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I was so convinced that she loved me as much as I loved her, that she wanted me in her life like I wanted her in mine, that I made her happy like she made me happy. I had my moments of doubt, but deep inside I was sure, I trusted her completely. It wasn’t a conviction based on my senses, my imagination or my wishes only. It was based, built on her words, actions, looks, touches.
Then, in four months, I found out some horribly different things:
– she can and she did leave me;
– she is perfectly fine without me in her life, dancing, partying, smiling, laughing, having fun, getting excited over other people, like I never existed in her life;
– she is ashamed of us, of what we did, of what we were;
– her memories of me are awful and hurtful and she desperately wants to reject them, reject me completely, and she succeeded;
– she doesn’t love me;
– I mean „absolutely nothing” for her.
Less than four months from „I love you” to „nope”, and we didn’t even exchange one single word in the meantime.
Asking myself „why” has no sense anymore, it just is and it’s incomprehensible.
And here I am, five months later, completely unable to do what she did.
Here I am, still sobbing at 4 am, crying on the streets and on the bus, falling apart in the shower, ambushed
everywhere by memories and choked out by longing. Wondering if there is something that doesn’t remind me of her.
Here I am, missing her every moment, thinking of her every day, wanting her back despite everything.
Barely existing. Finding this life less and less bearable. And a simple „nope”, and a simple „absolutely nothing” render me into a mess a despair, agony and death wish.

Anunțuri

            Niciodată n-am crezut că memoria mea, care e atât de slabă când vine vorba de lucruri practice şi utile în viaţă mă va tortura în aşa măsură încât să-mi doresc mai degrabă să-mi pierd minţile decât să mai fiu nevoită să îndur amintirile.

            Amintiri frumoase, amintiri ale unor clipe fericite care nu se vor întoarce niciodată. Şi de aici vine de fapt tortura, din faptul că sunt în trecut şi niciun alt lucru plăcut nu li se va mai adăuga vreodată, din dorul şi disperarea care le însoţesc, din întrebările imposibile care le sunt ataşate inevitabil: „de ce?”, „cum de a avut inima să facă asta?”, „cum poate sta departe şi cum poate să se comporte ca şi cum nu m-a cunoscut niciodată?”, „cum a putut iubirea ei să dispară atât de repede şi fără motiv?”

            Amintiri care mă lovesc pe nepregătite, declanşate în cele mai nepotrivite momente şi locuri, de aproape toate lucrurile care mă înconjoară şi cuvintele care sunt rostite în preajma mea.

            De la hainele pe care le port, prin casă sau afară, până la cuplurile pe care le văd ţinându-se de mână pe stradă.

            Lenjeria de pat galben-portocalie, unele străzi, fântâna arteziană, chestiile metalice de la mixer atunci când bat frişca, tricoul de la ArtMania pe care îl poartă câteodată sora mea, numele acelor oraşe spuse la ştiri (mai nou prea des, de când cu scandalurile politice), muzica populară din zonă pe care tata o ascultă câteodată şi care mă face să plec din cameră pentru a nu plânge în faţa lui. Berea Redd’s cu merişoare care le place mamei şi surorii mele, menţionarea întâmplătoare a vreunei formaţii pe care am văzut-o în concert acolo, aproape toate melodiile despre dragoste, chiar şi cele proaste difuzate la radio în magazine, sugestia inocentă a surorii mele de a-mi oferi să mănânc căpşune din mâna ei si culmea ridicolului, publicitatea la Grasa de Cotnari şi melodia populară incredibil de tâmpită despre ce se întâmplă când bei Cotnari cu o olteancă. Afişul cu „Sub aceeaşi stea” de la cinematograf, o imagine sau o povestire scurtă găsită întâmplător prin computer, crizantemele, chiar şi trandafirii roşii, picăturile pentru ochi pe care le pun de două ori pe zi.

            Amintiri care mă fac să-mi pierd controlul şi orice demnitate şi îmi umplu ochii de lacrimi de faţă cu alţii, de parcă nu mai sunt eu, ci o versiune slabă şi jalnică a mea. Ca atunci când sora mea m-a rugat să fac clătite americane şi i-am spus că nu voi mai face niciodată în viaţa mea, pentru că atunci a fost prima dată…Şi nicio frază lăsată în suspensie şi niciun glas frânt nu puteau acoperi sensul, înţelesul, durerea. Pentru că am oferit totul, totul şi în final a fost în zadar.

            Nu voi mai face niciodată ceva din quilling, nu voi vedea niciodată sezonul 2 din OITNB sau din Orphan Black şi nu voi revedea niciodată scene din Xena, în încercarea zadarnică de a fugi măcar de o parte din durere. Zadarnică nu pentru că visele cu ea oricum mă trezesc de multe ori noaptea, tulburată, speriată ori fericită, pentru ca realitatea să mă lovească apoi ca un pumn în faţă. Zadarnică pentru că de fapt eu sunt durerea şi dorul, le port în mine mereu şi de mine nu pot fugi decât atunci când dorm fără să visez.

            Şi nu ştiu cum să pun capăt acestui chin continuu, nu ştiu cum să-l îndur până când va deveni mai estompat. Deşi văd că nu se estompează deloc, singura schimbare e că la început era permanent ascuţit şi insuportabil, iar acum vine în valuri de intensităţi diferite. Nu se stinge, nu se îngroapă şi eu mă nărui din ce în ce mai mult sub apăsarea lui. Doar dacă mi-aş pierde mintea sau existenţa. Doar dacă.

Oh how I wish to go down with the sun

never rise again

never rise again like a living dead.

And I really trusted, I really tried. And I can’t ignore, I can’t hate. I love. I love and I die.

My new nickname should be eternal eye drops. Well, not „eternally”, just as long as I exist. God must be the master of irony. But I don’t need this friendly reminder, two times a day for the rest of my life. It’s not like I could ever forget.
It’s so much darkness around and truth be told, I’m not scared, I’m frightened.
I’ve never felt so lonely in my entire life. When I was in college I had only books, I was meeting my classmates only during classes, but I was content, peaceful. I wasn’t missing something or someone, I had my books and my writings and it was enough. Now I feel empty, completely alone, surrounded only by despair.
Five years ago I thought that there is no bigger pain that what I felt then. Well, how wrong I was!
I haven’t cried so much not even when my grandmother died, and I loved her with all my heart.
I’m not leaving the apartment for days and I seriously consider sleep aids to minimize the waking hours.
I think something’s wrong with my mind too, but since I can see all the disaster that is now my life, I’m not insane enough to be considered insane.
I feel trapped. I don’t want to face people and I need to face them to survive. I need confidence to survive, but the only person who believed in me left me. So what the fuck is confidence when you’re a disposable shit?
I’m trapped in this huge cage with monsters and the only escape seems death. But hello, they say death will send me to hell, to suffer even more and of course I’m a coward.
So I exist like a vegetable. I died three months ago and no force can reanimate this empty shell. My inner fire is just dark smoke and ashes.
And they all say „forget, get up, have hope, love yourself”. Like hell I can love this fucking nothing who lost everything, who’s worth so much that everyone gives up on it eventually!
Time passes and nothing’s changing and I’m sinking further into despair, becoming something that I despise.

My heart hurts and there’s no cure. Everyone says ‘I’ve been there, it will get better, I promise’. But they forget that we are different, every person is different, every person reacts in their own way and what was possible for you in one or two years it may be possible for me in five years or more and I might get insane or desperate enough to kill myself in the meantime. But no, I’m just overreacting, isn’t it? They think I’m overreacting and they tell me bullshit.

It might get better if I find a damn motivation. But there’s no such thing, I have nothing, I am nothing. You’re not and you haven’t been in my place, so don’t you fucking promise me shit ‘cause I’m sick of promises.

Everyone is a liar. We are liars, fucking fake moving shit. I hate humans. I can’t stand them anymore. Of course I can’t stand myself in the first place.

How do I make my heart turn into stone and how do I silence my thoughts, my memories? How do I turn my love into indifference and my desperation into strength?

There is no way.

I should kill myself. But funny thing, I can’t do that because they say I will go straight to Hell, and the pain will follow me there with even more force.

I can’t live anymore. I can’t die. So what the fuck can I do? Where can I run from this unbearable pain?

Sleep ceased to be an escape for me; she’s haunting my dreams. This is getting too much, way too much. Where can I run away from myself?

My mom is threating me to stop crying.

All right, mom, I will just cut.

and all I can say is ‘free to cut’

When you have so much to say and you can’t.
When you feel so much but you have to keep it locked inside.
When you have so much to write and you don’t find the right words.
When you feel like crying and cutting and screaming…but you can’t.

Am I a dreamer disguised in some icy loner?
Still a scared child, but one who dared to hope and trust again?
How can I keep this hope alive when I despise myself so much?
How can I trust this flame to live when I expect so many things?
Can you discover the darkness of my thoughts with your mind, and ease my fears with the healing quality of your words?
Do you ever think about that? And if you don’t, what does than mean?
I need some peace in this troubled brain or at least another kind of pain to keep me away from insanity.
I need to spill some blood, to feel something as sharp as the worst answers to these questions never voiced.