I’ve been at this blank page for over an hour, staring at the little straight line that ticks in and out of sight – all in beats of eighths as it waits for the letters to be typed out.
I’m sitting on my chair, my bed in front of me, and a soft lamp to the corner that only lights up half the desk. I hear nothing but the echoes of the water heater crackling in the distance: a reminder that I am indeed, alone.
I look up at my bed again, my eyes begging me to sleep, and yet I know that if I don’t write this out, I. won’t. get. rest.
Yesterday, my 61 year old mother told me she wanted to kill herself.
I want to get to the above message in a second, but first I want to let you know that today is a little different.
I’m awake at 3:32 am in the morning, not because of worry. I’m awake because of optimistic scatter. This is a good thing because it’s a different feeling than days from the past.
Anyway, what is optimistic scatter? This is a really good question as I absolutely positively made up this concept while writing this all out.
Optimistic scatter is when you have the physical and mental energy to begin working on the creative ideas rambling around in your head, however, you don’t know where to start. Thus, keeping you in absolute limbo.
I have the camera in front of me, I’ve cleaned my room, I’ve planned my week and yet, my brain is a scatter of thoughts after thoughts knowing I have to start and finish at least something before the morning ends.
But where do I begin?
This is why I’m writing right now, because I need a place I know that keeps me grounded. Yes, this place, this place where I write. This place where I feel most familiar, it keeps me in check.
Alright, let’s talk about the message I pasted at the start of this post.
God it’s so early in the morning, I can barely keep my eyes open.
Let me see if I can make sense of these thoughts…
If I can be there for someone physically, help them with what I know, make them laugh, smile, feel enlightened, and / or more importantly, make them learn something significant… I feel as if I’m doing what I’m supposed to do… I feel as if I’m done my job…
Yes, I say “it’s my job” because I believe I have no other choice. This may sound absurd, egotistical, even narcissistic, but I have these stories in my head and experiences that I want to share.
Stories of domestic violence to heartbreak to heists, and other human experiences that can all be told in thoughtful pieces… and I want to tell them in a way that entertains people who hear them.
I’m not going to lie, I often feel alone…
and entertaining and listening to others, is the only way I can fill that void.
I’m here to spew so let’s spew. It’s more real that way, anyway.
Beyond the anger, frustration, despair, and desolation is a fork standing at attention, it poking The Halal Guys beef bowl I brought home to devour. However, I can’t really enjoy this delicious beef bowl because she’s poisoning my brain once again and I’m simply angry.
Yes, I’m talking about my ex of so many years ago and I need to write this out: unlike the other posts, I’m not going to delete this one. I’m tired of being silenced: writing things out is how I’m able to cope with so many things left unsaid.
I want her out of my head. She’s a trigger that halts my life and I end up doing destructive things to myself. I need to write this out or I might fall back to my vices.
It sucks because it may look like I’m a fucked up individual, a fucked up – crazy ex boyfriend. It hurts because I’m trying to find the balance between being able to take off these mental shackles that are pulling me down… while also being respectable.
Whenever I hear stories about my friends’ exes and the things the negative things they say, I often times think about my own actions and if I was a shitty boyfriend and if I will and am a shitty ex.
I’m at it again – the whole “I can’t sleep because I’m going through some mental shit right now” and since I haven’t written anything in awhile… this jibber jabber of text can hopefully help with the instability.
You could ask, who are you writing for? And, I’m going to be straight up and tell you that I’m writing for myself.
Writing is how I cope with my mental fragility. Therefore, I don’t care about the grammatical errors that happen in this post, I don’t care if my words are illogical… all I care about is the fact that I’m writing.
I’d rather write than shove a gun down my throat.
There are so many things that are racing through my head right now. I want to tackle how my manic-depression and PTSD keeps me awake at night: I’m tired of waking up screaming as another night-terror after night-terror after fucking. night. terror. blasts through my hippocampus as it rips through my emotional memories of nostalgic pain.