anxious-armadillo

[anxious-armadillo]

TRIGGER WARNING.

And I've never wasted to die as much as I've wanted to in the last six months.

I've never considered myself having suicidal ideation, until the last six months.

Please don't ever let semi trucks be self driving, because the only thing preventing me from driving into them is the fear of traumatizing another human being and the possibility of somehow making them feel like it was their fault.

[anxious-armadillo]

I never crossed the line.

I tiptoed around it, I stood on the edge of it, screaming.

Back when everything in my life was falling apart.

Back when I'd come in late, and leave early in tears because of the fights that world drag on from the night before until 3 or 4 in the morning. And he'd know. Without ever saying a word.

Back when my heart was full of pain and poison, my brain full of rage and confusion. And I fought so hard to not perpetuate that in someone else.

Yes. I stood on that line. Put a wall of glass between us.

But, in all the games we played I never wanted more than the stupid games we played.

I told him. Before I opened up; don't fall in love with me. I can't love you back. I won't love you back. My heart, though chaos back then, knew that I was set on what I was pursuing. I was set on building this future with the man I thought I'd never find. He watched me give up so many times only to go running right back.

Maybe, all things considered he just couldn't see past the fact that despite all the similarities, I just wasn't the woman he associated me with. Maybe, all things considered, he held onto her through me and when the time came, losing my companionship was like losing her all over again.

Whatever the case, I used to joke with him and to him; it's just a spell. A charm. Something accidentally manifested.

I'd tell him I could break it.

And he'd tell me it was too strong to break.

It wasn't too strong to break, was it?

And though I never saw anything more than stupid games, though I made a point to stay on my side of the line, I never considered the emotional connections I was creating in someone else. I always kept myself in check. Pushed it, sure. But never crossed it. I guess I never considered the effect my words would have on someone else.

I guess I never considered what would happen when the time came to part ways or cut ties.

I watched out for myself, knowing, knowing that I've picked up the pieces of myself and walked away from a life I'd thought could be forever before, so I could do it again. Knowing that if I could do this one, two, three, four or more times, that I'd be tough enough to let everything go and keep on walking.

I never considered him, though.

I miss my best friend.

I miss my shenanigan buddy.

I miss my comrade.

I miss having someone to text at all hours of the day who would listen to me, and know me, and just... talk. About any and everything.

And not reaching out is hard. But I know it's for the best.

Not reaching out hurts, because this is a story I'd be telling him about, if it didn't involve us. This is a story we'd laugh about together if it were just me.

I know it's for the best. To just leave it alone. To just let it go.

I know.

I know.

I know.

But I still feel the sadness. The loss. The everything.

I still feel it.

But, our futures are much different and far distant from one another, now.

I broke it... the charm, the spell, whatever. Just like I said I would. Erased everything, and disappeared. Until one day I'll just be a ghost of a ghost in his memory. No more, no less.

And so it is.

[anxious-armadillo]

I thought I was romancing the devil himself.

But the devil, my darling, comes with guilty pleasure, lust, and the sweetest sin.

Now I watch death play Russian roulette over his bed. Being already dead, either way... for him, bullet or not, it's still a win.

I thought I was romancing the devil himself. As his presence once set my whole body on fire. But the devil is full of lies.. and everything the Reaper touches dies.

I've been calling them both by a different name,

Perhaps they're just one in the same.

[anxious-armadillo]

He gets up and walks to my kitchen. Looks down at the mess of broken petals, cracked leaves, and fuzz swirling around from the night before.

I feel his hurt in my heart.

I feel like he's looking at this in confusion trying to figure out what he'd said or done. And half of me truly believes his confusion. Half of me thinks he was probably still drunk and may not have any recollection.

Last night it felt rational. Last night it felt justified. Last night the tension from feeling things fall apart day after day, the tension from feeling the distance grow week after week... the weeks of taking hate, cruelty, and downright nasty meanness... with so little love... it felt rational.

It felt justified, to throw those flowers he brought to my work on the floor and watch them flake into a million pieces. It felt rational to flip out after he'd pushed me away from him then tried to leave in the middle of the night...

I broke.

I threw those flowers at his stuff through tears. I tossed the first rose he'd ever picked me at him and told him to take it, too, when he leaves.

I screamed. I cried. I asked him "What the fuck is wrong with me? What the fuck is wrong with you? Who else is there? Who else is getting your love if not me?"

He tells me; "Calm. You're destroying memories made through the years... in seconds."

I climbed back into bed, and cried harder than I've cried in a long long time. Anticipating him just to come inside from his cigarette, grab his belongings and leave, I clutched a pillow and cried silently.

But he didn't leave.

He came inside, took off his shoes, took off the pants I'd fused about him trying to sleep in, in my bed. He removed his shirt, and climbed into bed.

He wrapped his arms around me, pulled me into his chest, and held me tight for the first time in a long time.

And in the morning, he walked into my kitchen and looked at the mess of broken flowers on the floor in confusion.

I watch his head hang low. His shoulders drop lower. Initially I think he doesn't remember this happening. I think it's a lost cause. I'm not going to try and explain it.

But I watch his head hang, and a childlike let down wash over him, as he says to the floor, "You ruined your flowers..." he pauses for a moment before he straightens himself up as if some brilliant epiphany flashes before his eyes and says, "That's okay. I'll get you new ones!"

And in that moment... after feeling like we'd burned everything we'd ever had, this one little moment made everything come flooding back. Made everything feel like okay. We're not done yet. We can rebuild this.

He wasn't looking at those flowers in confusion because he couldn't remember what had happened. He was looking at those flowers, knowing, that everything he saw in that mess was everything he'd made my heart feel.

After years of saving the first rose he'd ever picked me, knowing how special, how important, how beautiful it was to me... it was the only thing I tossed delicately... he had picked it up at some point and put it on my dresser. Without a single missing petal.

And so we start again.

[anxious-armadillo]

Judy.

I'm not one for blasting specific details, as I prefer to keep things anonymous and respect other people's privacy. So some of these details have been altered.

A few years ago I began working in a department with one other person. He was considerably older than me, but we almost instantly hit it off as coworkers. I suppose that if you're going to be confined to a small room (indefinitely) with only one other person, you'd probably better do the best you can to develop at least SOME kind friendly relationship with that person, as working with strangers in close quarters is incredibly uncomfortable.

So, fast forward a couple years. We've had the time to get to know each other. We've shared stories of our past, present, and what we hope the future could hold. One day, he decides he's going to call me Judy.

I'm confused. I ask him, "Like Judge Judy?"

He says, "No. Not judge Judy. Just think."

This goes on for like two years.

I tell him, "Who the fuck is Judy?! I'm so confused and this is really frustrating."

And he'd always tell me, "One of these days I'll tell you."

Throughout this time, we've gotten to know each other quite well. Down to almost being able to read each other's minds. (Yes. It's freaky sometimes.) Now, there have been some rather personal questions asked.

Including, "Do you have a birthmark on your butt?"

Which...I don't have a birthmark, but I do have a very very large freckle that has always caught my attention when I'm getting dressed, and I was really taken aback when he asked me this question. Like... how did he know?

There were another number of questions that were asked as well. But, again, I'm omitting some details.

Today he asks me again, "Do you... believe in reincarnation?"

So I tell him, "Well... yes." Since that would make the most sense of every other 'after death alternative'. Then ask him "Why?"

This is where it gets bizarre...

He tells me that Judy was a old girlfriend of his. And that I look a LOT like her. That when I first started working there, and he first saw me, he had to do a double take.

He tells me, that once we started working together, that how I acted was very much the same way she acted/ behaved.

She also had a birthmark on her butt.

These all seemed like wild coincidences.

Like maybe she'd moved away and I was someone who just reminded him of her.

Until he mentioned she'd been in a terrible accident, and had passed away.

Here's the kicker; she passed less than 3 months before I was born.

Now I don't know how the flow of time works as you wait in line to be reincarnated... but, if I were to ever require proof to believe... this is it. And maybe whole souls don't reincarnate as one, but instead break off and join with other pieces of souls and hold hands through this human lifetime together. But...I think there might be a part of her, in me.

[anxious-armadillo]

Gosh, it's been a while.

Life gets chaotic and it's easy to get swept away in it.

But the next story is well worth writing about.

[anxious-armadillo]

You know those "You know it's bad when..." quotes?

Here's one; "You know it's bad when you cry after getting yourself off, because you're significant other won't fuck you anymore."

[anxious-armadillo]

Next time I will tell him...

Next time, I will tell him that my least favorite word is "Beautiful"

I will tell him that I was traumatized by flowers, trips to the mountains, pretty rocks and kisses.

I will tell him that I am wicked, cruel, and cold. And that the only way to my heart is to mentally fuck me up.

Next time, I will tell him.

So that every time he tries to use the words I hate to insult me, he will not say, "You're a fucking cunt." Instead he'll say "You're fucking beautiful."

So every time he tries to use my trauma against me, he will not put guns to his head, or threaten to kill himself because I "do not love" him. Instead he'll bring me flowers, stones, and travels. So that he will kiss me with the same passion he uses to destroy me.

So that when he wants to fuck with my heart, he will speak in the language of love... just love... instead of cruelty, hate and rage.

Next time I will tell him...

[anxious-armadillo]

Aphrodite...I know you chose this heart for me... despite my best efforts, I cannot begin to understand why though.

Perhaps it's time I talk to Persephone...

Why, sweet Persephone, did you fall in love with Hades?

The myths, and renditions of legend cloud my mind. And I've read so much about you, from so many different authors by now, that I've meshed together the original tales of old with the new age stories told.

I ask him, why he thinks you fell in love with Hades... and he tells me he'll respond once he's home, yet he leaves my question unanswered.

The next night I ask him why all Christian rock songs sound like unrequited love letters written by an obsessed lover.

He tells me, "Why do you ask questions you already know the answers to?"

So I tell him that sometimes it's not about knowing the answers, sometimes it's about exploring a different point of view. That sometimes it is about getting a different perspective.

Persephone, I know you were trapped by a pomegranate. Bound to the underworld by a mere piece of fruit... but you... being the Goddess you are, being beyond capable of growing your own garden full of fruits... you chose to take the offering...? Why?

He was something ancient, full of knowledge, full of darkness. And you, were something innocent and new, full of wonder, full of light. So why... why did you, a fertility Goddess, fall for a God deemed to deal with the damned?

I know opposites attract... but, I don't believe that anything in the stars ever pointed to your love for him. I do believe that, it was in fact, a chance happening that led to your meeting? Now, I am a firm believer that everything happens for a reason... yet, it is hard to fathom that this was written by fate itself.

Was it because he treated you as no man ever had before? Was it his surprising willingness and devotion to protect you? Was it because he'd cared for you? Or was it simply Stockholm Syndrome? Are Gods and Goddesses not immune to the mental fuckery that humankind must also deal with?

Why, dear sweet Persephone, would you trade your beauty, your ability to grow, your light and innocence... to live in a world of dead and devoid, a world of darkness?

Why, Hades, did you fall in love with Persephone? Was it because she was everything you longed to be but... couldn't? Was it because... if you couldn't BE her, you'd TAKE her to simply possess as your own?

I can imagine all of Olympus cried when you two came together... for deep down they knew. I can imagine there was an internal rift amongst all of them where on one side, they pondered "Well... maybe?... perhaps this could actually work?" But on the other side, there was a sorrowful worry; "You should have just left each other alone."

[anxious-armadillo]

There are days when I want to help you.

And there are days when I want to watch you burn in the hell you created.

[anxious-armadillo]

Aphrodite, I'm asking you again today; why?

Why does it feel like I've known him longer than time itself?

Why does every angry argument or bitter fight go from "Fuck this all. We're done." To "I need you. Come to me."

I go ignorant lately. Or change the subject. He gets mad and tries to tear me apart, and I ask him what else he's got. Lay it on me baby!

I've already been called the worst names in the book. Already pulled myself up from hell. What he's got, it's nothing that can hurt me.

We fight for what seems like hours.

I tell him my door is unlocked.

He tells me he won't be out.

I tell him that I'll leave it unlocked in case he changes his mind.

He says he won't.

Half an hour later our friend messages me asking "Is he going to your house?"

I tell him that I don't know. That I'd been trying to get him here for a while now, but that he'd been being a dick the whole night.

Our friend messages me again saying, "Well I just watched him turn onto the highway toward your house."

As I'm responding to that message, a truck pulls up into my driveway.

I should be angry... for the shit that I just put up with. The cruel messages with their only intent being to hurt... I should be angry...but I'm not. I'm relieved. I can breathe again. My heart doesn't know if it needs to slow down now that the adrenaline is wearing off, or if it needs to speed up because he's here.

My body doesn't ever know what to do when he's around. So it goes into this mode where all it does is quiver.

We've been doing this now for 15 months.

15 months of off and on.

15 months of fuck you, I love you.

15 months of leave me alone, you're mine.

15 months of horroromance.

So why, Aphrodite, does this feel like home? Why, Aphrodite, does this feel like forever? Why, Aphrodite, does he... why does he feel like mine? Why do I feel like I belong to him? Why are all the songs I hear... the art I find... the poems I read... why are they all about us?

He tells me "You need to learn how to breathe." And presses my hand to his chest. He inhales slowly until his lungs are full, then looks at me and smiles. I watch him look around and bob his head as he holds his breath. I tell him; "THAT is not breathing." And he smiles again. Look, I know time goes by so slow when you're concentrating, but we stand there for minutes before he finally breathes out and then inhales again.

He looks at our reflections in the window... and tells me that I am so small. That we look like those characters I always send him pictures of. The wolf and the bunny girl. My favorite artist. I can't help but smile.

He reads me ghost stories he used to read as a child.

When I roll over on top of him, and run my hands across his chest and shoulders... feeling his fingertips grace my thighs... my walls... my armor... everything I've built to keep him out, it falls away. And in that very moment, it begins to rain.

Tell me, Aphrodite, if we were not meant for each other... at least to learn lessons in this lifetime... why does life get wrapped around our fingertips? Why does time... and life... and nature... everything in this world bend to push us together? Why, Aphrodite, does it feel like we're the only ones in the world when we're together? Why does this world feel like it belongs to us?

My mother's dogs don't like him... they growl and snarl. And keep their distance. Despite his efforts, they stay away. Which is unlike any other dog I've seen him around. But it worries me and makes me uncomfortable. It makes my childish mind wonder if, perhaps, he really isn't human. If perhaps, he is not something of this world. I brush it off... and we keep chatting... he's drunk. Meeting my parents on whim. I don't know how I feel about it. I know my mother will see right through his bullshit, and I beg the Gods and Goddesses to let him keep his drunk mouth shut.

So we wander around outside for a bit. Walking through the forest... down to the creek... showing him the most sacred parts of my childhood life.

When I need more coffee, we go inside. I tell him he's gotta take his shoes off; it's a rule. So he does. I leave the door open... and walk inside. When it takes a bit longer than expected for him to remove his shoes, I go to see what's up... and he's standing on the porch in front of an open door.

I'm confused... and I look around before asking..."What are you doing out here?" He smiles and tells me..."You have to invite... me in."

It's silly. And...I don't really know what to do. I freeze up. Completely. And almost look to the floor to see if there's some kind of god dammed salt line under the rug. A part of me is actually concerned... another rational side of me laughs, thinking he is probably just kidding to play along with our story. So I roll my eyes, and say; "Come in?"

He's much more sober now. And holds difficult conversation with my mother. He talks himself up beautifully, with all the charm. My mother laughs.

We decide that tonight, we're going to have a movie night at his house. So we load up, and head out.

We watch The Nightmare Before Christmas. Until my kids fall asleep and the touch gets heavy...

I cannot describe how it feels to touch and be touched by him. It is terrifying and beautiful at the same time. He makes you feel like a delicacy, something rare and exquisite. But you know, that all it takes is for his hunger to rage out of control, and he'll consume you in one bite.

It feels like a very deadly cocktail of danger and love.

But, tonight... tonight we touch one another the way we used to. Until our bodies become one. He teases the way he used to. Plays. We make love. Until he stops me. Tells me playfully he's going to sleep. I tell him no he's not.

So he's pushes my body down onto his chest. Tells me "Sit still." And when I move my hips, he sets me down on him, "I said, sit still." I always fight it. I never do what I'm told. Tonight I melt onto him. My body on his. His body in me. He tells me, "Sit still." Runs his fingers across my body, and every time I wiggle he stops me and whispers "Stop. Sit still."

Aphrodite, what happened to me?

Aphrodite, what has he done?

Aphrodite, aside from him, I've never been able to come on a dick.

Aphrodite... how... how can just sitting still? How can... just how?

He asks me afterward, "Do you know what that was? It's tantric." I know what it is. I just don't understand how or why. He tells me; "It's a soul connection... if you believe in that."

Aphrodite... I'm fucked.

Also; this is artwork by Chiara Bautista with the Wolf and Bunny Girl.

[anxious-armadillo]

Fuck hormones.

Fuck new birth control pills.

I almost cry this morning, looking at him. His eyes closed, breathing getting heavier as my fingers delicately danced across his tan, tattooed skin.

This is far from the first time I've laid with him.

Far from the first time he's felt my touch.

But this morning is different. Whether it's because his guard is down or, it's just me battling these hormones, something terribly beautiful is happening.

I study his face. The way his eyes slant, the high cheekbones, the shape of his lips, and how his facial hair grows, how he keeps it to perfectly frame his face... actual god damned perfection. I'm so lost in him that I jump when he asks why I'm shaking.

I instantly say "I'm not shaking!" Because I don't want to explain to him that, "Fuck I can't control these emotions. I don't know what to do with myself when I'm around you. I don't understand how something so beautiful, something so breathtaking, something like you... could be so mean under the surface. How you could lie to me so many times. How I could know you've lied and will always be a liar... how knowing all this...I... still... fucking want and crave you."

Dear Aphrodite... I'm fucked.

[anxious-armadillo]

Aphrodite, it's the way he laughs.

When, my goofy and uncontrollable facial expressions take over.

The way when I ask, why he's laughing, his face lights up and he smiles a wholesome pure smile as he says, "Your expressions, sometimes they kill me. But in a good way." And squeezes my arm.

It's the way he wakes in the morning, and lays his head against my stomach, and it makes me feel like everything in the world is okay.

It's the way he makes me fall in love with him again and again.

Aphrodite, help me.

[anxious-armadillo]

She's right though.

And it pisses me off.

"You love him, but you won't admit it. And now everybody hates him. Because of you."

Maybe I do love him. Maybe that's why I couldn't keep those three words locked behind my lips. Maybe that's why they jumped off my tongue and danced drunkenly through that hotel down south.

The best and worst love story wrapped up into one being. Chaotic, volatile, desperate and intense passion around every corner.

Fantasy and nightmare all in one.

Fuck. Just fuck.

I can't get into therapy fast enough.

[anxious-armadillo]

Aphrodite, when we got back to the hotel. Damn near blackout drunk, I just remember watching those words fall off his tongue and get tangled in the sheets of that bed.

And for a second, I forget how to move, how to breathe, I forget everything and "I love... you..." skips across my lips before I can catch it. Before I can stop it. Before I even realize what I said.

Aphrodite, I pray that he was too far gone, I pray that the blackout is all he remembers. Aphrodite, I pray that I did not allow him to know he's got that power over me.

[anxious-armadillo]

4 days.

He made it 4 days without drinking.

And it was beautiful.

Video games, weed, and laughing until we fell asleep.

It was calm, beautiful, and... better.

He slips up yesterday.

And I can tell by his message; "Wanna fuck?"

I ask if he's drinking.

At least he doesn't lie, but I know I'm in for a roller coaster tonight.

I tell him no more liquor, and tell him I'll meet him at the bar to drag him home.

He brings me my go-to cider. And I drink it slowly while I watch his movements judging how much he's had to drink.

He doesn't drink in front of me while we're there. Whether he takes shots at the bar while he goes inside, I don't know.

We leave, shortly after I get there and go back to his house.

We wrestle on the bed. Silly shit. He's got a plate with syrup on it from his breakfast and is trying to dip his hair in it. I'm telling him not to. His wild is showing. And that always captivates my heart. We laugh and play. Roll around on the bed, until he pins me and leans toward the plate, antagonizing. I yell "No!"

He lets go quickly and apologizes.

Oh. He's conscious of my triggers. Oh. Fuck.

I explain to him that it's fine. That I was laughing when I yelled it. And was referring to him dipping his hair in that sticky mess.

We're both hot and sweaty now and the river is just down the road.

My head on his chest, I look at him starry eyed and say; "Let's go jump in the river!"

"You want to?"

"Yes!"

We play a little bit more before he gives me a pair of his boxers to wear in the water. I tell him that my ass definitely looks better than his in these.

He rolls his eyes. But I'm feeling feisty.

We get to the river at sunset, and I strip down and get in the water. Standing there watching the sun reflect off of it. It's beautiful. When I look back, he's looking at me and I can't help but smile. How is it, that, with all the beautiful scenery around, my focus is always pulled to him?

We decide to go get drinks at the little Mexican place down the road.

This is when the sadness sets in.

When we get to his house, he turns on the darkness. We sit in his truck, making love without ever touching, to song after song.

He tells me, "Grab that pistol back there, put it to my head and pull the trigger. I know you can. You've shot it before."

I tell him absolutely not and to knock it off.

"It's a mercy kill." He says.

Now it's my turn to roll my eyes.

He lets it go, and we go inside.

He plays guitar and sings.

It's haunting.

His roommate gets home and we all smoke some weed while he runs a bath.

By the time the bath is ready, we're both stoned. But we jump in together. And he pulls me up between his legs and onto his chest.

He's wearing a cowboy hat. And that pretty free spirit is shining so brightly it blinds all the darkness within him.

Playful and fun. He dumps cold water on me, and I ask for a drink to spit it on his chest.

It's on.

We go to bed and he can't get comfortable. I laugh and he says, "You shouldn't be laughing. You're little red riding hood. And you're in bed with a wolf."

"Oh. Is that what's going on? Do you need to spin a few circles on the bed to get comfortable?"

He THROWS the covers off of him and leaps to the foot of his huge bed. He spins in circles naked on all fours. I'm laughing so hard I'm near tears.

This. These stupid silly wholesome moments that make me feel free. These are why it's so hard to let go. Why it's so hard to not fall in love again. Because when he is happy... when he is uninhibited... when that inner child comes out to play... he plays my heartstrings like those fucking guitars. And makes them sing with terrifying chords of simultaneous love and sadness.

[anxious-armadillo]

I don't even feel like dancing tonight.