Cement in my Heart


I saw myself last night in a dream. Saw my own reflection – or my mind’s reflection of myself – in a mirror. No wonder I’ve been waking up feeling out of sorts! Not if I’ve been having shit like that go on in my head and then not remembering it in the morning! In the dream, my hips must have been 70 inches at a minimum. The picture I did of myself didn’t do my self-perception image justice. Those hips should have been bigger and wider. Taken up the entire canvas side to side.

THAT’S what I think of myself? Holy crap.

After a day of soul searching I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised by my dream. I walked around with that lead weight inside for most of the day, worrying over it like a chew toy. Tried writing; got about 1000 words of something I don’t know how to finish or where it could go. Tried playing games; bored out of my skull after 20 minutes. Watched a stupid film I didn’t enjoy or pay much attention to. Walked over to the next supermarket and bought some pizzas that were on sale. Smoked waaaaaay too much.

It came down to an issue that’s a big one for me: my ability to take care of myself. This is gonna suck admitting to…Okay. Truth and only truth.

I haven’t worked and received a paycheck for close to 20 years. I haven’t supported myself financially at all. The only reason I’m not out on the street is because of my brother taking care of me. My life here is fragile: if something happens to him, I’ll be kicked out. Homeless. And I’ll have nowhere to go. And no money to get there. I had to think long and hard yesterday about the very worst scenario I could imagine, and I decided that if that time comes I’ll go it here – on the run – rather than go back to the states. I hope if that scenario actually does manifest itself in my life I’ll have the guts to jump off a building and just end it. But if I don’t, I’ll just start to walk and keep walking until I drop. That’s my plan. Great one, isn’t it? Other people think about the last part of their lives and they talk about savings and retirement. I talk about walking until I die. I have no other plan. I see no other way out. Not unless I want to prostitute myself and trade my body for a roof over my head. And who wants to fuck an old woman with RA? Puh-leeze!

Yep. Not happy thoughts. Want to know another reason why I smoke so much? I WANT TO DIE BEFORE MY BROTHER CAUSE I CAN’T TAKE CARE OF MYSELF. And that statement, complete with the tears it brings, is what’s been bugging me.

I tell myself nothing is certain in life anyway. Enjoy my time here; don’t think too long and hard about tomorrow. Don’t let what comes mar what is. I tell myself dying only hurts for a little while, then it’s over. I tell myself chances are that I’ll die first with my health problems and reluctance to see doctors. I tell myself that something will come and save me if it happens; something outside of myself. That scares me because I don’t trust that anything WILL come. Not anymore. I’ve got my deus ex machina in my life right now. He’s sleeping in his bedroom, ready to get up and tell me how great I am, how much he loves my music and my writing and likes me in his life. I don’t think I’ll find another.

Nothing to do but pick myself up and keep on keepin’ on. Even right now, when I give zero shits on a shingle to try and get my stuff out there and noticed, even now I’ll keep sending my stories out and making music. It’s all I CAN do. That’s a hollow feeling, like building a house of straw to face a hurricane. I know I’m gonna get ripped down time and again. REJECTION is an ugly word.

I suppose if the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different reaction, all artists are insane. We must be.

…And that brings a new thought into my morbid mulling. Insanity. There’s an option: my brother dies, the chips are down, and I go into hospital. Or jail. I guess either’s a valid option to keep me here.

Meh. Not the life I wanted, but then neither is THIS mess.

Fuck. I’m so fucking down I can’t even swear properly. Not even down so much. Just heavy. Feels like if you dropped me in water I’d sink down, down, down today. Plunk on the bottom and just sit there, immobile. No need for cement shoes. I’ve got cement in my heart.


8 thoughts on “Cement in my Heart

  1. Ah Beeps, damnit. I wish I knew what to say. How to make it better. Breaks my heart to see you like this, and then lack some magic combination of words to wash it all clean.

    Best I can do is say again you aren’t alone. Even though it feels like it. You’ve got people here who care about you and would never want to see you end up the way you fear. We’d rally around you. No prostitution or jail for you, woman!

    Liked by 3 people

  2. This is what I’m talking about. People don’t understand what a fucking tightrope we walk. It’s not just taking care of our minds, it’s also taking care of bills and if we can’t and we have someone else helping or totally supporting us, and we lose them, the alternative of homelessness and who the hell knows what else — I understand you so much, my friend. I’m there too. I think about it. It’s all I’m thinking about. You see, if I do not get my disability back and I can’t stomach doing whatever I have to do to prevent homelessness, then I also think it’s better to just end it.

    You know? So I understand where you’re coming from. So much. And that’s why I hurt for you too. I hate that we have to go through this crap.

    Liked by 3 people

    1. Thanks, Zoe. I realize I’m not alone on this. If anyone gives me that half smile that means ‘oh, listen to her exaggerate; I’m sure it isn’t all that bad’ I’m getting up and screaming. It IS that bad. Don’t give me bullshit about how this or that gov’t or org will help me – especially if you’re not part of said gov’t or org. ‘Cause I ain’t had one help me yet. They’re all very nice in the face of my sorrow: oh, that’s a shame, your situation doesn’t sound nice – and then it’s sorry, but we have to stick to the rules, even in your case.

      Just trying to enjoy the enjoyable times right now.


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