I was supposed to become a diligent little blogger. It was going to be therapy. For a while it was! I lost steam when I learned of the passing of a fellow blogger I instantly adored. She was tough and kind. She was quality.
Also, last year just took me by the ankle and spun me around for 365 days. It began with my purse being stolen. It ended with me fracturing a bone on my foot. In between, I lost precious kitties, my baby, Harvey took the expensive part of my house and soaked it in shit-water for nearly three weeks, I kicked a sewing needle and it went alllllllll the way into my toe, and my family collectively lost their kindness. Seriously, that bucket of dead dicks stepmother of mine? She never did undick herself. I believe she is going for a record. I should be recording.
I lost a couple of friendships but that hardly matters. Losing friendships was why I thought 2016 was a terrible year! I implicitly recall crying to my stepmother (ha) about how much it hurt to lose those weighty old friendships. Perspective is slutty. What shall this year slobber on? No slobbering, 2018. Pretty, witty please.
My dad, the optimist, he always told me that the more friends you have, the more disappointment. Indeed, some old friends have disappointed me, but where was my warning about the baby? How truly nothing else fucking matters when you lose one? How long does this last? Fuck friends, I kindly request my dreams back.
I still dream about my baby nearly every night. Once I passed what was supposed to be my due date, I no longer dreamed of an infant- the nocturnal tease became instant three. A precocious, dark-haired toddler whose face I cannot capture with paint. Or colored pencils. Or pastels. Or the most ambitious concentration that ever walked the land of broken hearts…
I have stopped taking my medicine, but I swear it is how I have thus far survived all this shit. I can hardly explain it but it’s true.
I have increased my intake of leafy greenery. That helps, too.
I am going to write two blogs a month. That is my goal. Therapy doesn’t grow on trees, you know.
Harvey took the couch I laid on with my darling, Castor, when he took his last, sweet breath. I could lay on that couch, close my eyes, put my hand over my heart, and feel again the pure love from my beloved kitten. I could plainly feel his soft fur beneath my palm. I could hear his dainty, quirky chirp meow.
I cannot do that anymore. Sometimes things are the most important things. It’s not nice to shame those lovers of their things. I would probably punch an old lady in her nose if I could have that couch back.
I am not a good person. I am a sad person. A very, very mad person. I want my babies.
thebipolarstoner 