Regret

It's chilly up here - but it's clean. There are no cigarette ashes everywhere. It smells of the hazelnut candle I lit an hour ago, and the opium incense - my personal favorite - that I lit about thirty minutes ago. The windows are pathetically "covered" - that is, the plastic I attempted to cover them with for the winter, is now hanging down, loose from the top. The blue painter's tape I used in an effort to save the paint on the window frames, didn't do the job. But it's dark - the lights are off - and I cannot see this eyesore.

It's solitary here. I have the door closed and I hear nothing but my edited version of ATB's "Trinity" on repeat. I made it repeat the woeful center part over a dozen times. I was proud of this, actually. I'm good at editing videos and music and photos. I'm actually better than your average person.

The song suits me right now. I am sad.

Not sad. Sorrowful.

I think there's a difference. At least, it feels like there is. Sad is, I suppose, something you feel when something happens. Sorrowful, for me, is this feeling inside that aches so deeply and causes these tears that aren't blatantly sad. They just  fall, each one as if it has a story to tell and - if the story isn't told - then perhaps the next one that falls, will tell it. They keep coming and, with them, flashes of regret, pangs of pain, dulled only by my own self-criticism.

So the tears stop - just for a moment - until the ache pushes them up and out again.

I think....

I think about how afraid I am to go out.

and why

Why?

Why.... because maybe someone will see me. Maybe someone will see me. Maybe they'll see this horrible ugly I hear and see every day.

I've learned over the past few months that I - in my life - have had two choices: I could pretend this horrible ugly didn't exist and I could fight (in any way possible or necessary) anyone who called me out on it (ie "classless cunt" as my ex referred to me [yeah, pretty classy, huh?] or "white trash" or "trailer park trash" or other derogatory comments) or I could hide behind a mask. Either way, I was in denial of these self-loathing whispers, constant in my ear. Constant in my mind. Constant in the mirror.

Thinking...

I can't please anyone.

Nobody.

I don't know how.

I thought I did......

I thought I knew how but now, that's stripped from me in so many ways.

Now I know that sex doesn't get you love, even if my mind tricks me into believing it again and again and again. Being a good cook, doesn't get me love.

But my mind tricks me over and over and over.

Laundry and being a good mom. Cleaning.

Being quiet. Subdued. Unspoken, really.

But not enough to let on, that you really are unspoken and silent.

Just enough.... just enough...

But nobody will ever be ..........what I've always looked for.

I am 42 years old.

What a sad joke that my life is right now. I feel old and tired. Exhausted, really. Too tired to lift anything. Too tired to go anywhere. Too afraid to talk about it. Who do I call? Who do I talk to? Who do I tell all this to?

These secrets.... they're mine.

I know I'm not alone. I know others have exactly these same secrets. Secrets about themselves, about men and relationships, sex, love.... love....

Shame....

Thinly veiled....

I wish.... so much.

wish he knew..... wish he knew.... wish he knew..... and him and her and him and them...

Wish they knew.....

Oh how I wish....

Another tear.

It's full of regret. Full of shame. It hits my stained white t-shirt, that I wear only when I know nobody's coming around and I'm going nowhere. Usually when I clean.

It hits a half inch from where the last one fell. And the one before.

I am afraid to be thankful, so I stand back and stare in awe, without touching. Without tainting. I want it to stay perfect, so I don't go near.

I hide.

Like a coward, I hide. Unlike the tough girl I've always been.

I hide.

But I feel and I've felt.

So deeply that it feels like gouges in my soul, filled only with confusion and disorientation and uncertainty.

Regret.

It feeds that voice that says, "It's your fault. It's all your fault. Nobody can love you."

I did everything wrong. Always. I always do. I push them away. I hurt people.

Yet..... I cannot fathom hurting anyone.

Never. God.....

I never want or wanted to hurt anyone.

And yet, I feel like a monster.

So I cannot be seen. I don't want to be seen.

Let the tears come here - in the attic, amid the scents of hazelnut and opium, behind fallen plastic and haggard painter's tape. Here, up high, where nobody can see.

Tomorrow I will be fine.

Tomorrow I won't cry.

Tomorrow, I won't wear a stained white t-shirt.