v u l v a l i c i o u s
the worst kind of text dump
so every time i listen to Lover i end up crying at “soon you’ll get better” (the song with the dixie chicks) to the point that i’ve started skipping it because i don’t wanna cry every time i listen to a song. i spent so many years actively forcing myself not to cry that when something gets me EVERY time it’s like i need to step back from the power.
anyway it’s a sad song, obviously. about watching a parent being sick and feeling powerless but wanting more than anything for them to recover because they’re your parent, and even though you know they’ll go first (probably) there’s something in you that says it’s not ok. and i realized that i see “soon you’ll get better” as a beautiful but sad precursor to “two of us” (louis tomlinson) because no matter how much you fight it, you do have to figure out what you’ll do when your parent is gone. and sometimes they get taken in a way that rips your guts out and it sucks so much.
but like. you keep going. instead of asking who you’re supposed to talk to, you call their old number just to hear their voice. or you don’t. you talk to the quiet or, in my case, you have dreams where your parent keeps appearing and symbolizing all these complicated things. every time my mom is in my dreams i feel like i’m supposed to get something from it, but i have no idea what.
the dreams are never nice ones. they’re exhausting.
i just keep being sick. i don’t know that I’m going to get better and now i have a clock ticking down the days before i lose my fucking job. i hate to say i knew this would happen, but i did. i was depressed before i got sick and that depression made me harder to work with, and so when i left it wasn’t like i was everyone’s favorite worker. and then i came back and tried my hardest and fucking couldn’t make it, and now if i’m not better by january my leave time will be done and i’ll be out of work.
i recognize that capitalism sucks and is garbage, and that even cooperative labor does not inherently operate outside of capitalism, but i wanted it to be different here. i wanted my co-workers to say, “take as long as you need, ask for a longer leave and come back when you’re ready.” but. yeah, no.
my value really does come from the labor i provide, and being unable to provide labor means that i’m worthless to them. it makes sense. it’s not like any of them ask how i’m doing over text or email. well, one does. one person. he got hired when my mom was dying and i wasn’t even there for the process. we hardly worked together until i was sick, and then he’d always ask me for a 1d update.
honestly he’s the only cis straight guy i have ever met who i think is truly decent to his core. i can’t believe i’d say he’s the best one, but he is. oof.
to everyone else, i know i might as well be gone already. they truly do not give a shit. but really, i can’t blame them? i’m boring. always tired, can’t go anywhere. if you actually do come to see me i start to sink into my chair after an hour of hanging out. i’m not entertaining. i don’t sparkle. i am a dull heap, trying my best to fake being ok for anyone who gets near me by trying to do all the things i can.
i’m not in the place where i’m really having suicidal thoughts, but i’m not not there either. don’t worry, i’m not gonna go anywhere. i just sometimes wish i’d stop existing. just have my spirit absorbed by the universe and spat out in a million pieces to land in a million different other bodies and times. to discorporate and have everyone know it was for the best.
as long as my dog is alive, though, you’ve got me. i would never ever leave her.
my body is a stranger anyway, is the thing. i want so badly to go for a walk in the hills and smell the trees. i want to go to work and lift forty pounds like it’s nothing and stand in the kitchen making dinner and then cleaning up and serving everyone. i used to go dancing after work. i would get red faced and sweaty, but i could go around and around. it was only a few years ago.
i can’t imagine it now. or i can, but it’s exhausting-- my head all spinny and my body like an engine revved too high, all the fuel burning up in no time.
sometimes i try to imagine being loved like this and it’s impossible to me. there’s no way. i’ve talked about it before, and i try to push back against it of course. rationally i know that all people deserve love and that people a lot sicker than me meet people and fall in love. but i truly can’t imagine it, and i’m not sure if i’m not attracted to anyone because i’ve slowly shifted into a grey-ace identity or if i’m tired or. whatever. i don’t know.
and i don’t care that much. sometimes i’m happy-- often, even --and even though i’m still depressed my meds keep me buoyant in a way that is extremely useful (and a true blessing; actively wanting to die is a terrible way to live). until i started reacting so badly to my lyme meds i was even able to write pretty regularly, which was really good for me. i like making things. i’m a dilettante but if i’m making it’s good.
i’m not going anywhere with this. it’s nothing but a long list of the things i’ve been thinking of (not all, but a lot) that doesn’t have a resolution. and it’s stupid but i don’t want solutions or advice, really. i just wanna sleep and sleep and then wake up with energy enough to do something. i wanna not feel like this anymore.
i wanna get better