Heart Like A Wheel

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I woke up early today, only half an hour or so after you left. You didn’t say goodbye as you went away to film another wedding, I figured you were still angry. Angry at me, sleeping, pulling my knees up high and having them due to gravity fall back down slowly, creating a sound of feet being dragged over the sheet. You yell at me, sleeping. Will you STOP. I don’t know how to stop because I don’t know how I started it. The motion. Why does my body want my knees high up during sleep?

I google.

Periodic Limb Movements. Anterior Pelvic Tilts. “My gf says i do this and last night she kicked me in my nuts and now i cant have kids. Please make your significant other aware if you do this because my gf got freeked out.”

I text you saying I hope you weren’t too angry at me this morning. You text back saying I was but I’m over it. I miss you so so much. I can’t stop thinking about you love.

This week has been Bloody Awful. Rotten. Dis-gos-tang. Or maybe it’s been the last two weeks. What is linear time anyway and who cares about it. I haven’t worn mascara in ages cause what’s the point when you weep every 5 minutes. Sometimes when I’m in the middle of it, the crying / the not-breathing, I see other versions of myself existing in other universes. I see them all, as if I’m temporarily stuck on a fast-spinning roundabout and I see glimpses of all my possible past and future selves, trying to decide where to jump off. I try to calculate the outcome; if I do x, then y and z will follow. If I do a, then b and c will follow. Can I do x and have a c happen down the line, does it work like that? I try to decide myself, naively, as if I had a say in the matter. I try to be stern with myself, I try to be an adult. But then it hits me that I won’t get my way anyway, and I relapse into a child who has to accept that while we have a bit of a say in this world, it’s not much and it’s not as much as we think it is.

So I control other things. I look at my plate and I organise what’s there. I book an appointment to finally get a haircut. To hell with it. I read, and read, and read. My eyesight gets blurry from all the typed up words describing worlds I will never live in but yet they’re so, so familiar. I go for fast paced walks up and down hills while I still have legs. On one of the walks up a steep hill I try to take deep breaths through my trachea that’s increasingly getting narrower and narrower. I almost faint, there’s no air. Why is trauma stuck in places that are crucial for breathing; existing? Why is it in the way?

Anyway. Here are some good things: Ali Smith. Elizabeth Day. Donal Ryan. Oat milk. French white bread. Kate & Anna McGarrigle. Daddy-O shampoo. People respecting your space; people leaving you alone; people not touching you; people asking are you ok and do you want anything from the kitchen. Seona Flanagan. Local organic blueberries. Finally, some gray skies. Sleep. Andrew Moore. Andrew Moore. Andrew Moore. Bastard.