A Non-Newtonian Fluid (maddening) wrote,
A Non-Newtonian Fluid

You posted to your secret journal under the wrong name.
You realize that, right?
No one will see it. No one knows it's there. But you're paranoid, I know, with good reason. I go back and reread too, ya see.
Usually when you aren't around or when I'm in that mood that makes me want to see in detail what went before.
I went back and reread in this journal the areas where I was still broken after the vacation trip and the backlash, aftermath, what have you.
I still feel that sometimes. It's still not okay.
I won't ever be caught off guard like that again. I won't let myself be.
That's so utterly sad. Scars are the result of trauma, but they're also the armour against new trauma. So ,until you are scabbed over enough, someone will always be finding those soft spots. Unless you can hold them far enough away that they never have a chance of seeing them. That's how I feel. Everyone is at arms length. Because I have no clue where the next thing is going to come from. Have to be careful, ya know.

There was a point in time where I thought I was as tough as I could be. That every piece of shit that could have possibly happened to me had happened and there was no more left to crush. But, christ, I was wrong.
Mike cornered me at work again last night.
Don't ever come into someones workplace for a heart to heart. Just don't do it.
Especially when you don't have anything but vitriol. And you know the person is not fucking pleased with you. I had just gotten done puking again... well.. dry heaving for 15 minutes again. Somehow, for some reason that I'm not really clear about I was insanely nauseaus yesterday. It would have just stayed at 'waiting to puke' and not bubbled over into 'puking regularly' were it not the day they stripped the floors at the front end and rewaxed them. The smell was horrible. Like... burnt nylon with a strange lemon pledge undertone.
And there was no one there. So I couldn't work on the schedules. I had to put up with Debbie's bullshit all day. I had to worry about the fact that the schedules weren't getting done. I had to had to had to. Too many fucking have toos in my life at the moment.
And then Mike shows up. Right about the time I'm trying to clock out to get rid of the overtime I earned and am not allowed to have. Right about to clock out, but spend the next 3 hours working on the schedule anyway.
And he starts talking. Wondering aloud where we went wrong. Why I've 'turned on him', why I can't just let bygones be bygones with Sean. And why I have booted him, a long time friend, out of my life.
"Because you have to wonder about those things, Mike. Because you don't already know why. Because you've been around a long time and you still have no fucking clue about me. And it isn't for my lack of trying. Because you've always been too wrapped up in how you *feel* about me to pay any attention to *me*. And because I'm done. You've gotten the last of what I had. And it was some incredible stuff. But it wasn't enough. Find someone else to suck dry."
When me and Mike dated for that 2 week period many years ago, it was this strange intense thing. Ready to just explode in each others presence. But neither of us were willing to admit that we were actually people who could lose control like that. So we didn't. And it got worse. To the point where we really couldn't be in the same room alone. Actually, it was worse in the room with other people. He would hug me and it would hurt, just crushed me against him. I'd be left with the weave of his shirt imprinted on my arms and face. It was that intense.
It wasn't a want, it was a need. It was like we needed to be not just in each others presence but inside the others skin. We needed to be enclosed with the slimy organs and pulsing veins, entangled in the viscera of what the other was.
It was frightening.
But then I didn't see him for awhile. And all of a sudden, what I thought would kill me, turned out to be just something I thought I needed for awhile. And I'd been wrong.
Earlier this year, after Tom died. After I let the thoughtlessness of Mister Questions tear me into shreds, when I was so alone I didn't think I could breathe, Mike needed me again. He needed *anyone* . And it ended up being me. I spent every day for two months at the hospital. Reminding him where he was and what had happened when he woke up in the period of time when he was actually waking up. Holding my breath waiting for him to open his eyes when he hadn't done so in days. Holding his dead-like hand that I could feel the pulse in. Putting balm on his chapped lips, wiping the crust out of the corners of his eyes, needing him to be okay. Not eating and not sleeping for months. Because Mike needed me there.
I know I gave him comfort. That's not in dispute.
But it almost killed me.
Hospitals are germy places. And when you haven't eaten or slept in a very long time, you are weak and susceptible.
And that's how I ended up with menningitis.
I was with Mike at his house, after he got out of the hospital when it smacked me down. When I passed out from the fever that had finally reached 104, when I collapsed and woke up being held down with a needle in my spinal column and being talked to in soothing tones by a burly woman in scrubs who screamed in alarm when my eyes opened.
But after that, it wasn't the same somehow. I recovered, was let out, And I realized that I was emaciated. None of my clothes fit. I was gaunt and horrible. I was dying.
All for Mike.
And then he got well. And I got better. I found someone to talk to. Someone who listened as well as he talked. Who cared just as much as he wanted to be cared about. An incredible person that made me think that maybe.... just maybe... this would all be okay.
And then Sean.
Sean went off the meds.
Sean left me bruised, cut, shaken, and scared in the street where the gravel kicked up by his retreating tires smacked me with one more insult.
I'm expected to forgive.
I'm expected to say that that's alright. That I understand. That Sean is my buddy.
I've been beaten before. That's nothing new. But it was never by a contemporary who called me a whore and spit in my face, and went for all the soft spots that he knew would hurt more. It was never by someone who had been a friend right up until the point he hooked me in the jaw and slammed me into the car one more time.
I can't forgive it.
I can understand. But I can't forgive it and I can't be okay with it and he won't be my friend and I will never be in the same room with him without knowing what he did and feeling it in the vague, phantom limb sort of way.
Mike can't undertstand that because Mike didn't feel it.
And Mike can't understand why I can't forgive, forget, move on, and be groovy becuase Mike is the center of Mike's universe and in Mike's universe, I should be in some sort of love with him, and be yielding to his wants.
He's perplexed. Utterly and completely.
And that's why he keeps popping up when he knows he can corner me.
Get me in uniform in front of customers. In front of managers. In front of people that have no right knowing me life. That way, I can't yell and I can't make a scene, and I can't let it show on my face that I just want to go away so desperately. He knows that if I had an easy escape, I would take it.
And he knows it's wrong. But he keeps doing it anyway.
i thought I was okay with all of this.
Until I ended up talking to them all. And then I realized I'm never going to be okay with this. Becuase it's a new scar. It's a new piece of toughened flesh. And it's always going to be different from the rest of me. It's not built in. not part of the machine. and it's not fucking okay. I am not fucking okay.
And I think I hate Mike.
He's really all I have left of my time with Tom.
And I think I hate him now.
That's what hurts the most I think.
I'm sick of giving this much and getting nothing but shit on for it. It's been this pattern in my life that I refuse to learn from. Learning what I need to learn from it means cutting out a basic portion of who I am.
I'm not willing to do that.
So I guess it's really my fault anyway.

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