I’ve had a good week though I’m having a shitty night. I really want to drink and pass out, but I won’t. Or at least I’m trying not to. I was gonna post another song, but this one’s been in my head all week and I’m feeling lonely at the moment.

I like being by myself much of the time, but I can’t stand being alone– that empty feeling– and especially that feeling of being abandoned. Alone has nothing to do with being with one’s self. It, like many things in life, is just a state of mind. I can and have been surrounded by hundreds of people and felt completely alone–empty, devoid of human warmth, of connection.

But I haven’t been feeling “alone” or lonely lately, which is almost strange for me–to NOT feel alone. I’ve spent most of my life feeling alone, distant, cut off from the world as if an opposing magnetic force shielded me from humanity.

Tonight I do feel very, very lonesome. That shield has been placed over me again. See, I had plans today to go to a Halloween party. I was so anxious. The anxiety had been building up. I haven’t even properly worn a costume since I was probably thirteen years old. I don’t even think I’ve been invited to Halloween parties since I was a small child (maybe a few exceptions). Anyway, I even talked to the therapist about this Halloween party and how anxious I get despite the fact that I’ve been more social lately. I love Warrior D, so I was looking forward to going and seeing her. She’s the one throwing the party, only her home is waaaay far up north Houston. She’s also the only person I’ve told about my overdose in May.

****

Well, all my plans for tonight went down the fuckin’ drain (I don’t get plans, making them and all). It makes it harder when you don’t drive in a city that is built on nothing but highways and SUVs. It doesn’t make it easy when everyone bails on you last minute. And it doesn’t help that one of the “borderline” characteristics is having a deep-seeded fear of abandonment. I’m just coming to terms with it. But I can’t help to feel abandoned (albeit momentarily) by any little insignificant thing like this. They couldn’t get me to where I wanted to go, so now it means they don’t care and I shouldn’t give a fuck about anyone. I depended on them; I hate not being able to have that sense of freedom independence grants you, hence, I suck and so does my existence. That’s the twisted way my mind interprets the situation. However, I’m intelligent, I’m calmer these days than I have been all year. And I’m aware. I’m working on using more balanced/adaptive cognitive restructuring here… I won’t see things in black and white and I definitely understand why the others couldn’t make it out to give me a ride. I understand their side.

Wish I had some weed though.

********

So now I’m chillin’ with the dogs trying to use self-sooth by cuddling with them, keeping busy and using the distracting coping mechanism taught in DBT; I’m writing this and maybe watching a movie later or taking them for a walk. I thought about reading some blogs or some poems from this book I got at the university, but I’ve been having the reading spasms. I just can’t seem to read much these days.

Guess it hasn’t been a COMPLETELY bad day. Nah, it was a nice, pleasant afternoon. Houston decided to finally feel like fall; the chill brushed in to our coast.

I don’t even like to use the words ‘good’ and ‘bad’ to describe most things. That’s why I won’t say tonight is bad. There have been a few disappointments, but it happens. Though days like this are when I miss Monkey Man the most. I felt alone with him much of the time (especially when he was high and drunk out of his mind), but at least I got some comfort of a warm body and of knowing he was filled with me and I could be filled with his lovin’. I did (and still do) love him.

Well, I’m out my magnificent mofo’ bloggies and MFFs.

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Oh, and here’s the lovely Amy

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“Got so sick of cryin’, so just lately, when I catch myself, I do a 180”  ~Amy Winehouse

I’m catchin’ myself. Catchin’ the Mouse. Catching the Pretty Little Demons and tuckin’ their sleepy thorny heads in to bed.

Mouse love

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I Am Not a Poet
a nursery rhyme for Dear Dotty & Ink Anette

I am not a poet.
By now, you should
know it.

I just like to spit.
I like to spit words,
spit words

like swords
and blades
spit words under my
seething shade;

spit when I’m sad;
spit when I’m joyful
reproachful or glad.
I’ll spit on your ass
’cause I’m a crass
little lass.

I’ll spit in my cage
when I silently rage.

I like to spit
shitey shit with shit

when I twitch’n “bitch”
n’ itch
and can’t scratch
my bum
’cause I have to
be a lady!
What am I, a nun?
Hell no.
I’m just somewhat shady
and shaky.

But I’m not a poet.
And none of this is
literal
or literary.

Just so you know it,
I’m somewhat cynical,
maybe even a bit scary.
Sure I like to spit
in the lyrical
with a clitic
or two.
After all, a lady,
a sensitive cynic
with two tiny tits
a clit and no wit.

But I am not a poet.
By now,
you should know it.

And this is not
not, not
a dotty poem
(or noem)
’cause I’m no
longer a sot.

© Paz

**************************************************************************************************

Sure enough, yesterday’s showers cooled down this inferno. It’s a beautiful, cool (even chilly) spring day. Unfortunately, I slept too much again–a little lowly and lonely. And my wheelchair decided to start acting up again. Bagh.

At least I’m following through with the NaPoWriMo deal, right?

*le sigh*