He’s just too much. It’s like I’m living with a teenager. And it’s really ethereal; he gets on your nerves in this really subtle, papercut way. Tiny actions that add up.
He doesn’t pick up after himself, he leaves the water filter empty, he puts his dirty runners on the couch, he never washes the dishes, he comes home past 2am drunk every night – you can hear him staggering into bed, reeking of cigarettes.
That part? I can tolerate that.
Hard to believe, but it’s true.
I can tolerate all of it.
It’s the subtle shit that makes me want to blow my brains out.
He never asks me how I’m doing, he never asks how my day went. He walks into a room, interrupts a conversation and starts talking about the failed connection he just had with this woman and that.
But get this.
He doesn’t see it as a failure; there’s a kind of delusions of grandeur happening. Time and time again, women have shown in their very mercurial, catlike, non-confrontational ways: they’re not interested.
So, why don’t you get it?
They don’t write back. They don’t call back. They ignore you. Broken promises. They say thanks but no thanks by not saying it.
That part would make me wanna blow my brains out too.
Women suck at communicating with the opposite sex. Period.
I feel for the guy.
He just can’t meet in the middle.
He does not have the gift of listening.
He does not know how NOT to be selfish.
He is absorbed in self.
Completely swallowed up in it, to the point of suffocation.
I’ve learned of his demons this week.
They are dark and menacing and they scare him.
They come back again and again.
If he only knew those “demons” become pots of gold at the end of the rainbow.
Like a witness, I see how his nervous system/his shadow/his subconscious, taps him on the shoulder ever-so tenderly but yet consistently, whispering into his desperate heart, “Hey buddy, we got some processing to do. Let’s stop the rat race. Let’s look at the man in the mirror.”
Gonna make a change.
For once in my life…
He would rather run from it.
And run he does.
Miles and miles a day.
Slim down, get the definition, have the sun-kissed skin, own the exterior glow.
Running from himself.
Oh, sweet Inner Growth…
So quiet and all-encompassing.
Like a hurricane sweeping through a sleepy town,
I humbly bow to your power.
Real healing is lonely.
It’s fat and pimply and caked in shame and guilt.
Takes fuckin’ guts.
Guts to open locked doors and walk into booby traps
You’re not alone.