Fucked If I Know

I don’t know what’s going on with me right now. Is it just me struggling with the break up? Struggling with the transition of my parents moving out of the house and me taking over it all on my own? The fact that my ex-husband is supposed to be showing up for his visit any moment now? Seasonal Bipolar episode? The on-going bullshit that is Covid? All of it? None of it?

Fucked If I Know

black water burning
beneath crusted snow
cooling magma as it creeps
seeking embers of brimstone
to propel ever forward

no point in asking why
hailing in the desert
raining frogs in the artic
drought in the rainforest
sandstorm in the meadow

fucked if I know
it just is

chaos doesn’t need a reason
to exist to justify to be
and neither do I

or so I thought

what took hundreds of spoons
to beat down to tame to control
to keep palatable for the masses
now take just as many
to stir the beast within

beneath steaming rock
a barely held breath
waiting hoping expecting
to rouse from partial sleep
twitching in compulsion of the lie

when did spoons shift
from tools of nurture
to weapons of war
from nourishment
to beratement

fucked if I know
it just did

saltwater tide licks
the wounds bleeding
black water burning
through cracked rock
as chaos rages on

what once trembled
from a triumphant bellow
now rumbles
from a beleaguered groan
is this the end or the beginning

fucked if I know
just get up

I still don’t have this month’s short story finished. I’m falling further behind on the blog. My body wants to shutdown completely. But sleep doesn’t really come for the disquiet in my endless mind. Plus there’s been frozen pipes in the kitchen to deal with. And this doesn’t even take into account the normal every day tasks that need to be addressed.

A deep part of me wants to take a break and rest. To just fall apart and let it all go. Why am I juggling so many balls? Which ones are glass and which are made of rubber? Which do I keep and which can I dispose of? Why can’t I even human properly? Never mind adult. I’m beyond exhausted at this point. I’m not even sure anymore if pushing forward like I’ve been trying to is the right answer. Maybe a vacation from myself is what a need – if such a thing were possible.

I’m fucking burnt right the fuck out. This is a repeating pattern of mine. Over extend in some way or another and fatigue kicks in. Cue the guilt, shame, and blame game. Triggers the overdrive. Burn out ensues. Then I’m fucking lost as how to recover and flounder around as I try to figure it out. I always do, but only because I’m brought to full shutdown. Sometimes it’s just a few days of deep rest. Other times it way, way longer than that.

And a part of me honestly doesn’t care about any of that right now. I want the headaches to stop. I want to either fucking ball my eyes out or the threat of tears to just quit altogether – none of this in between shit. I want my joints to stop feeling like they’ve been crushed and my muscles to stop feeling like they’ve been ripped apart. I’m tired of feeling like I’ve swallowed fist-sized stones and trying to pass them through a twisted gut of fire. I want to sleep without the fear of never waking up again. I’d like to take a bath that didn’t feel like broken glass, needles, and acid. And for the love of all that’s holy, take this fucking chill out of my damn bones. Is it really too much to ask to find comfort in a room that is supposedly 74 degrees Fahrenheit (roughly 23 degrees Celsius)?

I don’t want to die, but based on how things are going I don’t want to “live” either. I don’t want to go anywhere. I don’t want to see anyone. AND I don’t want to do anything. Logically, clinically, I know there is nothing healthy about any of this. Despite that, there is a resounding scream within me saying, “Fuck it.”

So please forgive me. I’m taking the time to rest. I’ll figure out what I need to do to be well again.

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