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I closed my eyes just now and saw myself throwing this computer out the window, watching as it broke apart three stories below. Then I saw myself tearing up the carpet in this room with my bare hands until the skin beneath my fingernails bled. I watched in my mind’s eye as I broke some of the small bones in those hands punching through the walls of this apartment. All the while screaming. White with rage, and screaming. There’s this need driving up from the soles of my feet, lighting my muscles on fire as it moves, causing my body to clench around it. It is begging me to destroy something. I close my eyes and see a beast towering over the back of me; it is older than death and it wants to eat the world. Grind it all to dust between its teeth. When it moves beneath my skin, I know a little better what madness must be like.

I stared at the screen for almost twenty minutes last night trying to figure out which truth to tell. I settled finally on what was true right then, which was in part, that I had no desire to stare at the screen any longer. I couldn’t decide what to write about because I knew that whatever I chose would be a reflection of me. I could choose a truth from the part of my day when I felt loved and prove that I am capable of allowing goodness in my life, or I could choose a truth closer to how I was feeling as I was staring at the screen and risk being deemed a boring sod of a person who clearly enjoys wallowing a little too much. Both were real for me yesterday. Both were true.

I want to have the courage to sit still, to face whatever the truths are that I keep brushing against, that literally leave me gasping. I want to be brave enough to listen and accept what I hear. I do not want to spend the rest of my life running from something that is unchanging. The truths are the truths whether I want them to be or not. And that’s the fuck all. Because I REALLY don’t want them to be and that REALLY doesn’t matter. Everything I do to ignore it, postpone it, and hide from it is just me wasting time and energy. It drives me crazy to know that what I’m really wasting is life.

I keep having these fantasies of me on silent retreat in a cave dwelling for years. Or in a monastery reciting fervent prayers. Or in a house in the country studying philosophy and poetry. Or of just one day in my own apartment spent in sincere contemplation.

Today I had a root canal done in the morning. I got home a little after noon. I took my dog on a long walk and then sat for about thirty minutes of meditation. I made myself lunch. Then I started season 1 of Roswell on Netflix. I took my computer to bed with me until the internet got too choppy in the walk-in closet I call a bedroom, and so I made a bed of my pull-out couch in the living room. I ate ice cream and popsicles all day and night long despite the ache of my tooth. I walked my dog again around 9 PM and here I sit, about to start episode 8 of season 1 of Roswell.

I am all these things, and I wish that I wasn’t. I wish I was just the things that made for a good, easy life–one preferably filled with love and joy. I hate some of the things I am. I hate that I am this person on the couch ducking my head into adolescent soap operas all day and then reading After the Ecstasy, the Laundry before bed every night.

Yet, that’s exactly what I’m going to do.

I hate that too.