my brain is a poop head
my brain is a poop head
the vibes are very much not chill, bro
my brain is mean. it probably doesn’t help that i stayed up the evening before waxing philosophical with my fiancé, under the covers, up until the early twilight. i cried over the realisation that i’d never get to finish all the books i want to read in my life, let alone touch or open them. then we discussed how my brother and his family are doing disneyland wrong with their child, and how i told my brother that i would absolutely use his child to do a parent swap on all of the rides. we mourned the legislation and mounting tension in florida, and i sobbed over the fact that at least one state wants to see me unalive, and how i could not go to disney world because of it.
it also doesn’t help that i’m going through yet another non-breakup breakup. while my therapist states that this will free me up for someone who is better suited to me, it’s still a whole process to grieve and let go of the idea of romance with whom i had undeniable chemistry. with many connections, i tend to excise them from my life with surgical precision and zero to little emotion. i cut off the part of my brain that wants to word vomit, beg and plead for them to stay. i am not a lost little child, i am an adult. i take responsibility for myself and hold myself accountable for my own wrongdoings. i was too quiet. i did not speak up when i was uncomfortable, and i let this person drain me of my energy for far too long in silence in fear of losing them. and yet here i am, alone again. the liminality makes me feel uncomfortable. untethered and unmoored, i’m adrift in an ocean of emotion. my only saving grace are the pitiful life vessels that come in the form of other conquests. but those are just temporary fixes, minor bodies that keep me alive for one more measly day.
i’ve been through enough life to know that the only person that can save me is myself.
Photo by Etienne Girardet on Unsplash
here i am anyway, filling my calendar with first dates that i will eventually reschedule. (in college, my friends gave me a cute nickname: rain check; based off my penchant for switching dates at the last minute.) i’m worn out and tired, but desperate for attention because i’m trying to avoid the discomfort of melancholia, of depression, of whatever these blues are. but i sink deep into the blues, into the depths of the ocean of my tears. no one will fill the void that my brain chemistry created. it’s tailored to just me, baby and that’s the way the cookie crumbles.
maybe part of it is also that during this most recent eclipse, i also began to unearth and face the truth that i suffer from complex post-traumatic stress disorder (cPTSD), or as many call it, complex relational trauma. as i pore over copious amounts of research, i learn that trauma brains— especially those suffering from repeated trauma— work differently. i know rationally that healing isn’t linear or finite, but i still find myself reaching out for the sweet embrace of relief. but relief doesn’t come to me easily. not when the work is just starting. polyamory seems like a fun way to combat most of that hard work, but honestly, it’s adding to it little by little. the compounding stress of opening myself up to someone only for fear of losing them breaks me just a little each time.
i flit between fifteen different books at once (kind of like dating, lol.) throughout this month, i’ve been devouring books about mental illness— actually finishing them to completion, which is a triumph for me. i’m journeying through trauma with gretchen schmelzer while simultaneously diving into the end of the limits of my language by eva meijer. the heaviness that many of these tomes carry sits on my shoulders. the pain in my chest radiates as the process of reading scratches at wounds i thought were long healed, but are now gaping and bleeding. people often say that you have to fuck around and find out (for those of us who prefer a more formal process, we call this the scientific method,) but little do they realise, the aftermath takes a lot more out of you than you prepared.
often, the marginalised are deemed resilient for their existence. as i often say: the act of existence is resistance for many of us. but i’m tired of being resilient. i’m tired of fighting, and i’m tired of having to keep doing so. i suppose that’s why many of us have to build communities and allies that we fight against society’s bullshit with and for. but what is the toll of the Othered body when it is burnt out, weathered and worn? how am i meant to endure with my community when i am supposed to keep myself (as an individual) afloat?
i don’t have the answers. i’m just one person. but i’m going to keep asking the questions at the bare minimum, because they deserve to be worked on and scrutinised. maybe that way when my brain is nice to me again, i can continue to do the work i was brought on this earth to do. do i truly know what that is? no, but part of it involves building and structuring accessible, radically transparent and nurturing spaces for the Other.