not be here.

I need that connection of someone who wants me. Maybe just to hear my voice or to read my words on the screen. To look forward to hearing from them. To need that connection to be one step closer to happy.

They say love yourself before you can love others. I do. I know myself and see my self, it’s just that I feel unwanted and unloved most of the time and that feeling makes it hard to step out the door. And when I’m with someone, it all seems possible and the world is brighter and the work of living seems less like work.

And then it, somehow, is over or ended or put into some kind of holding pattern. It’s not that I need to be in a relationship, it’s just that I don’t feel worth love most days and I’m keenly aware of how I feel. When I’m with someone, I at least know that they like me, and if they do, maybe I’m worth love.

It’s not logical and I know that. I know that people love me. But I sometimes feel so alone and I can’t be the person who is constantly reaching out for reassurance. I don’t want to be that person who is the burden on their lives.

I know this is depression but…

I am nothing but a moment, a memory, a hope

Dropped glass shattered, splinters broken, time itself bleeds
False hopes play us for fools
And the ache of sleepless nights cuts deeper than bones
Happiness a fiction we spin

This last breathe fades as a night of dreams shakes off false imagery for a cold inhalation of frigid air, born anew as sun crests horizon

Last tears shed as the ache unfolds and the mind tells its pretty truths and ugly lies.

And the part that is fear gorges and speaks, the ugliness must be true for who would speak such things if they were not

Silence…. Draws out

An unhealed wound bleeding slow pulse
Thick with the poison
Alkaline tears burning as they roll
resisting the pull of gravity to cling to skin
one more bare second of together
wetness drying on a face
wracked by silent screams
voice made quiet by the nightjar
and a horrible sense of ichorous urgency
nobility snuffed out
so much simpler to bleed than to break

under the weight of hoping