Daily Prompt – 1943

Have you ever broken a bone?

Surprisingly, no. However, I fucked up my tailbone once, and it’s a funny story, but also one that haunts me a lot, and the very thing that made this fucking blog: so maybe I can work some shit out and you can learn more weird shit about me…Shall we?

I was dating a guy, and I did the shitty thing and read his phone. And of course, I saw texts I didn’t wanna see, but figured I would hence why I would be a dick and invade privacy you know?

I mustered the tiny, infinitesimal amount of self esteem I had, I grabbed my shit, and I went to his bedroom where he was sleeping. He woke up and all sweetly and sleepily asked me what I was doing. I said I was leaving.

The irony, I should note, this entire thing made me realize I’m generally poly and really don’t believe in monogamy as anything but another societal invention to ensure people are as unhappy as possible. Many of us just aren’t fucking geese, ya know? And lobsters fuck every lobster, so that whole thing is bullshit. Literally, lobsters fuck a lot. Google it, I did. That’s how I know about lobsters and their sex lives and that I will never be a normal person. But that is a whole post in and of itself. Point to my tangent: Had I been an adult and conversed, we might have helped me understand my/his sexuality and needs better, and improved our relationship. But no…I broke my ass and everything else in a few moments of being really, a drama queen.

What haunts me is how sweet he was. Had I said and done nothing, it would have been fine. I coulda laid back down and kissed him and maybe I’m not here 7 fucking years later still talking about this stupid shit omg. I was crazy about this guy. Like, really crazy. In good and bad ways. It’s one of those like, it just felt so powerful, so fucking amazing being with him. I said it was love but I probably still have no idea what I’m talking about when I use that word. But I’m talking in minutes of meeting him, I was head over heels. Smartest funniest dude I’ve ever met, best musical taste ever, he took me hiking and we fell asleep on a rock together and I began the fall into the very pit of madness some of the best artists in existence describe. And I comfort myself that I am in good company with this shit, but…

But back to the point, I grabbed my shit and started making my way down his stairs. I got tangled in my blanket, tripped and fell on my ass down many wooden steps. That’s the funny part, bc it’s just so fucking typical. Here I am in a huff, making my dramatic exit….aaand I fall down the fucking stairs. Take that! The pain was fucking excruciating and I saw stars. He came running down, trying to kiss me, stop me, hold me. But I pushed him away and I left.

That haunts me too bc what if I had just stopped then. I’m not saying he was right, but I know what I did was wrong, and it just feels like I was (and still am) way too old for this kind of drama and whatnot. I’m still embarrassed about it. Everything with that relationship has embarrassed me. like, it didn’t bring out the crazy in me, it brought out the psycho in me. This shit is closer to a decade old and I feel it more often than I care to admit. I’ve let go of so much shit and whatever, but this dude…

So I limp to my car and I make it to my sanctuary, Wawa. I realize parked in the lot sobbing my eyes out that I have several dumb options. One: I can drive on my busted ass for 45 mins to go home, but the 15 min drive to Wawa saw me damn near puking from the pain. I could go back bc it’s closer, but I wasn’t sure if I could actually even safely drive. I was having a hard time seeing bc I was crying from mainly physical but also emotional pain.

I called him. I told him I broke my ass. He came and helped me back to his place, but he had turned to stone. I tried to apologize, anything, but I knew then I/we ruined it. I was trying to make amends and he even said, “do you seriously want to put yourself through this?” And I said yes and spent months in a relationship I knew I’d fucked, trying to unfuck it, while getting more and more fucked up.

After my graceful exit and blowing up the one thing that fucking…made me remember life is fucking amazing….I tried to ignore my ass, but after a week of it not getting better and getting increasingly excruciating, I got to experience a doctor shoving her finger in my asshole to confirm it was bruised not broken.

Her finger couldn’t tell how bruised and broken my heart and head were though. (And if that’s not a poem in the making….!!!) No joke, I’m talking like 7 years I think about this dude, I miss him, sometimes I do the pathetic thing and attempt to talk to him and that sends me spiraling into new lows every damn time. I have been every awful cliche and I make them all look banal.

It is at the point I generally console myself with “hey, at least you haven’t pulled a Van Gogh, kiddo” 👂 and that’s probably not the baseline I wanna use, but it’s the baseline I got.

It’s gotten to the point, esp. bc of the psychoses (that always feature him prominently), I don’t even know what was and wasn’t real. I don’t know that he ever cared or liked me or anything. I don’t know him now, and I don’t even know if I knew him then. But there’s this part of me still convinced this is all wrong and one day….

He told me once unrequited love was a bitch, and it’s like, I’ve written poem after poem trying to get rid of this shit. I fucking drove by myself to NYC to attend a poetry slam and read this poem about him. One of my faves really. And the one dude in the audience, when I finished, audibly said “Damn.” And I felt that and it felt good man. I’ve told people about breaking my ass and brain with this dude. But it’s like a fucking earwig in my brain, heart and soul and I’m so tired of it. I don’t even wanna write poems about him anymore goddammit. I wanna write more shit related poems and shit metaphors for complicated highly nuanced and divisive issues.

Like, everything I wrote here, I’m talking a few months, 7, maybe 8 years ago, and it still bothers me. And more than anything it bothers me that it bothers me. I just don’t want to care. One that got away. Not meant to be. Made an ass of myself when I kinda broke my ass. Whatever, I just… it’s like, yes there were so many amazing things but more than anything I just keep seeing this as the thing that is how fucked up I am. I genuinely believed this whole thing is … like that is my true crazy. Everything else, I can generally say okay. But this….

I keep thinking one day whatever magical moment happens where I just don’t… think about it or feel about it. It moves into the realm of forgetting. I’ve forgiven me, him, the stairs, the stars that aligned or misaligned….every fucking person and event that made me and even my ancestors fucked up. Forgiven, generally forgotten, all of it made me and I am cool as fuck.

And sometimes that is so, and other times…I’m to embarassed to even talk about it. If you’ve read basically anything I have ever written, you can generally tell there’s no fucks or filter, but this… omg. But even then, I’ve forced myself to open up about it all – every fucking gory detail -to people and it has still not gone away. I’ve gotten over so many fucking things in my life and a fuckboy from Tinder is my Achilles heel I guess? What the actual fuck?!!!

I’ve had plenty of breakups and incredibly fucked up relationships and they only pop on my brain every once in a blue moon and it’s generally either whew I dodged a bullet or this Jesus Christ daina how did you let another one fuck you up again?

Look, I will casually list a few things I’ve dealt with that no longer really bother me and are just parts of my fucked up kinda funny story:

I have been impregnated by a married heroin addict who literally married his wife on my birthday while we were … together? I recorded myself on TikTok reading one of the funniest fucking poems I’ve ever written making fun of the dude that raped me. I’ve had a dude wrap my car around a telephone pole while he’s high on meth and I got to explain it wasn’t an April fools joke and I was having a bad trip too. I’ve had a dude steal everything from me – money, laptop, everything, thereby making it impossible for me to run away from another relationship that was killing me as I’d originally planned. I’ve had a lot of dudes (in the gender less dude sense) do a lot of messed up things. And yet somehow the one I can’t fix is the one I broke my ass for.

Fortunately, the ass healed up, hell of a bruise for awhile and taking a shit was probably worse than childbirth. I just fucking wish the rest of me would too. I don’t know how to reconcile knowing this was never okay and believing somehow someway someday it will be. Even when I now increase my meds if I start thinking about him. No joke. I’ll be increasing my meds more again tonight.

Fuck man, I learned about limerance all this shit. Ohhh and for awhile I did that whole twin flame shit, and like watched copium/manipulative/confirmation biased bullshit tarot readings telling me he’s coming back. All I have to do is work on me and all the twin flame bullshit. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, I’m happy for you. But yeah oh yeah, I believed he was my twin flame.

Part of the psychotic breaks was that like I broke the universe by messing shit up with him bc we were like twin flames and we were like supposed to save the world together or something. I thought I saw him, I thought he was coming to pick me up…I thought the ambulance dude was actually him coming to save me. Like really literally psychotic shit here.

As an aside, if you do have any kind of psychotic tendencies, struggle with or slip into delusions easily: stay away from spiritual TikTok and basically all new age anything, and probably TikTok in general. There is not enough discussion about how dangerous some of these helpers can be. It’s not just me going psychotic out there, lots of people kind of innocently fall into varying forms, mild to severe psychosis bc of their nonsense. But this is already too long so let’s get back to my ass.

I know that something aside from an assbone is broken here, but I’ve done everything – including accepting it – that’s how I’m writing about it (a-fucking-gain) bc it’s fucking so embarrassing. Like, my entire blog is essentially: here, you read about shit that bothers me lol. Like, I’m not broken, I have been doing the right shit for awhile, this was the situation that made me realize I neee help. And yet this is the very situation that convinces me I’m not okay. I don’t even know if that makes sense.

I’ve done all the right things, I’ve done all the wrong things, and I’m kind of scared at this point that this is some kind of manifestation of whatever mental illness that I cannot seem to medicate or meditate away.

Every fucking thing else I can cope with, work with, or best yet fucking transmute. I’ve written crazy good poetry about this shit. With everything and anything else: once I get that good poem, phrase, post, I’m aces.

Legit, at some point I will end up in some Adele lawsuit situation bc I started this blog to deal with this, I started writing again to deal with this, I started writing poetry again, I started meditating, I started practicing yoga. MahButtItches literally, absolutely 💯 wouldn’t fucking exist if I didn’t almost break my ass on that man’s stairs.

Literally have done every motherfucking healthy thing because of this dude who for any sane, rational, reasonable human can plainly see: doesn’t like me, doesn’t love me, doesn’t wanna talk to me – and has every, literally every fucking right to. I wouldn’t talk to me. Actually, I probably would just outta fucking curiosity, and there generally is every one of my problems.

Every other dude destroyed my life in a variety of ways, but this one, it’s like I destroyed myself to become myself. Phoenix shit baby.

And yes, it’s cool cause I’m so much better than I was but it’s like, I fucking learned the lesson, why are you still around in here? I completely remade myself into a person that isn’t everything that made this relationship possible. There’s literally nothing else I can perceptively learn from this situation! Fuck!Even dropping thoughts, got great at that to fucking drop thoughts of him.

And I guess, it’s like … I just want him to see it. I’ve tried to tell him, thank him, show how much I fucking did and learned. See that the girl who cracked him up and then went psycho is actually funny and (I have to pray at least slightly less) psycho (or perhaps more upfront about it? Idk)

I guess that’s the truth of it. This shit was so simple, me, him and a fucking rock, then all my issues came up and out and it got fucked because I was/am fucked up. Yet, I’ve worked on these issues that complicated such simple joy and pleasure. And that’s the fucking thing; it’s like I remade myself to go lay on a rock with you again, yet I’ve destroyed everything so fucking much, Im a(rightful) joke to you, not making the jokes. Even though I know, if we never met before, we had no history, you’d be as crazy about me as I am still about you. Irony, irony, so much fucking irony and yet the song about irony contains none. This is the shit that drives me fucking insane because I continue to not be sure which part is the insane part.

Like, I’m not fucking writing or on TikTok fucking reading poems and quotes and shit or recording myself telling jokes or all the shit i have always wanted to do or been scared to do bc of this fucking dude, he opened my eyes and helped me to change my life that fucking much, and I can’t change this in any way shape or form. It hurts the same today as any and every other day. The only difference is how fucking hard I’ve worked to discipline my goddamn mind to redirect this any fucking way possible. I even fucking crocheted for a bit! Aaaahhh!!!!

Literally not letting me fall into rumination about him is how I learned meditation, I am not my thoughts, I can watch and observe, I can pick and choose, I am in control of my focus and attention. I generally say jokingly but honestly not really: I accidentally stumbled upon enlightenment trying to deal with a break up. Is my fucking Nirvana just not giving a fuck about my ex? That feels anticlimactic. Like can’t I get some confetti guns or some shit? Fuck. (As an aside, Nirvana is actually more closely translated to something like phew. Or ahhh, don’t have to deal with that anymore. So that’s literally a true thing. This would be my fucking Nirvana I guess. This man/relationship is the door that isn’t a fucking door. More irony!)

So nope, no broken bones, but I’ll tell ya, there’s some serious shit broken up in here. (Up in here) but I gotta say, I do fucking love my crazy ass. All of this just is part of whatever the fuck I am. You cannot label, describe, or box me. I have no genre. I have no niche. And somehow whatever the fuck MahButtItches is and becomes is fueled by a 7 or 8 year old Tinder date and a naked homeless woman prophet.

You cannot make this shit up. Thanks! (Or I’m sorry!) for stopping by.

P/S you wanna know the most fucked up part? I fucking hate this post and I think it’s shit because it’s too fucking long, and he always complained about how long I wrote shit (texts really) And he’s right. If you can explain something well, you can explain it briefly. I want this shit to be 1/10th the size. It’s too fucking long. Yet Stephen King writes 1000s of pages bc he writes well, people read thousands of his words. So maybe I do too, and maybe other people want to read my words too but I don’t fucking know. It’s just too long, so I both think it was great and fucking terrible. I think that’s basically the dichotomy of me.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.

Blog at WordPress.com.

Up ↑

%d bloggers like this: