Breakup = Bad Writing, Bad Writing = Therapy (Somehow)

Here I am again. Crying on someone else’s couch. Crying so hard I can’t catch my breath and then the wave passes and I allow myself to breathe for a few minutes. I never wanted to feel this again but I knew it would come, just like I know this won’t be the last time. It’s like vomiting for the first time as a kid. I never wanted to experience it again, but I knew it was inevitable. It’s just a part of life. I don’t care to be private and I don’t care how silly I sound. My writing is messy, embarrassingly so. I am tone deaf to my own voice, but I don’t care. None of that matters because I’m here in this place again. The place where everything feels out of control and hopeless. The place where I guilt myself for playing the role of the drama queen. The place where I can’t stop thinking about what I can do next or how I will be able to ever be kind to someone again because I’m just so fucking angry. The place where death sounds like a joyride I think I’ll be glad to never return from.

I am not my mother. I am not my mother. I am not my mother. I say to myself over and over. It’s my mantra. Maybe, just maybe, if I repeat it enough, it will mean it’s true. How does everything always come back to my mommy issues? You’ll never find peace with someone until you reach peace inside yourself. Insert <love>, insert <happiness>, insert <I’m tired of being told this>. I should be used to the disappointment. I shouldn’t panic anymore and feel that stabbing reminder of how bad my separation anxiety is. I should just get over everything easier now. At least, that’s what I’ve been told and makes the most sense. But I can’t and my brain just doesn’t work the way that would make life easier.

I can’t stop thinking of those parallels. The dependence. The men. The women? The poverty. I don’t know who I am. I gave you the only person I knew and you killed her.