I feel...better. Had some cathartic sex. That helped. Writing it out helped. It all helps. The cathartic sex left me with some sore parts, a few bruises, and broken closet doors (they were not built to withstand two adults slamming into them, apparently), but again, cathartic. And I have to get into the closet anyways to dig out my winter clothes. No big deal.

Tuesday I'd gone to bed at 7 PM and woke up at noon the next day. Last night I went to bed around 1 AM and woke up at 9. Sleep schedules be damned unpredictable, I guess.

I miss the kids, being a holiday especially. I will call them today. I remember writing a particularly morose post last year on Thanksgiving, as I remembered Cassie getting back her kids a few years ago only to have them taken away last year. I could write more on that, but I'm far too tired to delve into that place.

Not tired. I'm...I don't know what. I am something that wants to stave off a year's worth of memories, because there are ALWAYS a year's worth of memories. There is ALWAYS a year worth of sorrows and triumphs, and ALWAYS a year worth of looking back and taking stock. I could run it back to my childhood and all it would be would be overwhelming at this moment.

Life is such a long thing to live, sometimes.

Sometimes I feel very much as if I was born at 33 years old. Other times I feel as if I was born a hundred years ago. Normal processes of aging, I suppose.

We finished Jessica Jones last night. I felt satisfied. Deeply vindicated. I felt as if that storyline had naturally run its course, that it had been wrapped up neatly and with finality. I couldn't say Jessica had defeated what he did to her. I can say, however, that Jessica defeated the demon that was him.

If that is all we can ask for, then it must be enough. And today, it is enough. I don't normally hold to the idea that Thanksgiving is any day special enough to give thanks to.

But if I were, I would be thankful that I have been able to defeat the demons that are them, even if I have struggle with what they did for the rest of my life.

It is enough. It is truly, truly, enough.

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Monster with two heads

I put out some feelers in SV. Cassie's not the only person who has friends down there. I'm being paranoid. I worry. I'm fucking ridiculous. I've got a couple more holdouts down there to message, if something beyond my scope of friends comes down the line.

Get ahold of her myself? No way. Never works out well.

"I turn to you, you’re all I see
Our love’s a monster with two heads and one heartbeat

Who cares about being discreet? I don't care who's reading this. This is mine.

I'm just being paranoid. Nothing's wrong. She's fine. If there's anyone on this goddamn planet whose managed to dodge Death, it's her. One of the strongest life-wills I've ever seen.

I worry about the law of averages catching up to her. I worry that I wouldn't hear the bad news until it was way too late. I worry that it would be my fault that no one had gotten ahold of me to tell me.

Maybe it would be. Maybe it wouldn't be.

I hate this kind of love.

I don't know what I'd do without this kind of love.

I'm fucking ridiculous.

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(no subject)

I don't know what happened while I was sleeping. Something like 14 hours. Something like waking up under the horrible feeling that something horrible is happening. Heart racing. Head pounding.

Feed the cats. This feeling isn't anything. It's just a hormonal spike. It's just the result of too many gray days. NOTHING IS WRONG.

Put on happy music five minutes after I wake up.

I never do that.

Loud as I can. 100% speakers. Put on the most bombastic pair of headphones I have.

I never do that. Never in the morning. NEVER before I've been awake for at least two hours.

God, I HATE being human. Why can't I be like my cats, who woke me up by jumping on my head? They don't care about weird feelings. They just want to eat.

Fresh pot of coffee. Feed the cats. Happy fucking music. Loud as hell. Chase whatever went on in my head in the night away with ridiculously uptempo beats.

Thank fucking god for Youtube. These places were so much harder to get out of when all I had was the radio and my CD's. To date myself, no fucking wonder I was so goddamn crazy until my late 20's.

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(no subject)

Jesus Christ, it's been all doom and gloom lately. Which is well enough, as I've been feeling all gloom and doom lately. But christ almighty, even I can stand so much moroseness from myself.

So for fucks sake, for why not's sakes, and for "I'm headed in to watch the last three episodes of Jessica Jones" sake, Things That Are Awesome.

* Nail polish designs that go EXACTLY HOW I WANT THEM TO. (Gradient glitter is a go-go!)

* Pumpkin pie. FREE pumpkin pie. The apartment office is giving away free pie. My overpriced rent is finally going to some good use.

* I HAVE ACCESS TO YA'LLS FLISTS NOW!!! Whatever bullshit that was garbling it is GONE.

* Clean sheets. That shit's AWESOME.

* Cigarettes. Because fuckmylungs, that's why.

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Cool kids

Lately, I have one good day on and one bad day off. Sequentially, it seems. The sun coming out would be good. There have been far more cloudy days here than not. I hear you, Simon. It makes it harder. Why do so many mental disorders rely on the rise and fall of the sun? Why does mental illness, across the board and universally, grip us so much harder when the light of day fails?

I imagine the answer is some vitamin goes into hiding. Vitamin D. Vitamin C. Vitaman-My-Brain-Is-Normal. Things that most people have in some sort of excess.

We don't have that. This morning, as it is cold outside, as the sky just gets grayer and grayer with every hour, I am wildly envious of them.

I listen to Echosmith's "Cool Kids." I remember wanting to be one of the cool kids. Still do, sometimes. As my high school expulsions shunted me to smaller and smaller schools, I did eventually wind up being one of the cool kids. At least one of the cool-rebellious kids.

A few years after school, I'd run into people who marveled at how I just didn't care what others thought of me. Of how I just did what I wanted, opinions of others be damned.

And I think "Are you kidding? Do you not see that everything I did - EVERYTHING - was a bid for attention? Everything I did, every damn thing I did to earn me a detention, a talking-to, an expulsion, a counselor visit, was to make people think I was wild?"

I was wild. I was also desperate for high school celebrity status. I would never be one of the popular ones. I knew that. But I knew I could be the most famous odd man out on campus and thus I strived to achieve that - every day, every damn day that I attended school.

It may have been a case of "Teressa was going to be a fuckup no matter what, so I may as well make it work for me." I'm convinced that had I not been shot to some sort of high school rebellion, I would have still found myself constantly in trouble.

But I cared. I definitely cared about my image. I would never be one of the popular kids.

But one of the cool kids? One of the cool kids who DON'T fit in? I could be that. Turn it all into a loud drama, make sure they don't forget me, make sure I don't fade into some kind of peer-obscurity.

This is normal in teenagers.

I just don't get how the other teenagers around me didn't see it.

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(no subject)

I have slowly been able to eat. You guys are right - starving myself will do no good to either myself or my medication. Small bits, here and there. Rice pudding with extra cinnamon. Nuts and dried fruit. Things that go down easily in small bites, all to add up to the decency of a full meal.

I came to Kansas alone, save for Patrick. I came to Kansas in the fall of 2003 to escape my family. I brought my family here in 2007. Now the last of my family will be leaving on a plane tomorrow morning. I tell Jesse it feels very much like being alone, even as I have stable ties to the family I've created out of friends.

I am grateful for those threads, as they are strong and run deep. It does not fill the hole that will be left when those two small children take off from KCI at 5 AM tomorrow.

Jesse and I finished the last of the LOTR movies last night. The Two Towers is my favorite, as all looks so dark and so hopeless in that time, even as we know the end of the story will bring triumph and good.

The Two Towers is my favorite because of Sam, because he figures out the very reason for such journeys.

"It's like in the great stories Mr. Frodo, the ones that really mattered. Full of darkness and danger they were, and sometimes you didn't want to know the end because how could the end be happy? How could the world go back to the way it was when so much bad had happened?

But in the end it's only a passing thing this shadow, even darkness must pass. A new day will come, and when the sun shines it'll shine out the clearer. Those were the stories that stayed with you, that meant something even if you were too small to understand why.

But I think Mr. Frodo, I do understand, I know now folk in those stories had lots of chances of turning back, only they didn't. They kept going because they were holding on to something.

I don't always know what I am holding onto.

I only know that I am not turning back.

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(no subject)

I haven't eaten in 24 hours.

I'm not hungry.

I feel like I've lost something.

Even though I'm not sure what I ever had to gain in the first place.

I should eat. I've lost 20 pounds in the last couple of months.

I'm not hungry.

"What comes next?" is the wrong question.

What was it all for?

That is the right question.

There are no right answers.

But there are wrong answers.

All I know how to do is write in despair over things that are long gone, if they were ever here before. All I know how to do is worry people.

All I know how to do is to use words to make people feel things about what I feel, until I'm not sure what is mine, what is theirs, and what was my intention at the start of penning those words.

I'm not hungry.

I'm just. not. hungry.

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This story

It's been a long eight years.

It was in 2007 that I brought Cassie home to me in Kansas City. It was in 2007 that I brought Cassie's children home to me in Kansas City. It was in 2007 that I felt, that I believed all Cassie needed to get better was a fresh new start.

It is in 2015 that I know this did not happen. I thought by bringing her over here, she would break away from the years of self-abuse she'd thrown on herself.

All that happened was instead of slowly killing herself in Hawaii, she slowly killed herself here. And in turns that I could not have fathomed in 2007, her two children, mere toddlers at the time, would come to represent the sole light in generations cast of darkness.

That sounds hopeful. Far more hopeful than I feel at the moment. But I know it is also true.

This is not the first time Cassie and I are separated. Nor is it the first time Cassie, the kids, and I are separated. She'd fled with her children to Arizona in 2013, but that distance only stayed for a few months.

Now Cassie is in one place, I in another, and the children will be in another place altogether. Chess pieces scattered across the nation, an endless board of black and white, good and bad, joy and sorrow. The three of us are and will be separated by thousands of miles between us. The three of us, who either in good conscience or else legally bound, can no longer cross paths with each other.

I know the story is not over. I may not be able to see the children for years at a time, but I will still talk to them. I may not be able to allow Cassie back into my life, but there's always the chance she could get better, even if it takes another eight years.

The story is not over. But this chapter is. When I wake up on Thursday, knowing the children are on a plane somewhere above the Pacific Ocean, I will feel a finality that has not yet been present in the pages. One would hope I could feel that finality as closure.

Right now, however, that finality feels a loss. This is natural. It does not ease the ache of the last near decade. I brought her home to get better. She did not get better. She only got worse. And she took her children with her, carving holes so deep into them that they will spend decades trying to fill it back up.

Eight years ago I had wild hopes, unrealistic ideas and ambitions, and an unshakeable knowledge that THIS would be what made the difference in her life. I was wrong, so wrong, and had no way to see just how wrong I would be. My early entries about her beginnings in Kansas City are heartbreaking to read.

There was so much hope. There was so much possibility.

Eight years, in the span of an 80 year life, is not terribly long. It is a deep sigh, a slow blink. But from where I sit, as of this moment, it feels as if decades have passed.

The story is not over. This chapter is. And as I turn the page onto another chapter, one that I have yet to pen across the blank pages of the future, I have to ask...what comes next? Why did it turn out the way it did and after all this, after eight years of trying to love a woman into not hating herself, what comes next?

The skies I look towards when I ask this question have no answer. The past echoes but does not sound the direction of what will strongest inform the future. There is nothing but living that will tell what comes next.

I still have to ask.

What comes next?

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(no subject)

The kids are leaving next Thursday morning. For whatever reason, the foster parents aren't letting me take them to spend the night. We will all meet tomorrow for lunch and goodbyes.

I'm on the verge of losing my absolutely sorrowful shit. I think I will be all day. I mean, losing my shit into deep, ripping sobs. Not so much the lunch thing, though I'll see if I can swing maybe a day, if they are out of school.

It's just that it's too soon. When we all made these plans that my father should take them, it was over a year away. That year came and went SO QUICKLY. I won't see them again for years, years that as of this moment, seem eternal and without end.

It's too soon. It's too soon. It's too soon.

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