Notes From The Bunker - Tumblr Posts
Notes from the bunker:
Do it for us. But also for them.
Today tastes, feels, and smells like failure. Luckily, my ancestors blessed me with that emergency protocol that teaches you that after you've managed to successfully link forces with your support system, that you have to follow through.
People talk down on you when you admit you feel like you don't have anything to live for. Lemme fill in that stupid gap.
If you've had to tell even one singular person about how stupid you feel for trying to stay alive, and that person looks even a little devastated.. they care, and whether they wanna admit it or not, that expression is a reason. Even if it makes 0 sense.
Somewhere in there inside of them, is a massive amount of love for you. Even if they don't express it. Even if they won't.
If that's what you need to make it through another day, fucking do it for them until you can fully process yourself again.
Little phrase my grandfather used to say to me in our phone calls before he passed. 🤍
ista sao as pequenas coisas da vida.
ista sao as pequenas coisas da amor.
Ista sao as peuqenas coisas.
nunca se esqueça.
Today is my first day getting a full on taste of what I’d been trying to warn everyone close to me was happening. As I fall into this feeling, I grip tightly to words people have been telling me..
This is normal.
This is natural.
This is grief.
But it’s also violent. It’s also the only thing I can feel even if I can’t reach it. I can still feel my bones rattle. I can feel my body resist me when I try to drag it out of bed.
I haven’t opened my mouth and not been able to speak since I was eight. And now it’s here again. That heavy feeling in my throat like nothing I really say is gonna matter anymore so just.. why even do it?
My brain has dropped to a function of merely shaking its head when I try to think about happiness or getting past this. I never had regrets in my life until I realized I just walked up on my friends with kids and begged for a reason..
I was at teag’s when I fucking thought about your niece. Your family. She looked so sure of the fact that I should be sitting on some parents’ house assuring them their sons were everything I didn’t have in my life from my father to now.
But. No one wants to hear it. No one cares. It fucks me up more that no one cares about either of you or the impact that you had on my life. I hope when we finally get to climb into that car together and road trip into eternity that no one comes and sits and my grave and pretends to mourn me. Seeing teag cry her eyes out when I told her I don’t want a funeral was confirmation enough.
My stomach refuses to eat and walking past a mirror is the hardest task since getting out of bed? Every single night.
I feel like an idiot for being so taken by this one small event in my life. But every time I try to shrug it off, the violence just spreads and expands until the only sense I can make of anything is “how the fuck did this happen?”
I want it to mean nothing. I want to let go of the guilt that I seem to think I helped anyone ever summon up the urge to live.. when I couldn’t even do it for you. Can’t do it for myself. Like wasn’t that supposed to be my life purpose? Making people feel good?
I stumbled across a message you sent thanking me for always writing things like this. Because it gave you perspective. It proved to you that women like me fucking need desperately, more men like you.
For whatever time I have left here on this god forsaken rock, I’m gonna try to carry you better. Show you why I’d allegedly proven you right. You were down to two a day. You’d finally realized a meal plan despite working just as hard as I do, consisted of more than just quinoa.
You should’ve ate my fucking sandwich last night.
You should fucking be here.
I should have fucking been there.
I know nothing of what you are and have been teaching me but I know it works. That tiny little hand signal that’s been natural since you’ve died… that one where I’m bawling my eyes out and everyone keeps asking me what’s wrong but I don’t say it.
I had a moment somewhere where I wondered what you would’ve left behind for me had you considered it. Then in my glummest moments, I only know what I’m holding in my hands because the positioning is precision marked perfectly. I can’t believe you carried that around so long. I can’t believe every flirtatious smile, every wink, every arm around my chair is because that’s what you wanted. And now that I’m the one carrying it, I’m consistently wondering..
“What is the good in this? How does anyone take this.. seemingly natural fucking weapon.. and melt it into something that can save me?”
My.. sweet… boy. 🥺
Decide to be fine til the end of the week. Make yourself smile because you're alive and that's your job. Do it again next week.
I guess I’ll just have to help myself then. Bad actress, huh?
Adventures in Babysitting (7x11): 1 Episode in 6 Shots series
Notes From The Bunker.
Yes, that can happen everyday. Literally all day. As long it needs to.
Notes from the bunker:
Okay. But I just can't get behind Pearl Jam the way you couldn't get behind Mac, (this goes triple for The Smiths and fucking The Monkees.) but this newfound deep appreciation for Black Sabbath. That's fucking hot.
Eating is never going to be a problem with me around. 😈💕
Me: we didn’t even get one picture Together.
You: grabs my face and looks me square in the eye with an infuriating look
You: we didn’t need one.
No matter how little I feel “up to it,” journaling everyday is a genuine sense of peace. The peace I get feeling heard by myself is the work.
Having my actual best friends back in my life is giving me a violent fucking thrill will to give that is also exhausting. Like I’ve never been shy about my diagnosis or my mental health. Choosing to utilize holistic resources over zombifying myself is so pure, it’s agony, because you’re forced to feel everything.
I can’t express the anxiety of being so afraid to text my loved ones I just read back over everything they send and am thankful they’re still here. Because gutted everyday. I search for you so heavily, it bleeds. But every second I feel like I just can’t anymore, you pick me the fuck back up and remind me, this isn’t a first life.
So here I am. Thinking about how good the people in my life are because I have to have done something right if I have such incredible and talented people around me.
Right?
I keep picturing showing up places.. random places.. and you tapping me on the shoulder. These aren't memories though they are conveniently coordinated into timelines with date stamped messages to match... Anyway, every time you tap me.. I get that feeling and thank God, I carry my journals everywhere again.
Because I'm in awe of everything you've handed me that is now in my hands that I created. Because you paid attention. You understood. Not only did you understand, you took.. notes? You wrapped your brand around my language and you spoke it fluently.
These were the things I was daydreaming about across the room for you right before you'd catch my eye and I'd forget everything. You'd breeze in the door in a gorgeous step and I'd completely drain my brain of its content. Not because I wanted to fuck you... God knows I had way too much powerful undying unyielding respect for you to every just taint that.
But because you'd ten inch hero walk it every single time. You'd command the room the second you walked in, and I spent a decade and some change with you on a list you kept re-signing yourself up for because you knew. You held onto all that shit and I refuse to let anyone ever label that shit as a fucking diagnosis. Because it was fluent.
Thank you for holding onto all of this for me. Through me. With me. Thank you for being that voice in the back of my mind that says you need this. The dumbest little reminders are going to be tightly clutched in my hands because you, like him... Watched me hold a baby and protect it for fucking a decade. I wasn't ever going to bring that shit to labor. I was never gonna let it bloom. Because of you. I'm gonna. I'm gonna HARD as FUCK.
