better

The problem with being habitually suppressant  is; the moment you realize the pain will never leave –ya know, when you lose your fucking mind and start to feel– you begin crying but don’t really remember how to cry because there are too many painful things running through your mind to produce tears at pace. You start making loud crying noises but can’t wake your roommates up so the attempt to prevent a loud breakdown only adds to the hyperventilation you feel the start of. You call your very closest acquaintances, those who you’d be comfortable saying “I’m insane, please just talk about anything so I can focus on something else to prevent the panic attack that’s about to occur (and force me to wake my roommates up)” to. But no one answers. You gotta get high.

the things that make me the most upset are the things I don’t have answers to. Usually when I write or talk it out I can figure it out. Lets start with the basics.

I don’t know how on earth I managed to have no money to my name while always being at work. I don’t know why every time I’m at work something bad has to happen. I don’t know why I’m paying $10,000 a year plus interest for an education. I don’t know why I’ve been in college for six years and don’t have a degree. I don’t know why my dog pisses in my bed sometimes knowing he shouldn’t. I don’t know why my washer has to break right before he does it.I don’t know why my dad has to develop a disease that slowly deteriorates cognitive and physical abilities at a point in my life when I never get to see him. I don’t know why it must happen during the stage in my life where our views on major life genres are becoming opposites. I don’t know why my brother had to die right before my dad was diagnosed. I don’t know why so many family members of his rejected my brother because of his sexuality. I don’t know why society and religion trained so many people in his life to be so mean to him. I don’t know why I called him a faggot when we were kids and fighting. I don’t know how the world convinced me that being gay was an insult. I don’t know why his father had to write him a letter explaining how he wanted nothing to do with him, long before he displayed any sign of homosexual character (like, a very young age). I don’t know why his dad came to his funeral after completely avoiding contact for 27 years only to greet a family with condolences that display nothing more than sympathy for the loss of someone. No guilt, no apologies, no tears. “Some people just go down the wrong paths. I hate that he had to,” you said. I was a moment from letting you hear everything you have needed to for so long but my mother displayed the strongest reaction she could have as her kind heart simply told the man that she had not seen since her and her four year old son walked in on his cheating on her that “you really missed out on a great child.” I don’t know why I’ll never get to sit outside and smoke cigs while talking about men with my brother again. I don’t know why I didn’t force him to move to athens with me so I could turn his life around. I don’t know why I didn’t call him more, knowing he was depressed. I don’t know why my mother has had to endure so much pain. I don’t know how she stays so well-kept. I don’t know how she takes care of all of us. I don’t know why my parents must leave me too later, or sooner.

I don’t know why people get married. It costs so much money and the only benefit is a couple of financial occurrences. It costs the wedding parties tons. What’s the difference in getting married and not? I know why love happens but what is the purpose of marriage?

I don’t know why I feel so strongly for you. You are so honest. I feel like you subconsciously rationalize everything you say in your head before it comes out. So, often times, others may react as if you’re insane but then realize that you’re not wrong. It’s so fucking charming. Sometimes you have the most assholey demeanor but you have respected me in so many ways that you don’t even realize. When you grabbed my face and told me to look at you when we fuck, it may seem like a misogynist thing to say but you made me realize that I have very rarely ever looked at anyone when I fuck them. I only focused on my ability to sexually function. Like I’m supposed to be some kind of fucking robot. When you forced me to look at you, my body worked on it’s on. Sex felt effortless for the first time and it was the best I’ve ever had. You’re so smart. Smarter than anyone I know, other than my dad, and that’s debatable. You could make me laugh at a funeral. As much hell as you give me for my memory or lack of certain knowledge, I am always more than entertained in your presence. That face of yours. Heavens to fucking betsy. Your eyes are honest. Your dimples are perfectly positioned to appear just in the moments when I need something to appreciate. You have the cutest bare man ass I’ve ever seen, regardless of how much you fucking fart. I trust you. I know that regardless of my lack of reason to, I trust too easy. I’m not turtlelly naive. I know that you shouldn’t actually trust anyone because we can’t really trust ourselves. We don’t know what we’re gonna do next, so how can we know what someone else will do and if their actions will cause a feeling of betrayal. But you get it. You get it all. I want to talk to you about things that I realize but I feel as if you’ve realized them long before I have so I will just seem naive. But I know you’ll listen if I wanted to.

Well, I answered one of my wonders.

i feel. better?

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