Most days I just want to light shit on fire. I want to burn the whole god damn world down, I want to fight until I’ve got nothing left, just like I’ve been doing for the past how ever many months. I want to take a match, strike it and burn the whole fucking thing down, my life, my love, my reality. I want it fucking gone because it’s not the shit I picked, it’s not the shit I fought for, and yet still, it’s mine.

So I carry it.

Because, really, what’s the other choice? I lose my shit? I strike the match, burn all our lives to the fucking ground? That’s not feasible, see, because we must maintain some semblance of sanity, no matter how hard it might be.

Right?

Because the scorned bitch, she’s the one who is supposed to stand proud and swallow her hurt and live some great fucking life and be the best version of herself, but fuck you. Real life is a disaster. It’s a shit show.

Real life takes the fucking life from your lungs, it cripples you, it throws you on the fucking floor, broken limbed and bleeding the fuck out, because reality, my friends, reality is a mother fucker, and all the things you learn, all the things you realize, they will cripple you.

And sure. I’m a strong bitch. I”m a badass mother fucker. I’ll spit hate in your face and never regret it, but that doesn’t mean this shit, this terrible and fucked up shit isn’t the most terrible shit I’ve ever faced in my whole fucking life.

I wanted to be choked out, to pass the fuck out, to leave for a bit, but my neck is too small, his biceps too big and the closer I get to the bottom, the more I realize that rock bottom is farther and harder than I ever fucking anticipated. You touch this spot, this terrible spot where you think it can’t get worse, and then it hits you, the weight of the lies and the truth and you sink even further and you see your worst self, the most terrible parts of you that you buried in a yard 15 fucking years ago. And yet.

Still.

There she is, that damaged girl, leaving claw marks on everything she touches.

But you live it, you take it, you swallow it, you fix it. Because that’s what bitches like me do. We win. God help us. We fucking win.

Whatever that means.

{ 26 comments }

A Letter.

by terra on April 7, 2014 · 7 comments

in Deep Thoughts

David:

You’ve been dead for 14 years.

I get anxious as we approach the 16th anniversary of your death, when we get to the point where you’ve been dead longer than you were ever alive.

I got mad this year. I was pissed.

I turned 30, and you, with a birthday just one day before mine, didn’t. And so rage. Because 30 fucking sucks. And you should have been here to suffer it with me, all of it, the heartache, living and breathing and all of it.

You should have fucking been here.

It’s dumb. You took your life at 16, and 14 years later, I’m still carrying it, still carrying the weight of what you did, still bearing the knowledge that they all blamed me, that I was the last person you saw, that I didn’t share enough of your last cigarette with you, that I didn’t demand a ride that last day, that last day of your life.

I want to yell at you. I want to fold up on the floor and cry in the bathtub and regret it all, but your death has colored my life, has made me the bitch that I am, has taught me about survival.

You were amazing. That laugh. That leather jacket. Learning to do headstands. All of it. You were amazing, my almost-birthday-twin.

You’re further away then you’ve ever been. These 14 years, you’ve had my back. You’ve been the thing that kept me from harm and I know, right now, I’m losing my grip on all the things, on logical thought and clear decision making and whatever else, and that’s not your fault, but mine, because I am digging my own grave. You wanted so much to protect me from harm, and you have. You’ve been there, for all of it, in your own way.

I love you.

But I still wish you were here. Every single day, especially in March and always on April 6th.

- t.

(I always wonder, who would I be without you?)

{ 7 comments }

Here’s the thing: I want to pour my soul out here. I want to tell this space my secrets and I want to yell and write in all caps and explain this shit to you, but I have this terrible restraint that keeps me from going to THAT POINT, the point of no return.

I don’t want this space to be the place where I lay ruin to everything and everyone. I don’t want it to be a sad place. I want to tell you about goose attacks and Snow White adventures and terrible Bitty cats who just turned 3, but let’s be honest, I’m not in a happy place and I can’t come here and talk about happiness and make jokes about the crazy hilarity that ensues from me just being me.

Clearly, I am going through some shit. Clearly, I am a little bit fucked up. Or a lot a bit fucked up, depending on who you ask. This is some shit. Some serious, fucked up shit.

But restraint. It’s a thing, apparently, that I possess, although I spend a lot of time wondering why.

“Not everything needs a soundtrack,” he says, in the living room that should have been ours, not just mine.

But I want my life to be a movie, I think. I want it to be this dramatic comedy, where love leaves and returns again, where there’s a killer soundtrack that makes you leave the theater thinking, YES, THAT, the soundtrack you download on the car ride home, post-movie.

I think about it a lot, really, the story I’ll write one day, the movie that should surely follow. I think about it when I’m running, the songs that play and I wonder about how much time a movie about my life can devote to running, because really, friends, that’s the shit that gets me through. Slow or fast, race pace or not, it’s the running that keeps me from devastation, from the havoc.

Here’s the bottom line: I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know what to say, because so much of what I want to say is part of a private matter, and no matter what I want to yell out loud, I know, deeply, that it should stay that way, that it should stay private.

So I’m a little lost. What do I say here? What do I do?

But really. Bitty turned 3. The cat who attacks my friends, who slept on Andrew’s chest for the first many weeks of her life, when she wasn’t in a box on a heating pad on my nighstand table.

She’s a monster.

bittcat

Just like her parents.



The current soundtrack:
The District Sleeps Alone Tonight – Birdy
Redwings – Guillemots
 Pretty Girl at the Airport – The Avett Brothers
Hate Me – Blue October

{ 11 comments }

Escape plans, 30, breaking down and more running.

by terra March 27, 2014

I am planning an escape. I don’t know where I’m going to go, but I am going to go, for a handful of days, somewhere, alone. I want to visit a National Park, but I can’t decide which. The closest, that I haven’t visited in adulthood, are as follows: Cuyahoga Valley National Park in Ohio, […]

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A goose attacked me on my 30th birthday.

by terra March 20, 2014

Alright, you guys. Shit has been real, real sad and real, real vague around these here internet parts lately and frankly, I’m getting a little sick of my own sad vagueness. I mean, divorce is this awful and shitty and fucked up and terrible thing and I think I’m allowed a certain amount of emo-ness, […]

12 comments Click for more →