I love writing. I hate writing.
I love life. I hate life.
I love myself. I hate myself.
I love you. I hate you.

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One thing is for sure, I hate this month.

Last week was the one year anniversary of when I lost my mom.

Since she died last year, this will be a year of seconds without her. Will it get easier? Maybe, I don’t know.

I’ve struggled with intrusive thoughts involving her death and the aftermath… Me having to clean up and pack up her stuff alone with two strangers I hired. Having to call the city for a dumpster. Having to call a crime scene clean-up to have her bed removed because I refused to see where she died. Having to deal with the moron she lived with. Having to deal with what to do with her car. Having to close her bank accounts and other important accounts. So many phone calls. Having to open a storage unit and pay rent on it every month while unemployed. Having to get her cremated. Having to plan her burial at sea. When she was alive and when she’d be drunk, she would often say she would want to be cremated and scattered out at sea. So I did that for her as her final wish. The process… all of it took over a month. It was exhausting. Looking back on it is exhausting. Remembering she has stuff in storage that I have to go through is exhausting. Life is exhausting. And these thoughts run through my head, over and over… Nobody stops for a moment to consider these things that suffocate my brain. I can’t control it. I have to shake my head like an Etch-A-Sketch to make it stop. I have to scream at myself inside my head to stop.

This week is when that whole process began last year. I’m hurting more than you’ll ever know.

I hate this. I hate that I’m going to have to deal with this again with my dad one day. I don’t even want to think about it.

We all die. I get it. Even with that knowledge, it isn’t enough to make the pain stop.

Nothing will ever be the same. I’m slowly just trying to find peace, but sometimes life and the things in it make it fucking impossible to do so.

I’m still running on fumes most days. Existing can be a chore. I thought about suicide for the first time in awhile yesterday.

I’ve been sleeping a lot more lately. Not because I’ve been staying up late, but because it’s an easy escape.

I started streaming on Twitch. That has also been a fun escape.

There’s nothing going on in my life to report on here. All I can say is the memories of my mom’s death still surround me. It’s safer to isolate so no one has to deal with me and my grief. There’s nothing nobody can say to ease my pain. I wish the sun could shine through me and I could feel alive and whole instead of being trapped in this eternal darkness in her absence. I already have dealt and still deal with my own demons. But this is just another layer of pain that I didn’t ask to deal with.

My BPD has begun to resurface more lately. It’s incredibly painful keeping it inside so no one has to see or hear about it.

I’m suffocating alone. I still barely have the capacity for other peoples complex emotions. My tolerance is low. My temper is short. I am not pleasant to be around in these times. Nobody understands either. I’m like a wounded dog and will lunge at you if you make the wrong move. I am aware of all that I’m going through, and yet I can’t control myself entirely. This is why I isolate. It’s so much easier to just hide away until it inevitably passes than burden those with all this shit and what comes with it.

I’m still here. I’m still breathing.

I love the air I breathe.
I hate the air I breathe.

I hate myself for breathing without you.