Either Way I Wouldn’t Care

Waking up and not wanting to, is always the beginning of a bad day, but this is how depression and anxiety operate together, so I stay inside of my head, and I start to wish that I was other things, like sunlight, the wind, or water. These things are free, and eternal, and they don’t know that they exist, they just simply are, and I think, how wonderful it would be to exist in that way.

 

If I were the wind, I could make autumn leaves dance, and send downy white dandelion seeds swirling in spirals across fields of viridian grass. I could rip giant oaks from the earth, and bend reeds in a pond. I could stir up sand in the desert, and rip flesh from bones. I could cool a hot sweaty face in the summer heat, or gust sleet, hail, and freezing rain against a frail human body in the winter, but either way I wouldn’t care and I would regret nothing.

 

If I were the sun, I would be an integral aspect of photosynthesis. Plants would need me to grow. I would thaw the land as winter passed into spring, and I could burn skin until it blistered. Painters and photographers would search out perfect rays of my light streaming through the clouds, or an open window, and paint, or photograph me, and the shadows cast from my light. I would be an inspiration. Rainbows would exist because of me. Crops without water would wilt and die because of me, but either way I wouldn’t care and I would regret nothing.

 

But there is nothing on this earth that can live without water. If I were water, I would give life to everything, and I would erode mountains. I would exist in three forms. I could be a beautiful rain reflecting the sun and thus revealing a visible spectrum of light in seven different colours, and I would be the delight of dreams and folklore. Or I could be something more treacherous, like the lake that drowned the poet who was tired of living in a world that would not listen to her songs. I could be the ocean, and house entire ecosystems that some humans don’t seem to care about.

 

I could be clouds in the sky, drifting lazily along from the horizon, to the top of the sky dome, observing continents. I would gather, and billow, and swirl in dances led by the wind, and then I would twist and fall to the earth, quenching thirsts, drowning life, or freezing little flowers to death because they emerged from the soil to soon.

 

I could be the mist, dressing the land in sultry gowns of reflected light and shadows. Spider webs would twinkle with liquid diamonds, and the areas clothed by me would become places for mysterious things to dwell, things that most people don’t believe in, but that do exist. If I were a mist rolling off a river, and into the stands of trees along its banks, I would tell you, because I would know, that when I veil the earth in droplets of opaque obscurity, is when that veil is lifted, and time will stop if you go the right way, and you might find a gaslight from another time standing in a pile of crumbling cobblestones, and you will know that you are there, and that They are true and real, but either way I wouldn’t care and I would regret nothing.

 

Beautiful and treacherous I would be, if I could be any of these things, if I could break out this fragile envelope of beautiful decay, and this mind that gives me freedom as it traps me in those galaxies I have created to keep myself company. If I could be one or all of these things together, I would nurture, and I would destroy at the same time. I would be the circle, I would simply exist, and I wouldn’t care and I would regret nothing.

 

Desperate

We all fall in and out of love. Perhaps we will love many people over the course of our lives, or, if we are lucky, we will fall in love with the same person over and over again through a span of decades.

 

Sometimes your partner stops communicating with you, and you find yourself being pushed away, as an ocean of unsaid words begins to drown the both of you in complacency, resentment, and contempt.

 

Did you ever stop to think that maybe this is happening because you have stopped listening to each other?

 

And then you find yourselves dancing in the eye of a hurricane, wondering how soon it will be before the winds shift, and the storm descends upon you both, bringing everything about you as a couple, and as a partnership, to some bitter end.

 

It is a matter of pride, and sadness when I say that I will be 37 on the 25th of February, 2016 and I have never been married. The people who I know that are married, are all mostly getting divorced now, or they’ve been divorced for a while, or, if they are still married, are deeply unhappy about some aspect of their marriage. There are a few who seem to be content, or at least settled in their married lives, but I can see, in the case of the married women I know, how having a husband, and children has made them tired.

 

I think that husbands and children make women old sometimes, but it is important to remember that I have a dark and bitter view of most things, so keep that in mind about me always.

 

From a traditional point of view, when a woman gets married, she tethers herself to her husband. She takes his name, and she has his children, who also have his name, and she sits forever to one side of him, and the holiday cards will always arrive addressed to Mr., and Mrs. So-and-so, because he is always first, and her life ceases to be about her own happiness, and instead becomes about the happiness of her children, and the happiness of her husband. Her only achievemenst having been the acquisition of a husband, and giving him children. All of her dreams and desires, if she had any others, are put away, and her narrative is lost.

 

Maybe that’s why weddings are such a big deal; it’s the last say she will ever be important, because I don’t think that most husbands really appreciate what their wives do for them. I think that they expect it I think that they feel entitled to it, and I think that they take it for granted.

 

In all honesty though, it is entirely possible that I am just one bitter bitch filled with envy.

 

I have been with many men, my last count was upwards close to 100, but I’m a shameless slut, but that does not mean that I have not loved any of them.

 

Only five of them were long term relationships. Three made it to five years, and the other two only lasted one year, and of those five only one man asked me to marry him, and that was Gabriel.

 

Gabriel proposed to me while we were high on heroin, fucking our girlfriend Morgan, and I barely remember it, other than he was balls deep in her ass while she was licking my pussy, and he told me that he loved me and that he wanted to marry me. I said yes. He bought me a silver ring with a tanzanite stone in the center, and two small diamonds on either side. I had been eyeing that ring for a while, and anyway, I don’t think engagement rings should have to be expensive in so much as they should be what she wants, and what he can afford. But honestly I didn’t care that much about a ring as I would have rather spent that $200.00 on heroin at that point in my life because I was a pathetic junkie.

 

It happened one day that the ring got caught on something as I was cleaning the house, and the tanzanite stone fell out. We took the ring back to the jeweler to be repaired, but I never went back to get it, and the shop went out of business, as did nearly all of the shops at Saint Louis Mills Mall in Hazelwood Missouri.

 

I didn’t get the ring fixed because every time Gabriel gave me the money to go and get it, I bought heroin instead. What can I say about that? I have no excuse for what I did, other than I was a drug addict. However, to be fair, Gabriel shot that heroin with me, as well as meth, so he can’t say that I was some horrible person for what I did, because when it came to the consumption of drugs, Gabriel and I were as thick as thieves, and whenever you are trapped in active addiction, you do terrible things when it’s a matter of being dope sick versus not being dope sick, and every junkie everywhere would rather be high than have an engagement ring.

 

Besides, it’s not as if Gabriel was some hapless victim in this situation. He was, and most likely still is, a methamphetamine user, as this is his preferred drug of choice, so bracket any judgments you have of me, because Gabriel and I were both addicts, and we were both terrible people because of it. The only difference between the two of us concerning drugs is that I wanted to change, because within the deepest realms of myself, I knew that sticking a needle in my arm just wasn’t me.

 

My absolute need for heroin (because by this point, I was physically addicted to heroin) was not the only reason I didn’t go back to get that ring.

 

I didn’t go back to get that ring because I didn’t want to get married to Gabriel. At the time I most certainly believed that I loved him, and that I wanted to be with him forever, I just didn’t want to get married at all. Period. The very thought of it terrified me. It terrifies me still.

 

As it stands right now, the house I live in is mine, and mine alone. My name is the only name on the rental lease, and my name is the only name on any of the bills. Everything in my house is mine. It is important to me that all of this is mine, because then I am able to invite a man (or a woman) to cohabitate with me if I so desire, and I can make them leave if I so desire, and all of my things are still my things.

 

You can’t do this if you are married. You have to get a divorce, and property, finances, and children, will be divided.

 

So why not just keep everything divided, because in all likelihood that is how it will end up anyway, so why even bother?

 

It should go without saying that my relationship skills are awful anyway. If I can’t make a relationship work for longer than five years, how would marriage change any of that?

 

Gabriel’s ultimate doom was the same doom that others have faced; he stopped listening to me, and I find myself wondering if he ever listened to me at all, because as I look back, I can see that he wanted that I should be tethered to him. He wanted that I should be absorbed into him. He wanted that I should follow him, and I don’t fucking follow anyone, especially someone who isn’t improving my life, but instead making it worse, and that is what Gabriel was doing.

 

As I write this, it has been about three months since I unceremoniously ended my relationship with Gabriel, and I can’t help but wonder, do I even have it in me to try and do this again with anyone? Especially since, from my bitter perspective at this moment, I know that things will always end.

 

Everything always ends, but everything always begins there too, right where it ended, because everything in life is a circle.

 

We are all just dancing together in the eye of the hurricane, waiting for the torrential rains to fall, but when this happens, as it will, it does not have to be the end; you clean up with each, you rebuild with each other, you start over with each other, if you can.

 

I guess that’s what I’m doing right now it’s just that I’m doing it alone at the moment.

 

When it comes to marriage, and children, and having a family though, who am I to judge?  Who am I to judge what empowers a woman, or what it is that should make her feel whole, content, fulfilled, and centered in her life?

 

Because the truth of the matter is that I am so full of envy towards those women.

 

I would love for a man, or a woman, who I am passionately in love with, to propose to me.

 

I would love to have a wedding, and a wedding set on my left hand.

 

I would love to have a life that I am building alongside another person who gets me, and who lets me be me in all of my terrible beauty.

 

This person would have to fall in love with what it is that I do first though; my art, my writing, my crochet, because these things mean so much to me. I did not choose to become an artist, and believe me, if I could be good at anything else, I would be. Being and artist is not something that I can control, or stop. Creating art, and expressing myself in every way that I possibly can are things that I have to do, or I cannot bear to be alive. Art comes first in my life always.

 

But I’m afraid that a partner or a spouse would seek to distract me from that, and after all, that is what has always happened to me, and I can’t have that.

 

The reason I focus so much on self-expression because it is the only thing that I am good at. I don’t have any other skills, and I’m a terrible housekeeper who eats out of boxes, and bags that crinkle, and I am committed to carry out, so it’s not like I’d make a good wife anyway-and don’t even think about asking me to stop smoking cigarettes, and weed, you can go fuck some other lonely horny middle aged cunt, because I’m not doing that unless I want too.

 

Sometimes when that chronic loneliness starts eating at me, I go and buy myself some cheap ass malt liquor from the gas station up the road, and I get piss ass slobbering drunk, and I listen to Morrissey, and The Smiths at maximum volume, and I stumble dance around my painting studio like a goon. I do this until I pass out, and I usually wake up with a burning desire to drive the porcelain bus as they say. I’m a binge drinker who always pukes, and that’s the absolute worst, I know, but that’s the only way I know how to purge some demons. Nice ladies aren’t supposed to get shitfaced and puke. It’s considered unattractive, but why drink when you’re alone and depressed if the goal isn’t to get fucked up?  That’s alcohol abuse.

 

I don’t drink very often anyway, I’m a stoner, but when I do get that itch, I’m going to need someone who loves me enough to hold my hair while I drive that porcelain bus, but so far this behavior has just pissed my partners off, and some would tell me that perhaps I should mend my ways if this is always the case, but I think that I just have not found the right person yet.

 

I get this nagging ache when I think about starting over. Where could it possibly go?

 

I feel like I can’t start something new because of where things have gone in the past, and there seems to be a five year limit.

 

If I do this again, and it lasts for five years, then ends, I’ll be in my forties.

 

Then there is that nagging chronic loneliness to contend with. It eats at everything inside of me. It’s there no matter what and no partner of mine has ever been able fill that emptiness, or make it go away completely.

 

There’s always a black cloud on the horizon, and the smell of rain, and I don’t know how to make it go away.

 

It seems that most of the people my age are married, or divorced, and towing just as much, if not more, baggage as I am, and sometimes, I think that it’s easier for a man to start over, and he’ll do it with someone who is younger than me. Then there are the never-been-married single men my age, but I think that they like younger women too because those women don’t know the game like I do, and their lack of knowledge makes them pliable, more easily manipulated, kind of like how I was when I was in my twenties, and early thirties, but what do I know? I’m just fucking bitter right now.

 

I do know the game, I know it well, and that’s why I don’t play it, and anyway, I have to many of my own ways that I am set in, and I feel like this makes me unattractive, that and my sexual forwardness. I don’t mind flirtation, but I hate coyness, so I just cut to the fucking chase and say let’s fuck first, and then see what happens, and I guess that’s intimidating, or maybe it’s just desperate. I don’t really know.

 

I’m not getting any younger, and I don’t want to be alone, but then again who does? Young people don’t want to be alone the elderly don’t want to be alone. No one wants to be alone, so I guess it doesn’t matter how old you are when it comes to not wanting to be alone, and maybe after all, deep within the dark places that inhabit us all, we’re all jaded, and bitter, and desperate for something to make us feel whole.