Behind the curtain

Woke up this morning, and I could think about was her. And then my mind started to do stupid things. Not like this is a rare occurrence or anything, but it bothers me. For over an hour my mind kept doing the same damn thing over and over. Of course, I’m sitting there thinking I should just type all of what I’m thinking. Or at least grab a notepad and write it down. It’s not healthy. But it’s also not healthy to avoid it. So, I kept thinking about it. Over and over until it drove me to actually get out of bed and face it.

I miss her.

I miss you.

I miss being with you.

I miss seeing you.

I miss driving places with you, or to get to you.

I miss your voice, a voice I can’t hear anymore. The cliché of not remembering the sound of someone’s voice certainly is a cliché for a reason.

I miss waking up next to you. Or the anticipation of knowing I’ll be doing that soon.

I miss eating at chain restaurants with you.

I miss debating.

I miss your kisses.

I miss making white Russians and staring at the world.

I miss pulling out my record player on to the porch and listening to Frank and Deano.

I miss fretting over you during hurricanes.

I miss carving pumpkins on Halloween.

I miss listening to music and not having it remind me of you.

I miss not drinking.

I miss being happy.

I miss looking forward to the future.

I miss feeling like I was in control.

I miss arguing in the streets.

I miss long talks about death.

I miss your fingernails, digging.

I miss you painting my toenails, and my dad thinking I’m gay because of it.

I miss hoping for a phone call from you.

I miss writing about things that don’t somehow end up being about you.

I miss planning.

I miss dreaming.

I miss feeling.

I miss everything.

I miss your breath next to mine.

I miss the warmth of the bed when I got home from work at 2 in the morning.

I miss having something to look forward to when I am driving home from work.

I miss endlessly trying to find a job where you are, and failing, but still trying.

I miss days when sadness was the furthest from my mind.

I miss hope.

I miss your music.

I miss your smell.

I miss the cucumber body wash.

I miss being loved.

I miss someone calling me.

I miss feeling wanted.

I miss feeling alive.

I miss long walks around the same neighborhood.

I miss the silly jokes that never got old.

I miss your face.

I miss your elbows.

I miss the back of your knees.

I miss your legs.

I miss your eyes.

I miss your smile.

I miss me smiling.

I miss knowing the feeling that things are going to be ok.

I miss a day without depression.

I miss being broke because of you, in a good way.

I miss wanting to get out of bed in the morning.

I miss not wanting to get out of bed in the morning when you’re there.

I miss how jealous you were.

I miss the stritch.

I miss the ibis.

I miss big balls in cow town.

I miss penguins.

I miss crabby.

I miss the things I don’t remember anymore.

I miss freckles.

I miss meaning every promise.

I miss trust.

I could go on. But I think the last one sums it up. I don’t trust myself, let alone another person. I remember writing down after this, after finally coming out of the other side a long, long time after it happened and then it happened again with another girl, a girl that didn’t deserve it -- the chameleon as I no refer to her as she becomes what the guy wants her to be, and I really believe she’s still doing it -- writing down that I’d never break another person’s heart again. Now that I knew what it felt like, what I’d done.

How fucking arrogant is that? And how fucking stupid. It’s perfectly acceptable to have mine broken again, to face that pain, but you can’t face breaking someone else’s again? Then you’re going to be this miserable fucking wreck for the rest of your life. Because without the risk, there is no reward. Both ways. And you may have to make someone else feel like this again to find it.

I’d hope not, but it may have to happen. And for sure, the ability to face that prospect is the only way to truly stop being miserable. And stop getting black out drunk with a woman I would love to have a shot with, but instead now I wonder if I opened my big old depressed fucking mouth and lost a friend out of the deal.

Those moments are when my dad comes out of me. Like a dragon. Breathing fire. And that scares the shit out of me. I don’t want to be like that. The rage that is inside is scary. Maybe I just need an outlet for it? I bag to punch instead?

I can sense my depression, which I knew never left completely, is starting to win again. I can’t afford therapy again. Hell, I don’t have insurance.

And I’m scared. Scared of myself. Scared of what lurks behind the curtain, so to speak.

I’ve written this down before, but it’s true …

My life has been so defined by my losses, instead of my gains.
Self-defined, but defined.
It’s a curse that I can’t seem to find a way out of.
And sometimes I wonder if
I want to at all.