Thoughts and decisions

So I still feel like shit.  The ex- doesn't seem to stay away from my mind for very long.  It's annoying.  Because it seems to cause me nothing but pain.

I've been listening to this guy named Betinho Massaro.  He's some sort of self-help guy.  But not cheesy.  He's hella young and seems to have found his bliss.  Or he has found a bliss that he believes we can all access, and he wants to share it with anyone who is interested.  What he says reminds me a lot of Stranger in a Strange Land by Ray Bradbury.  As if there is a higher level we humans can attain if/when we open ourselves up to it.

And I believe that.  I think I've believed that since I first read Stranger (circa 1980-something).  Betinho's talks are sometimes thick and hard to follow.  I'm only just starting to listen to him.  We'll see where that goes.

But I do believe that we are all connected, as one primordial goo, and that we can (and should!) tap into that goo in order to keep ourselves on balance.

Why I'm not doing that right now is a concern for me.

Instead I'm here at my local pub, eating a hamburger, drinking a beer, and wondering what the hell has become of my life.  Why am I at this fucked up place, and how do I get home from here?  Figuratively, of course.  I know how to walk home from the bar.

Decisions.
I think I need to get back on anti-depressant meds.  I'm thinking this inability to move on from the breakup is part and parcel of being drug-free.  Or, perhaps more accurately, the crutch of drugs might help pull me out of this rut and allow me to see things more objectively.

I move through phases of rationality (or what I decide to call rationality.  Perhaps it's acceptance, lying to myself, rationalization of the ex's crappy actions, seeing the situation from all sides, whothefuckknows), into phases of complete immobility and depression, then through some phase of neutrality.  I don't like the immobility, nor do I like the neutrality.  And being so fucking understanding is noble, but annoying as fuck.  Because there is still this anger lurking below the surface.  Just below the surface sometimes.

I believe that the understanding me is true.  I love the fact that I can see other's perspectives, that I can commiserate with them, that I see a view other than my own.  But when it's so close to my own experience it's both admirable and shitty.  Great that I can objectively see their view, shitty that it can hurt me so much at the same time.  Too bad I can't be like others - lashing out when I'm in pain.  In some ways it would be easier.  However, that's not my truth.  My truth is that I'm very fucking empathic.  And, ultimately, I like that about me.  I value it more than I value protecting myself from potential pain.  Apparently.

The anger I have is long-standing.  It's not anything new.  When I was in high school I would day-dream about having access to an old car and a bat.  I would think about taking the bat to the car, beating the shit out of it.  Take that, you fucked up old car.  It's never been too clear who the car represents to me.  Easy to assume it's my dad.  And maybe it is.  But that is so deep, so entwined into my person that the anger can be triggered by things others do.  So is that anger at that person, or at my dad?  Or both?  Who the fuck knows.

It's why I bought the punching bag.  It's why I'm thinking of spending the little money I have left on taking a boxing class.  Learn how to properly punch the shit out of something so I don't hurt myself.

Fuck this sucks.  I'm in so much pain and I can't quite figure out the source in order to tame it, corral it into some corner of my being so that I can function.  And I don't feel like I have many people I can really talk to about it.  Yes, I have friends who will listen.  Until they're bored.  Or until they have an opinion to add.  Then they stop listening.  My therapist, my friend Trish, my friend Angela and my sister are the four with whom I can really have a substantial conversation about my shit.  I don't believe others are that interested.

This town is so soft!  Maybe it's the rain.  Someone recently told me that Portland has a very strong female essence (or something like that).  I'm such a fucking tomboy that I don't fit in here.  I'm harder than those around me.  It's not that I don't believe in all the left-wing liberal values - I do.  But I'm tired of soft-peddling myself.  I'm not the all-understanding, "up with people" kind of gal.  I'm rough around the edges, I swear like a sailor (and more often, and better, than quite a few of the men I know), I don't ascribe to the "ease everyone into the new thing" method that so fucking many people here seem to live by.  Throw them into the deep end is my thinking.  Stand by to rescue them, of course, but let them learn their own strength through experience.

Abominable ale, Grumpy Elf ale.  It's my mood, I told the bartender.

Decisions.
I need to let go of the ex.  I need to ignore him, even.  Forget that he was ever in my life.  Let that wound heal for a while.  I still love him - at least I love what I thought he was.  Whether he is actually that image - or even somewhat close to that image - is unsure to me at the moment.  I want him to be that person so badly.  I want to believe that I saw the truth of him.  That I saw a possibility for my own future - to be in a partnership with someone who really, truly loves me.  Whether it's him or someone else.  Right now I want it to be him, but fuck.... only time will tell on that one.

Silly me.  I've read so many love stories.  They talk about the "tough times", and then the hero/heroine moves through that time in 20 pages or so.  To bliss.  To happiness.  Those books don't make it clear just how fucking horrible those 20 pages are.  And that those 20 pages last a Long.  Fucking.  Time.

What do I have to complain about really, though?  It's been 1 1/2 months since the shit started to hit the fan.  Maybe only a month since we actually broke up.  One month.

Fuck.

I'm a mess.