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@abbyartfox
Bug, weâre back on Tumblr, babe
This is still, exactly how much I love my mom.
I feel the sun, deep in my bones, for the first time since summer. In time for a hard day. My cat is sick and my dad hasnât called me in a year.
The warmth on my skin is cut by the cold breeze.
Perhaps not yet hammock season, but Iâm known to jump the gun. The echo of itâs recoil arrives in my head first; instinctually prepared for the panic at anytime.
And it comes. It almost never leaves.
As I attribute my solitary year to the global pandemic, I neglect to divulge my internal apocalypse.
Iâm dyslexic, Iâve found out.
My mistakes, my forgetfulness, my horrid communication skills all given an answer. Or a cop out.
My dadâs Alzheimerâs has accelerated at an unforgiving pace.
Itâs hard to talk to him anyway. Have you ever reminded your father of where you live? Have you had to tell them that he should be proud of you? Itâs hard to talk to someone who has no way of knowing the love they have/had for you.
My relationships feel like theyâre about to crumble. Many of them feel hallow. Worse than empty; a lukewarm space that reminds you something used to be there.
Like the feeling of entering the shade, just before the warmth of the sun can reach your bones.
My insides feel rotten; and Iâm deceiving us all. I look normal; pretty, even. Iâve had more exercise in the past year, than the past decade. Water, nutrition, do they matter if nothing else does? I turn my brain off and I could sweat and grunt under weight for hours- theyâre nothing compared to the tonnage my thoughts can be. I often forget to eat, to drink, to care.
I know Iâll get back to normal. Like everyone has been promising each other, in so many different contexts this year. This has been horrific, and has dampened so many things that I am expected to enjoy. Like buying a house. Who the fuck my age gets to buy a house.
I would trade it in a heartbeat, for a normal brain, a normal dad, a healthy cat, and a fucking ounce of non-synthetic happiness.
I just fucking hate myself.
A snacky babe
Am cute?
Marry me.
Hai bby
Reblog if you support squishy bellies, have a squishy belly, or have the desire to summon satan
oh god I had a really big epiphany about love and personhood but I'm too drunk for words. hold on I'm gonna paint it.
this. this is it.
Therapy #4
Odd to be typing after session #4. I havenât told you anything about #1-3. Just know this;
I have tried therapy a few times. My first therapist was when I was young, nearly too young to remember. I had told my mom in the 4th grade that I wanted to kill myself.Â
Donât worry. I didnât know what it really meant. I thought that it just meant that Iâd get a ârestartâ. I knew that the restart would be a new life, maybe a new family, a new chance to make the ârightâ decisions. I had done the thing every Disney movie told me not to do; blame myself for the divorce. I was an âaccidentâ, so my dad told me at 8 years old. Unplanned, but donât worry; my Dad didnât spoil anything. I knew that I was an after thought. I could just tell.Â
âOh, shit. Abbyâ
âI forgot Abbyâ
âDid we remember to do that for Abby?â
These were things I had heard my whole life up to that point. Not surprising being the youngest of 4. Something else was present though, this energy my parents had around me. Sometimes it was a thankful energy; like, âOh, Abby. Thank you. Youâre so cute.â, or âAbby, I canât imagine life without youâ. But other times, âAbby, catch upâ, or âAbby, Iâm too old for thisâ. Even the thankful energy felt thankful out of surprise. It a wonder why I crave attention now.Â
So when my parentâs marriage started falling apart, it was clear who would sense it first. They sent me to a therapist, because my panic attacks and anxiety during the initial separation was beginning to become a problem.Â
I remember doing some puzzles, answering questions in the way I imagined the therapist would like me to answer. I have ALWAYS been eager to please. I was released from my sessions with an âGood to Goâ.Â
It was college when I tried it on my own for the first time. I lied and said my therapy lasted through middle school. Iâve always wanted to appear more experienced. I relayed âMy Storyâ to Dr. Bean. My Dad is like this. My mom is like this. My siblings are like this. My friends are like this.
After an hour of time, when I thought I had provided a concise and thorough âMy Storyâ. Dr. Bean asked me this.Â
âBut what about Abby?â
And in Therapy session #3, two therapists later, I finally talked about Abby.Â
Abby takes care of people she loves, sometimes too attentively.Â
Abby is scared of a lot of things, but mostly, sheâs scared of feeling left behind; or sometimes left ahead somehow.Â
Abby will love herself through anything, even though its really hard to like herself most of the time.
Abby will self sabotage for the sake of being safe.Â
Abby is worried sheâs not âhereâ enough. She floats. Which makes it easy to pour herself into a keyboard, but not into other people. I imagine myself in the peripheral; it makes it easier when Iâm feeling something that could be identified as âweakâ.Â
I carry a lot from my childhood with me, as everyone does. We are made from beliefs we learn from our environment, which dictate our attitudes. Which dictate our feelings, which dictate our decisions. I got that from a book. Iâm learning. Â
Therapy session #4 was bland. But a comfortable bland. Dr. Don and I talked about some old feelings I was able to acknowledge and overcome on my own. We talked about my business plan for the future. And we talked about blame. I give myself too much blame. And I do it because its easier that accusing someone, whom I love, of not being âfairâ. So he forgave me for a few things that I have held onto. Which felt better than I could have imagined.Â
Im looking forward to Session #5
Fuck, drunk abby is good
Davis
I write a lot
Kept in untitled documents
Files within files
My words are safer when theyâre further from the light
I like to rifle through them,
Every document a surprise
To remember a time of
Struggle
Delight
Ambivalence
A visit with a version of myself I donât always recognize
I opened a document today
I read it twice,
Desparetly trying to recall my own words
I realized
It was Davis
I was tasked to scribe his lyrics
We had just lost him
I sent them all to his family,
Except this one, intentionally.
I am heartbroken.
A reminder of the feelings we shared
A reminder of the person I did not love enough
A year has gone,
I missed the anniversary
Itâs not a date I want to remember, anyway.
A year has gone without a strong light,
But here we all are, in a dimmed world
But living.
Being a good friend is always important, and one of the most crucial things we can learn as a human being, but it shouldnât come at the cost of your own wellbeing. Being friends with someone shouldnât drain you. Youâre allowed to cut unhealthy relationships from your life. You need it to grow