This Is Not A Build-You-Up Post

So if you need that now, back away.

This is the black hole moment when I found a picture of us when we were happy. This is the moment I look at myself in that photo and still can’t wish I could tell her, that happy, pale teenager, to run.

This is the moment I feel guilty for having money when he has everything else. The house, the furniture, the linen, the towels, and the damn fucking house. And the bills, and the stress, and the security, and the foundation of a whole life.

And I’m left with the guilt of being able to buy a game just because I want to. And I want to share it with him, because that’s what I always did. I shared what I had, and he shared what we had. And I gave small comforts and smaller luxuries, and he did the same because that was all we could afford, but we afforded it together.


This is the moment I wonder where the love of my life went, because he was the love of my life. And he still is, or that person still is; the man that wears his skin right now. I don’t know him, but he looks so familiar that it’s like a knife in the gut.


This is the moment it takes everything I have not to slam my fist into the wall, the floor, into my own face. Did you know “beating” yourself is an uncommon form of self-harm; so say the big brains with good jobs, but its all the same. Split skin, bruised skin, and a salved mental churn. And guilt, and hurt, and throbs, and the black hole feeling that always comes back.


This is an end of the line, bottom of the barrel, staring at a blank screen kind of blog. Its the bottom of a wine bottle at 2pm kind of post.

It’s and end of the world as I know it, post.


And to quote a fine band,

“I feel fine.”


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