People tell me stupid shit

9 Feb

They do. They mean well, but they tell me all kinds of stupid shit. Like, “Stop moping. Your ex isn’t moping,” as if grief somehow means I’m locked in a competition to see who can “do more” post-breakup, me or the ex. Isn’t this a movie, where I go off and become world-famous or something to rub it in his face? Just let me breathe, people.

I told my ex this one night many months ago as I was sobbing in his car – “This is grief, you asshole.” I’ll never forget saying those words – they were a Hail Mary for understanding of what I was feeling.

Grief makes its own rules, just like depression makes its own. I feel like I have a broken arm that just won’t set, and using it just makes it hurt more.

My doctor told me to talk to friends about what I feel. I told him my Pittsburg friends don’t care or they don’t want to take sides (probably the latter). I’m not comfortable talking about my busted-ass heart with anyone anyway, really, so the default is grief that sticks like trans fat.

The grief is starting to affect my work, so I’m trying to deal with it head-on instead of choking it down. At least the doctor made it so I can sleep at night, which is a start. The disenfranchisement that I feel makes me want to abandon everything I have built and go get a job as a park ranger in the Bitterroot Forest or Olympia National Park and reduce human contact to the absolute minimum.

This is sort of why I miss Idaho so much. Being alone in the wilderness was all the meditation I needed to work shit through in my head. That natural setting is good for the lungs, the heart, the mind.

Lawrence is great, and I could live the rest of my days here, but it ain’t Idaho.

Sorry for all the drama and emo shit. Winter is rough on me – I get kind of seclusion-y when I don’t get enough sunshine, and February’s the bleakest month of them all.

Make art, play music, laugh, help animals, be nice to people, ride your fucking bike. The mantra for rough times.

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