Fuck Christmas…this year at least.

I knew that at the beginning of the month that I needed to get a tree and the lights up because this year is going to be FUUUUUCKED when it comes to my mental health.    Well we drug our feet and it’s now the 15th and my desire to find the motivation to do it is non existent.
I was driving to work and I was numb, blank, no good or bad feelings.  Thing is, it beats the hurt I have been sitting with since my mom died.    The hurt is like having a foot on my throat, struggling to swallow or breath. My skin itches with every wave of hurt that crashes in.   There was a point that it felt like my heart was flipping around in my chest.   My brain is screaming for me to RAGE against this pain.  There is no way that I have been through all that I have been through in this life, seen the things I have walked into and survived to have death bring me to my knees again.  Death is something that is going to happen to all of us, it shouldn’t cripple me.  Yet…here I am. Crippled by hurt.
I turned to the written word to jumpstart an emotion.  77 books later and not a change. I’ve read some incredible books and was introduced to many new authors, but nothing that could evoke the emotions and feelings that I’m sure the author was trying to convey.   Booktok keeps saying, “If you want to feel all the feels, want your heart ripped out, want to be destroyed by a book…read this one.”   I read it, I read the book that follows it…nothing.   I’ve hit every damn level on the spectrum.  I went from the sweet holiday rom-com to the dark side.  There’s a downfall to going to the darker side of reading, it’s hard to come back and read anything else.   I’ve reached my max on how many books I can checkout from the 3 library apps I am on so I signed up for Kindle Unlimited because stopping the reading is just going to push me somewhere else and I never know where that ‘somewhere’ will toss me.
There are the benefits of being the person I am, I have learned the art of masking a million years ago and to the outside world, I am doing fantastic.  That is what I tell them when they do ask.  Telling someone, “I am so fucked up that I am SHOCKED that I am functional.” just scares people.  In the beginning of this hurt I was honest and I would tell people that I was not okay and that I was going to need help.  There was no way I was going to be able to keep moving and take the steps to get the help that I need.     Guess what happened? I didn’t get that help that I needed.  People don’t know how to help people like me.   So now, I look back at that plea for help and I just shake my head.  Fuck it.  I can live in this plane of existence.  I’m good at not feeling.