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minikin

Minikin's Journal

Routine Ramblings of an Occasionally Interesting Housewife


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minikin
me - writing: ... up by [call it] 11:30am [I round, okay?] ... [do I write it here, or here?] cried.

her: do you have to write that?

me: it *is* after all, my mood diary. I cried.

her: but you weren't crying all day.

So yeah, I deliberately picked a calendar with tiny boxes. Enough space for "up at" and "in bed by" entries, the occasional "spotting" or "heavy flow" and still working on figuring out where to write the big 1 in a circle anyway... Leaving enough space for a short phrase about mood. Not a dialogue here. Maybe some clues, like "cried - argument". That's about it.

I hate crying. It scares me. I can feel it coming on, and wonder should I start carrying a single Xanax for emergencies? Cause, the crying, well, it's not constant, it's very occasional, and I'm documenting that now, but when it happens, it's like everything crashes in, and all I can take in is the bad, and it amplifies and circles and crescendos...

She touched my neck. Me, feeling all cocky and smug and done-good about myself, laying in her arms, not sleepy, not wired, pleased-surprised about her not drifting off right away. She covers my face with tiny kisses and touches me. Drifting in good space, feel the sparks enter as small lights, stare into her caring eyes, slip into feeling the tips of her fingers right before they touch. Quickened breath, anticipation.

Pressure. Soft weight bearing down on my pulse. I can feel my heart beat, speed up, react. As sudden as hair-pulling or stinging pain or immobilization. Pressure on my neck, feel the desire for more. For more weight, more pressure; she doesn't cup and squeeze, she draws the line. The long familiar line outlining the everpresent reality whether in place or in a box, always in the mind, but that is not what the touch represents.

Why can she read my eyes so easily, so soon? I see that casual will never be left to my repertoire. I am transparent and trusting and do not desire to hide but yearn not to share so much sadness. Even when there are levels of what is there to share I can't stop at the top or the easiest.

I cried. Finally unspoken were the deepest fears and confusion. Still not knowing why, only guessing at the meanings of what now is. Afraid of dependency, knowing that all interconnection creates some amount of dependency. Afraid of the darkness that comes with the tears, or brings them.

I still miss him more than I can bear. I still lay awake, ever more infrequently, wishing that it were all some horrible nightmare from which to awaken. Wish to hear the words: did you have a bad dream? How could you think I ever would have said that? And then facing the world as it is, and going on.

He added me back to his friends list. No explanation, just a positive action following another hopeful request.

I wonder will I ever be able to understand, even given the opportunity.

Do tears evoked by writing of tears count as tears?

Is it a betrayal to write "happy" on the day my sweetness drives away from me?

Thinking too much. Need to create. First, happy spaces, then images from a dream.

I wonder if any of this will make sense to me in a week.

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I wonder if any of this will make sense to me in a week.


It makes sense now. Now is enough.

You can be happy, if that is what you want. Permission is not something that you need to be able to write that simple yet complicated word.

I love you.

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