Bitches be talking

Talkers be bitching

July, oh July.

My birth month which I’ve had a weird obsession with since birth. Even the number 7. which is so basic of me. I graduated. I have been having trouble writing lately, and I’m not sure whether it’s substance-induced fog or I’ve finally gone washed. or gotten, I’m not sure. I’ve been unsure about everything lately.

In a way, I feel like I’ve been in a coma for the past few months, and it kinda feels like I’m regaining consciousness. Or you know how in movies when someone loses their memory, they start slowly remembering things about themselves and their likes and stuff? I feel exactly like that. I’m getting flashbacks of feelings, exactly as worded. Every day, I’m reminded of something so irrelevant but apparently made a huge difference to my emotional functionality.

I feel so limpy, like half a person. I wish I can fast forward to the glow up that’s supposed to occur after this fully unfolds, but I know I can’t earn “that” yet. It feels like a kid forced to do homework in summer, and he has some form of undiagnosed ADHD -I’m not too educated on these so mb- so he’s slowly suffering and not actually doing anything, just fidgeting and BULLSHITTING.

I can not celebrate my birthdsy this year. I can not celebrate anything this year. There is actually no reason for joy for me. (i’m not pessimisitic; I promise)

It’s not even a point of going back for me. I don’t yearn for that nostalgia anymore. I just wish for stability in any form.

The most “love” form of love has to be the inconsistent kind. If the love I’m receiving isn’t threateningly little and is given in droplet form, then I don’t want it. Or my body just rejects anything that’s more.

I don’t like feeling heard, and I hate feeling ignored.

I am genuienly losing it more and more by the fucking day.

Back on the memory stuff, I’m scared I’m losing memories. I have never even had a slight issue with this idea, but now it feels like too much in my head and freeing up space will only happen if I get rid of specifics, and I don’t even fully remember.

I don’t want to ruin my own life.

I come on substack and complain about my stupid life, or write pretentious bullshit and call it a day, and slightly, gratify myself for being able to articulate some bullshit together. It feels like nothing I do is not fraudulent, as if I’m a con-man experiment.

I want to be a person so bad. To my mom, I’m not, to my friends, I’m flakey and I doubt I’ve ever built any real relationships because of my “avoidism”. Sometimes I feel like I view myself way more than I actually am. If we take a good look at everything, I’m BARELY even there. Ever. Fucking even in my life. I allow full envelopment. And there is no typo in that previous sentence, shut the fuck up (me).

NO.