The Secret Place

One of my students’ brothers was shot to death this week. I’m homeless. My cat died. Two of my best friends are dying, another has gone to ground and a third has betrayed me and, more importantly, his family and his child.  I don’t know how I could have believed in someone who had it in him to do such a thing as that.  I really am just furious and hurt at my own stupidity.  I feel like a fool.  Again.  For trusting.  For believing. I don’t know why I do that.

Forced writing again.  Because if I didn’t already hate writing, THIS is going to totally make  me break into cold sweats for the rest of my life about it.  He says talk about my anger.  My therapist keeps saying that, too, what the fuck?  Why the fuck does everyone fucking think I’m fucking angry???????  

I was given a few minutes to write an email to MJ.  He’s had a lung transplant and he’s getting better, but he had to be out of touch for so long that D relented and let me write him a quick email tonight after I got my other work done.

He’s making me write.  It’s fucking midnight!  Isn’t he supposed to be the GOOD influence that stops me when I TRY to stay up all night? 

It feels strange here, navigating through the admin screens… it feels hollow, echoing, empty… like an abandoned building I have a vague memory of living in once. I am being made to write here.  There is a threat that this will become a daily occurrence.  I suppose we shall see. I am not well.  

“People say don’t expect anything in return from anyone, but the truth is when we really love someone, we naturally expect a little care from them.”