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But you can’t live your entire life for one moment.
How to go on when you’ve fallen as low as you can get? One tiny step at a time. At least that’s what my therapist says. Take one step every day. Some days will be mundane. And some will be a downright pain in the ass.
“Don’t knock love till you try it, kid. Rejecting something out of fear only paints you a fool.”
Such a strange thing is life. All these moments of interaction with others, followed by a return to normalcy. Usually, we don’t give it a second thought. And yet there will be those singular moments that somehow embed themselves in our psyche when we’re least prepared.
“You know, they make medication to deal with people like you.” “Oh, really.” “Yeah. Antacid.
Onward and upward.”
That’s the worst thing about it, not being able to escape your mind. The mind is everything, right? How do you get away from your own thoughts? You can’t. There is only distraction.
Coping mechanism number one: remind yourself that your thoughts are not always your friend. They can lie like a motherfucker.
NOTE TO SELF
I won’t lie—the childish side of me chafes at the fact that I need to reach out for help. It’s stupid as hell, but there it is; I feel dependent on others and don’t like it. But that’s part of what pulled me under before—the refusal to believe that I needed help.
Shaking my head, I give her a wry look. “You are a remarkable woman, you know that?” Her cheeks pink. “Aren’t all women?” “Not the way you are.”
Jax Blackwood sings like he’s telling you a secret that only you’re worthy of hearing.
“Because no one who lives honestly is perfect all the time. Those perfect people? They’re often living
“There is no such thing as perfect. Human beings make mistakes. Humans who feel greatly often make the biggest ones. It’s the intent that counts. Is it a mistake based on hate, selfishness, or moral cowardice? Give them no quarter. But an honest mistake backed by a true heart is another matter entirely.”
“I was standing there, looking at her, and she became … more. I couldn’t … I couldn’t think, man. Everything simply …” I wave a hand in annoyance at myself. “Tilted. The world tilted, and there she was. You know?3”
My want of her isn’t just physical; it is soul deep.
You can be surrounded by friends and still sink into loneliness. It’s fucking awful6.
“You’re both … kind.” “Kind?” I don’t know why I’m repeating him. But “kind” feels like a pat on the head. He glances over his shoulder. “Yep. Kind. The person you call when you’re sinking and need a hand to hold onto because you know they’ll show up.” With a shake of his head, he laughs. “I don’t know how else to describe it.”
have zero true friends. Just people who know the surface of me. Sometimes the loneliness of it hurts crushes my chest like a vise. And I sit here, alone, wondering what the fuck is so wrong with me that no one has bothered to try. That no one sticks5.”
“I said that because I wanted to be close to you and am too emotionally stunted to man up to it. There isn’t anyone I want to be around more than you. You occupy my thoughts, haunt my dreams. I can no more stay away from you than I can try to keep my heart from beating.”
Friends fucking show. No matter what.
Part of me wants him to go. I can’t become attached to him. Because no one stays forever and the leaving hurts too much.
You know, I just realized most slow songs are kind of morbid. Loss of love, longing, death … Jesus, we musicians are a sick, sad bunch.” I let out a huff of laughter. “The world is sick and sad half the time. You’re just singing its songs, giving a voice to let all those feeling out.”
“We live in a world where people greet each other with ‘How are you?’ But few of us actually want an answer. It’s kind of hilarious if you think about it. We don’t really want to know how someone else is doing, but we want to look as though we do.”
didn’t know I was in trouble back then. I’d always lived on highs and lows. I kind of thought everyone did.
“And all I could think was, who the fuck am I? I felt like a lie, and then all this … ugliness started pouring in—telling me I was unlovable, unworthy, a fake—until I felt so dirty and trapped in my own skin that I couldn’t stand it. And there was no way out.”2
I didn’t want to go. Not really. I just wanted to feel okay.3”
