Two shots and a chaser

I shouldn't blog after two shots of vodka chased by Dr. Pepper, but I can't do to myself what I've been doing, which is technically worse than drinking.

No, I don't do stupid things like drugs or sex or whatnot.  I just....I don't know.  Tristan warned me not to blog but I feel like if I don't write, I'm just going to self-implode.

Do you know what it's like to see the light on the other side of a door, to feel hope at finally being able to walk through as someone beckons you in, only to have it slam in your face at the last second?  I feel like I'm sitting against the door, sobbing and trying to bang it hard enough for someone to hear me.  I know I can just stand up and walk away, ignore what's on the other side of that infuriating barrier, but.... I want what's there.  I want it so bad and I hate that I can't have it.

Gosh I sound like a little kid.

Miracles happen, right?  Like, the impossible becomes the possible.  I keep thinking, if God can bring the dead back to life even after they're mummified (Lazarus, for those of you scrunching your brows wondering who the heck I'm referring to) why can't He reverse the one thing that's slowly destroying me inside?

I hate being so mean to Tristan, and I know why I am.  I tease him with his schizophrenia and for a long while he'd laugh, and even today he did when I said I didn't see the snow falling (I did, just felt like messing with his head).  But he hates it, and he told me.  I felt way bad when I realized how much it actually scares and hurts him, and I've apologized over and over.  Then when I think about it, I realize I do it to swing the pain off of me, as a sort of preservation trick that backfires.  I try to keep him at arm's length by being an absolute witch-with-a-b.

Mix two shots of vodka and a shared can of Dr. Pepper into things and that's what makes me crawl out of bed to blog.  I don't even want to write what exactly happened.  Nothing "happened", don't worry.  Ugh I hate knowing this blog is public.  There's so much I want to write but I don't out of fear of ridicule and more pain.  I'm in so much pain.  The other day when Tristan and I were fighting, at a calming point he asked me why I was crying.  He was gentle about it, I mean, I knew what he meant when he asked.  So I explained to him how Second-humans feel internal pain in the chest from emotion, unlike Gorans.  It's so physical, so tremendous, and we have to find safe ways to channel it out or it can get worse and make us do things we will regret.  So some, like myself, cry.

I want to cry.  I'm in so much internal pain.  And I allow it.  Maybe because every day is a new day, a new chance at something to change.  Something to not only give hope, but fulfill it.

I told Tristan how much I hate that he's gay.  He said it's not just sex, it's the companionship.  I wanted to scream at the ceiling and break all the mirrors in the room.  Not out of anger or sadness, but the pain.  So much pain.  Questions filling my head, screaming at me, "Am I not good enough?  Am I not good enough?  AM I NOT GOOD ENOUGH????"  But I know well enough to keep it in, to control it, to tell myself I tried, and even though I then remind myself how much I sucked at trying no matter how many chances I got, I push it down like dirty clothes in a laundry basket and cover it with sweet thoughts.  Like....well, like the thoughts that bring the pain.

This sounds so ridiculous, but the Backstreet Boys know what I'm talking about.  Listening to them is nice, it helps me to know that someone can express the pain in something other than tears and destruction.  "Incomplete" is kind of my mantra.  My complaint.  And surprisingly enough, I'm complaining to God more and more.  Is THIS what He had in mind?