Hate alone is not enough to nourish. But there’s rage too.

The truth of the matter is that I chose to be miserable. I’ve been doing it for decades now. I make everything a struggle. I make big deals about mistakes. I have to learn to hike up the skirt and quit getting so caught up in shit. Let moods come and go. React to them, work through them, stop avoiding them, stop denying them.

This is a post that probably could have been made a million times since November 22, 2004. I’ve been avoiding it. I miss her. It hurts. I don’t cry (but I should). I hate (mostly me). I miss. I want. I wish. I think. It doesn’t compute. I’m lost. I hope. But I know.

I know it can’t work the way it was. I know that nothing has changed to make it work now. But I can’t accept that it isn’t.

Life can suck. I understand that there are worse places to be, worse things to feel, worse hands to be delt. None of it makes this feel better. Instead of being happy with what I have I wish that I was in the worse places, feeling worse and wanting to throw the good cards down that I’ve been delt. Because I think that the pain in doing so will make me forget that which I feel now. But it wouldn’t. I’m going to feel this way until, if ever, I figure out how not to.