I Fear You.

mental prison

I’m blogging to learn how to unleash. For me to constantly practice vulnerability. I can tell anyone anything about my life. Omit the emotions and whys. Fact is, I feel a ton of shit all the fucking time! Just don’t see a point in discussing it.

I’m a firm believer in, “Put on your big girl panties and deal with it!”

If it feels like I’m always saying that? It is my personal reminder.

Things were breezin’ by. Good work out and eating habits. Kicked the cancer stick for about a month. It’s been months since a PMDD episode! In case you haven’t figured it out? You’re about to read an episode. A sneak peek into the crud that is PMDD. A few weeks late in posting….

Over confidence? Working out, eating, no smoking, no drinking. Making new friends.

Ah. New friends? With new friends in such a small community comes the old. While out with new friends, I ran into an old acquaintance. An old acquaintance who dated an old friend of mine. An old best friend who witnessed my hell that was divorce. Gave the old acquaintance an overdue apology.

“It’s OK. Y’all had a really bad break up.”  She reminds me.

Thanks. Yep. It was pretty bad. Followed with a, “Your friend really misses you.”

I’d like to know at what point did I become this terrifying person to talk to? To approach? If ya miss me? Say so. Wanna renew a friendship? OK. Let’s give it a shot.

The destruction of our friendship was the result of my divorce. I was in a very disgusting place. Then I realize. Months, now years later,  after healing and getting on my feet.

I still fear you. Her. Ex-Hubby. I don’t fear her physically. I fear my internal reaction. I fear that I’ll trip and fall in my heels. I fear the flood of memories crashing into my consciousness. I’m terrified.

It’s not even about me wanting her. It’s not that we’ll even hurt each other. It’s the past that haunts me. The past that keeps me prisoner. A past that keeps me. A past that keeps me from moving on. From trying on. Giving again.

I fear that piece of vulnerability is stuck in our prison. It was our cell block. And I hang onto it. Clinging to my shackles. The cell bars.

Inhaling the funk of a stopped up toilet. Creating sonnets from a slow drip of a leaky faucet.

As I’m over her emotionally. Romantically. It’s my mental past I fear. Our past.

During our divorce, alcohol was my warmest friend. I’d go numb in its nectar.

Nectar? Vodka was my fucking nectar! My nectar. My sleep aid. My hide out.

A pitiful hide out. That held me. I got stuck in. Stuck in this vodka induced coma.

I got out. Life had to go on. It was hard. I trudged through it because I had to. And where I gained confidence, self and security. I considered myself healed.

Then the old acquaintance awoke a sleeping demon. Dating experiences gone sour. I wonder if this is God’s sick joke. My Karma. And I’m in that prison again. So, I fear you. The cold prison that I feel most of the time, I created.

While it’s a sad and dirty place. I’m safe there.

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