existential-dread-time-babey - Tumblr blog

[existential-dread-time-babey]

“I want to break up.”

And at those simple words, my body froze. For a moment I just stared at you in disbelief and I was only met with quiet resolve. I knew we had problems in the past but for some reason I didn’t think this would ever happen.

“Okay.”

What else could I say? You wanted this once before and I begged you to stay. I regretted it afterwards. Who was I to stop you from what you wanted. I didn’t want to anchor you down to a life you didn’t want.

“Can we - I - just have one more night? Please?”

I remembered you saying you’d be nice to me if you left me. I hoped you remembered that promise.

“If that’s what you want.”

It was but I wanted you to want it too. I couldn’t convince you though. I just had to accept it. I smiled a small, shaky smile and led you to our bed. I laid down with you and pressed my face to your chest.

I breathed deeply, inhaling you for most likely the last time. Tears fell and I tried to not wet your sweatshirt. I failed.

“I love you. Please lie to me, just this once.”

“I love you too.”

I was so grateful you obliged. I smiled and cried harder. I kept repeating myself, “I love you, I love you”, like a broken record.

It didn’t change anything.

You held me back gently. I hated it. You once held me tightly like I would slip away in the night if you didn’t. Now your feather light touch felt like it could disappear without me even noticing.

I hated it. I hated everything. I wanted you to stay, I wanted to grow old with you. I wanted you in my life.

I wanted to eat breakfast with you.

“So… what should we do tomorrow?”

“I’ll pack my bags. I’ll get as much as I can then the rest in a week.”

“I’d like to go to the animal shelter. I wanna look at the kittens.”

You rolled your eyes and I pretended it was fondly.

[existential-dread-time-babey]

The problem with loving you was it felt like drowning.

It felt like I was slowly sinking into a salty ocean where my tears mingled with the water around. It felt like there was no difference between my desperation and the depths that surrounded me. The salt that should have lifted me up instead caked on my eyelashes and crystallized my eyes shut.

It felt like I was staring up at the surface, watching light reflect off of the rippling water. It felt like I was watching myself slowly fall away from the beauty above me. It felt cold and gripping.

Your love felt like desperation sometimes.

It felt like the fear of losing and I felt like I lost something myself when I lay in your arms. Your love felt cruel and cold and as distant as the moon.

It felt as soothing as waves lapping at the shore, as whimsical as ocean foam, but as far away as fantasy.

Your love was as frustrating as being given a bucket and being told to empty an ocean.

I felt frustrated when you couldn’t pick up on my emotions, when I cast rocks into your sea only for the ripples to be lost in your waves.

Your eyes were like oceans.

They were blue and wild and angry. They promised love and life, violence and death, beginnings and reckless abandon. I loved your eyes but could only stare at them when you did not meet my gaze.

I felt your love like a desperate, clawing breath taken after surfacing, not knowing which breath would be my last.

Loving you felt like drowning both in excess and absence.

You would think they would neutralize each other but we couldn’t balance each other either.

They were conflicting as they tore me apart and I was crushed between the crashing waves.

[existential-dread-time-babey]

When I was younger, I would scream "I hate you" at my older siblings. They were bigger and meaner and would laugh at me and joke with each other. I could never join their laughter. I was too young, too slow, too dumb. It upset me. I just wanted them to love me.

As I grew, my relationship with my family strained. I argued with my mom and resented my dad. I didn't speak to my siblings and I didn't try to. I didn't think I liked them very much.

I got bullied in middle school. I didn't like my friends much either. My first boyfriend was when I was when I was 12. He held my hands in his and loved me so hard I cried. It hurt and scared me and made me feel dirty. I wondered how horrible I must be that my presence in our love made it foul.

When I was older, I realized I never hated anyone. Not my siblings, not my parents, not my ex. It confused me. It felt like I should have.

I didn't know how to hate. I tried to see it as a good thing, a pure thing. Something to be nurtured and cultivated like a dying houseplant. Something to be protected.

When I met you, I loved you. Then I was scared. I feared that me not knowing how to hate meant that I didn't know how to love. I wanted to hate so my love for you would be that much more valuable and true.

Then I realized I was wrong. I didn't want to hate for you. I wanted to hate you. It wasn't fair that I couldn't

I wanted to hate you. I didn't want to love you. Not anymore.

[existential-dread-time-babey]

When I was little, like many little kids, I was told that my blankets would protect me from monsters.

Unlike many little kids I had vivid nightmares of a man creeping into my room and suffocating me. It would always make me cry and I would hide under my covers with my favorite plushie. It made me feel a little safer.

I made nests out of my blankets and pillows and toys. I made tents and pretended I was camping. Arranging my bed in these ways passed the time. I always struggled to sleep. It kept me entertained.

I started struggling with depression and it was hard to get out of bed. I'd lie under several blankets and let the weight gently crush me. I would hide from my family and their judgement. It felt lonely but I couldn't do anything else.

When I got a little older I stopped eating. I was cold all the time and, no matter how many blankets I piled on, my head would always be cold. I'd pull my quilt up and my breath would fill the cocoon I made. It made me feel a little warmer.

When I got older still I met a boy I loved who broke my heart. I hid under the blankets with a stuffed animal he gave me but my heart still ached.

[existential-dread-time-babey]

I learnt very early on in life that I was a coward. I was so scared of everything, even things that haven't happened yet.

As a little kid, I was praised for being so smart and careful. I tiptoed around large puddles as to not slip and skin my knees. I eyed passing cars warily and waited for my mom told hold my hand to cross. I was scared of strangers and hid behind trees while I played on my lawn.

I was scared of the dark because I thought a monster would creep up the stairs and quietly enter my room. My dad, tired of my crying, taught me that hiding under my blankets would save me.

I was scared of being alone because people scared me. They always made me uncomfortable. My dad, tired of my clinginess, taught me that no one would hurt me and, if they did, I could scream for help.

I was naturally a scared little girl. I was wary of everything. Eventually that became to inconvenient to handle so I was taught to be brave.

Eventually I met a boy who made my skin crawl but I ignored it. Eventually I met a boy who wanted me to see him on my own. I was scared of the way his eyes lingered on my body but I ignored it. Eventually he pushed me onto a bed and I grabbed at blankets to cover myself but he ripped them off of me. Eventually I screamed for help but he shoved my head into a pillow and laughed.

Eventually I became so much more scared than I used to be.

[existential-dread-time-babey]

I once had a dream that I was in the subway. It was dirty and humid and hot and smelly and I hated it. I felt the grime reach under my skin, I heard the automated voices above my head and I felt the heat on the back of my neck.

I wanted to scrub my arms and legs until I was raw and red, I wanted to bleed because at least that blood was my own and clean or at least as clean as anything I made could be.

I wanted to take a metal bat and break the speakers. All they contained were lifeless voices, ones that were not like the ones I love, ones that overstimulated me until my eyes watered. I wanted them gone in the most violent way possible.

I wanted to pull my shirt up so the hair didn’t hurt it. I didn’t want the heat to brush against my neck and ear like a lover’s breath might, I wanted to be cold and alone. I gagged on the thick air and it tasted of misery.

The subway had ten tracks and no way to get to each other than crossing the rails.

There was an old woman with wrinkled hands holding a gift wrapped package. She leaned on a cane and started to slowly and steadily make her way across the tracks. I saw a light coming and I moved to jump down to her but a hand stopped me. I opened my mouth to scream but all that came out was the sound of the train hurtling down its path.

Her body crumpled as I shot out of bed. I was crying and shaking and so tired. I kept getting nightmares, kept struggling to sleep through the night. I hated myself for not running to save the woman if I was going to wake up anyways.

[existential-dread-time-babey]

When I was young I loved to climb trees. I would climb a big tree on my older sibling’s school quad while I waited to pick them up. There was a big branch close to the ground my father would sit me on. My mom didn’t want me to climb that tree. I was clumsy as an eight year old and always had scraped knees so she was scared for me.

There was a smaller tree on my lawn. I tried to climb as high as I could but I didn’t get far. The branches were smaller and shook under my weight. I was bigger too. I wanted to go higher than ever. I was ten and the world was mine.

When I was older, I stopped climbing trees. I was tired and I didn’t want to go outside. I always felt sick and the smell of leaves made my stomach churn. I was scared of going outside but I was sad at home too. I was only eleven.

I went to the same school as my siblings. By that time, the big tree was torn down. They turned it into a table for a classroom I liked. I sat on top of that table and laughed with the friends I made. Sophomore year hurt but I was happy.

I started running a year before that. I loved to run outside in the trails by my school. I loved the fresh air and dark dirt and glittering trees. I loved everything. I loved to run. I loved my friends and my coach. It’s how I made my friends in freshman year.

I ran until I couldn’t. I had an injury when I was sixteen and I never got better. I couldn’t run outside after that. It hurt to walk. I cried a lot. I fell out with the friends I used to see every day and nothing felt good. I started to fence and I was always inside.

I started climbing trees again when I was seventeen. I had friends who would climb with me. I was always faster and wanted to go higher. I would run to the tree and swing myself up before they even reached the base. When I was at the top I saw the whole sky and it was beautiful. The world was beautiful and I was in it. I felt like I was flying. It felt so right.

It was only when I looked down that I realized that in order to feel the wind in my hair I had to climb away from the people I loved.

[existential-dread-time-babey]

Dear Loverboy,

I’ve never called you that to your face. It’s a bit of a parody on “Mr. Loverman”. By Ricky Montgomery. Except we’re kids so I call you loverboy. I've called you this secretly for a while now. It felt too weird to call you that to your face so I never did.

I don't know if I'm happy with you anymore. That's a hard shift, I know. I'm sorry. You said during an argument that you thought I wasn't capable of happiness. Maybe I'm not. I'm sorry if I can't be happy. It wouldn't be your fault, I promise. I hope it isn't mine.

I was once yours. A small part of me always will be with you. You may carry it tenderly or you may dig your fingers in as you soldier on forward. I think that I know what you will do.

I know that you will never forgive me for this letter. I know. It's not fair for me to expect that of you so I don't. I do ask it of you, though. I doubt that request will be fulfilled. It upsets me but what will I do about it?

It's not fair to me. I tried my best, I really did, I promise. I tried so hard and I hung on so long. I cried so many tears for you, I drank and washed my face with them. The salt scrubbed at my skin. I took care of myself so you could destroy me all over again.

I still love you. We both know that will never change.

From the small part that follows you wherever you go,

I love you

[existential-dread-time-babey]

I was like a burn slowly healing. My heart was, at least. I dutifully healed, slowly and steadily, forming a scab over the raw, sensitive skin. You could have picked off all my hard work, setting me back days, months, or even years. You could have torn open the wound with your teeth, licked up the blood, and rubbed salt in the sore.

Instead, your presence soothed the wound on my soul. You were like a cool balm on my aching heart. There was still a scar but you did not cause it.

I wanted you to hurt me. I begged you to.

I wanted you to hurt me because I was scared of hurting you first. I wanted you to hurt me because I only know that as love. I would try so hard to never hurt someone I love.

If you hurt me, I would love you.

You soothed my soul and I felt so scared under your care.

[existential-dread-time-babey]

Sometimes I worry that the things in my life have feelings and they are sad when they’re used.

I worry that the bar of soap in my bath screams in fear every time I turn the water on. That it begs and begs because it doesn’t want to disappear. That, day after day, the screams get quieter and quieter.

I worry that the peach I ate after lunch was in pain. I worry that it thinks the world isn’t fair. That the tree that gently and persistently cultivated it gave the peach seed everything it needed to survive. It gave it nutrients and care and a soft protective layer.

The seed was meant to fall to the soil and the fruit was meant to nourish the seed until it sprouted. I took that chance away from it. The tree, perhaps, also thought it unfair. The time and energy needed to bear fruit must be difficult. The tree did everything right.

I feel bad for the tree. And the seed. I don't know which I pity more. The seed makes me feel a deep sorrow, the same sorrow I feel when I look in the mirror. The tree however, brings such a feeling of guilt and shame that I cannot even begin to verbalize.

I don't consider myself an empathetic person. Other people don't agree.

[existential-dread-time-babey]

I’d rather be angry then defeated.

I wish I was angry right now. If I was angry I’d be defending myself. I’d be shouting and crying and flawed. My eyes would be sunken in and wild, I would be a mess of bitten lips and nails, and I would be beautiful.

I’m not angry.

I’m defeated. I’m so tired and my heart hurts. My voice is quiet like a child’s as I desperately want you to be nice. I want you to wipe away my tears and stroke my hair but you don’t. I don’t think you know how. Your hands will only pluck out my eyes and tangle in my hair. Dark strands will cling to your nails after you rip them out of my scalp.

I will see it as love.

You continue to put effort into me. Even if it is to hurt me, it is effort. Hatred always comes from love. You loved me so you hate me now. You love yourself so you hate that I oppose you.

I wish I was angry.

I want to scream that I want you to love me the way I love you. I want to rage and throw things at your head. I want to regret the words that come out of my mouth as soon as they leave my lips.

I don’t.

Instead, in a broken whisper, I say

“I deserve better”

But you don’t hear.

And I don’t mean it.

[existential-dread-time-babey]

One day my mother had to take me to a doctor’s appointment. She wore a dress I had never seen on her before. It was cute.

She looked young. Not young as in not tired. Not young like my friends. Young like girlish and happy and full of life.

It confused me.

Did you know WhatsApp will tell you the exact time when someone logs off? After a hard conversation with my partner, I like to wait until they log off. It means they put their phone down. It means they’re going to bed. I’m keeping guard over them until they go.

I wonder if my mother would have done the same. I think she would have. She was always caring.

I wonder if her willingness to stay up at night as I lay sick and feverish led to her irritation with life. I hope not.

She raised me and will never forgive me for it.

[existential-dread-time-babey]

I wanted nothing more than to hurt you. To dig my nails into your sensitive skin, to leave marks in the shape of my teeth, to kiss you until your lips bled.

I wanted to drink your blood like lemonade on a hot day, refreshing and sour and sweet. I wanted your tears to bubble on my tongue like champagne. I wanted you to be intoxicating and leave me drunk.

I wanted to hurt you. And I did.

Afterwards you lay your head in my lap and I stroke your hair. I wove little braids into your blond locks while you stroked your thumb along my arm. After, I held your face like you were made of gilded glass, delicate and precious.

I loved you so I hurt you. I hit you again and again but you just laughed. I said you deserved it and I meant it.

I wanted to hurt you. You managed to hurt me so much more.

I felt disgusting for liking it.

[existential-dread-time-babey]

and wondered why they never had the chance to lose you (dtiys for @localwheel !!)

[existential-dread-time-babey]

I used to play guitar. I wasn’t great at it but I was good for my age group. I didn’t know my scales and I didn’t practice. I hated guitar. I always wanted to quit.

It took seven years to find a teacher I liked. I loved my guitar teacher. He was funny and warm and supportive. After three years he quit. I did too. I didn’t want to learn anymore.

Then I had a teacher who would bring a guitar out. At that point, hadn’t touched a guitar in two years. He passed me the instrument with a smile. I played a few notes timidly. The sound was pure and warm.

I handed the guitar back. I was scared of breaking it.

I wanted the wood to splinter and hurt me. I wanted the nylon strings to scream.

I was sad. I tuned a guitar.

I struggled through my favorite piece. It took longer than it used to. It had been years.

It was beautiful and sad and heartfelt.

I never forgot how to make a beautiful tone. I didn’t know my scales but I didn’t forget how to coax a rich song out. It gave me hope that I didn’t only break things.

[existential-dread-time-babey]

For a little bit, tiktok had a “feminine rage” song trending. I liked the song. It was right up my alley in terms of music taste. Something about it made me so angry though. I didn’t understand that. I was no mother of three. I didn’t have a husband who hit me. I didn’t understand why I was so angry. I was a child. What did I know of being a woman. I was just a girl.

Then I remembered when I was young, my mother had me help in the kitchen. When I asked why my brother never needed to help, she scoffed and said that he couldn’t even fry an egg. I learnt when I was four.

Then I remember that during Christmas, my grandparents always gave my brother more money than me or my sister. “He’s the oldest boy”, they said but they never gave my sister any for being the oldest girl.

I remember when I didn’t do exactly what my dad wanted, he yelled. I remember how he’d break things. I remember how he made excuses. I remember how he grabbed my neck and told everyone he was aiming for my arm. I remember trying to quiet my sobs so he wouldn’t yell again.

I remember how angry my brother always was. How he’d yell and cry in public. How he got therapy for anger issues. How I got yelled at for trying to kill myself. I remember how he’d throw cups and not pick up the glass. How I wouldn’t notice and walk in it.

I remember how my first boyfriend touched me. How he grabbed and pawed and pulled. How he smiled at me. How he called me pretty. How he took what I would have given if I was allowed more time. How he was older and bigger and stronger. How scared I was. How young.

[existential-dread-time-babey]

oh, you're invincible, you say? *easily vinces you*