I have been listening to music lately, and instead of just the old playlist I have been on, I started alphabetically through all my songs on my phone. I got to the I’s the last few days, and it made me think about how much of a masochist I really am.
Some songs had me in tears. I do cry on occasion. When it really hurts. When I feel them slipping away. But some of this is me creating drama. Mr. Predator wasn’t wrong about some things, although he may have had it out of context.
I create this space inside me. It is very close to the overthinking space, but not exactly the same. It is also next door to the practical one that goes through the steps of what I need to do when people in my life die. With my mother, I didn’t have to. She took care of everything, which leaves me with a weird space right now where I should be busy. I should be grieving, but I am not.
Instead, I am by myself in this space, just wondering what to do, I guess. It makes it harder without any distractions. I feel I need to hurt. I feel there is something wrong. And so I create a story for myself. I review the facts. I see the actions and the words, and I make up a way for me to feel bad. It is not all lies; there is truth to some things, but I am being a martyr in this space, trying to hurt more than I need to.
And the part that really hurts. I don’t have him to spank it out of me. I don’t have him here to fuck the pain of not having any pain away.
Want to put my tender heart in a blender, watch it spin around to a beautiful oblivion.
Lisa Gray 