I turned 33 two weeks ago and am still standing at the same kitchen window. Oh, I left for awhile but I came back. Clearly there is unfinished business here. At this goddamned window. I'm sick of unfinished business. I'm sick of it existing, of it hiding, of it busting through the door at the most inopportune times, wearing an infuriating Jack Nicholson grin. Are we saddled with the weight of our shit upbringing in such a way that all we can do about it is white knuckle our way through life and only finally rest when we ride our last breath up and outta this plane? Do miles and miles of therapy even scratch the surface? What is biological mental illness and what is the result of growing up in total dysfunction? Does the latter cause the former or does the cause even matter? If it's you, you're not so interested in the cause as you are the solution. Therefore, put your driving gloves on--it's going to be miles and miles of therapy, whether you arrive anywhere or you don't.
Speaking of miles... I drove around yesterday, looking for one longcut after another. A bag of ice melted on the floorboard, but fuck going 'home.' My scalp was crawling, I was furious, I wanted a fight. But there's never one to be had the way I want it. You know the last thing you should be doing is driving when you can't find a ditch deep enough. I don't like feeling as though I could chew through anything, like I want to hurt every person and thing I see. However, it's better than drowning in anxiety or burning near to death of panic. And, that's frightening.
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