Trust, and other unsolved mysteries

Something important is coming up, so naturally my brain is pulling more tricks than usual. I take it back, my brain has been surprisingly nice to me lately. I think it has help, outside influences maybe? I’ve been much nicer to myself lately. It’s been easier, knowing you’re listening.

My thoughts never stop moving. They start wild, then careen through every crack and slit in my skull. They are grains of sand, with the weight and spirit of chucked marbles. Gritty, girding, grinding and sometimes grotesque. I hate them. I have an excess of them. I write, and they leave me alone for a while. If I don’t write, or speak, or play, or shout; I am overwhelmed by them. Sometimes I write, and they get twice as loud, twice as “sandy”.

I never had problems until the sand got into my head while I play. I never, ever had problems when I played music. It was the only thing that made me feel whole, at peace. It was like, a sand-eliminator. No matter how much shit life threw at me, I would play and everything would be fine. I would feel clear-headed, understood, whole.

I dated someone all throughout college who was “a bit of a jerk”. I didn’t have contact with my family, so she quickly became the most important thing in my life besides my career. She was a saboteur when it came to my passions and pursuits, so I have spent the last few years scrounging up what is left of my self-esteem. She successfully made me hate myself, doubt myself, and undervalue myself in an attempt to establish dominance and control. Funny thing is, I am quite submissive in relationships. Nobody needs to establish much of anything. I welcome control, restraint, demands. Very easy to take advantage of. I am an excellent student, what can I say.

How much is enough, with those types, though? Nothing was enough. She was empty, I overflow.

She dumped sand everywhere. Just fucking, everywhere. It was like a glitter/sand/fart bomb exploded inside my heart every day for two years after we broke up. Our breakup was bad, but what I often forget about was how bad the day-to-day of it all was. No breakup is worse than a single day in an abusive relationship. Except, of course, for the women who are murdered by their stalker ex-boyfriends. But alas, look up my post about how I don’t have to deal with that. Women are their own special kind of awful.

The sand has been in my head ever since. What used to be my only sand-free place, is now a sandbox. I never feel clear-headed. I never feel whole. I feel weak, unfocused, undisciplined. I feel like a loser. I feel like a fucking idiot, for having given so many years of my life to someone who saw fit to degrade my humanity. I can’t get the sand out of my head. It’s in my ears, it’s in the cracks of my toes. Plenty of other horrors have contributed to my sandbox besides this now incredibly boring breakup. All of those things dumped sand in my box as well. I live with daily, physical reminders of my weakness and inadequacy that affect my self esteem much more than the breakup ever did.

It has taken me awhile to realize this, but I now see how much love I have in me. I now see how much hatred I have been drowning myself in. I’m doing my best to convert this hate to love (HAHAHAH I first wrote this as ‘love to hate’. I almost wish I hadn’t found the typo). A good friend of mine told me that love and hate are different sides of the same feeling. I agree with this, it seems to be right. I hate that that means that I love the people I hate. I fucking hate it.

Most of all, I fucking hate that I don’t trust myself still. I hate that it has been almost five years, and I still don’t fully trust myself. I still don’t fully love myself. When we broke up, I found an article on the internet that told me I would recover from my breakup in no less than half the duration of the relationship. I gleefully set the timer. It has been the full duration of the relationship. I am no longer actively hurt or obsessed with it, but I still notice things about myself that are from our time together. I still think and feel the way she made me think and feel, all these years later. I still hate myself, all these years later. I still look for advice, for help, for tips from people before I trust my own instinct. I still don’t trust myself.

My current girlfriend has trust issues, and a jealous streak that terrifies me. We have had discussions, we are making progress, but I can’t help but wonder given my experience; do people change? Do people make genuine progress? Is there any such thing, or is it like a form, something we can never fully achieve? She is so much better than she was; how can I trust it? She relapses; she is consumed with her jealousy at times as if it were an illness. Do I treat her with patience and understanding, as she does my faults, my weaknesses? If I do, am I setting myself up for the same mistakes I made the last time?

None of any of it is similar to the last time. Nothing that has ever happened to me is genuinely like another time, except for maybe holiday church services. They are exactly alike, almost all the time. Church folk are tighter than clockwork. Every church service I’ve ever played gives me deja vu of all past church services. Who needs acid, when you can be an agnostic at church.

None of my past experiences are like my current or future ones, so why do I paint them all the same? Why do I generalize? Why do I self-defeat, self-destruct, and self-sabotage? It was easier when someone else was doing it to me. At least then, it wasn’t coming from inside my brain. At least then, I could wonder if it was right. Now, I feel the doubt in my bones. Doubt is my new instinct.

Where there was song, now there is doubt. I am making progress, but is recovery a longterm goal, or a immediate necessity for survival? I can’t tell, I am overwhelmed. I need to perform the best I can, but I see myself as less-than. How does anyone kill chatty bitches in their heads? GTA has suggestions…

Lmao video games used to help. Books used to help. Exercise used to help. Music used to be a sanctuary. Leisure used to help. Nobody tells you that depression carves out your brain. Lobotomizes you. You are broken. You do not function. You do not want to be alive, or dead. You don’t hate you, you don’t even know you. You don’t exist anymore, you are nameless other.

My experience, at least.

Anyway, I’m trying to do something. I’m trying to do something great. I hope to do it, but I don’t know if I can. I have slowly been teaching myself to like me for me, no matter what happens. I am quite enjoyable to spend time with, if I do say so myself. If this opportunity pans out, I will be relieved, but also worried. I will always be worried. I don’t trust myself yet, and I can’t figure out why.

I have been grabbing and hoisting older parts of myself and polishing them. I have been trying to rediscover my past self. She was cool, but now I worry that I want to kill her. I worry that she is a he, and that I am subconsciously trying to kill her, no matter what. I catch him in my podcast, in my blog, in my selfies. I catch him in my playlists, in my instruments. I catch him in my heart, and I wish he would leave. I want to be happy as her, I want to make peace with her. She was unloved, I love her now, why can’t that be enough? Why can’t I love her, and let her live? Why do I so desperately want to murder myself, and start a new life as someone else?

I have worked so hard to be this version of myself. I survived a lot, as this person. This person deserves love, trust, respect. I deserve to love, trust and respect myself. I should be able to do this, without MORE surgery. Without MORE trauma. Without MORE doctors, more assholes, more abuse.

How can he be so entitled, so brazen, so ignorant as to think he can exist? He cannot exist, the way he wants to exist. He will never feel like a full man, why set him up for even greater disappointment? Why tease him, why coax him with hope, let him on? He is killing her anyway. I try to stop him, but he is very persistent. He is smarter than she, he is bolder, and he is always taking up too WAY much space. I hate him, but I am him.

I don’t know how much longer I can play host to both parties. I feel both of them, distinctly. I want to have both of them, desperately. He is not good at sharing. He wasn’t there, the day she read the rainbow fish in class, I suppose. Or he just wasn’t listening. Sometimes he is a very self-absorbed asshole. Again, I fucking hate him. I don’t want to be him. I am him, anyway, so I would know.

How can anyone live with two souls, when the souls are Cain and Abel? Except like, Cain and Abby. WHAT IF HE IS CAIN!? That is my point.

I am afraid. I cannot trust myself.

As my mom said, I have a darkness in me. Now I worry it’s just him, and that I need to embrace him.

Blech I fucking hate men. I DO NOT WANT TO BE ONE.

(RIGHT RIGHT I KNOW I can just be nonbinary and be happy, right? Maybe for nameless others. For me, I don’t know. Sitting on the fence is maddening. I want to run free and be at peace. Maybe nonbinary is for some, but for me it is a constant state of invalidation. Transitioning hormonally might never help me feel at peace, but I know I am not at peace as I am now. Maybe presenting more masculine will help get some of the sand out? I have no fucking idea. I am confused.)



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