Home Remedy

I’m sick.

I’m sick and I’m tired.

I’m sick and I’m tired and I hate admitting when I am either.

I’m broke, too. Broken, I guess you could say.

Why is it that having no money equates to being not whole in our language? Why is that? My financial profile must really show my worth, then.

Whenever I have no money I am not only monetarily “broke” but also physically and emotionally left to pieces.

WHy is it that I allow that for myself? Which one came first–the emotional bankruptcy or the financial one?

Sometimes I don’t know. But I do know that the latter seems to affect the former more than the other way around.

I wish I didn’t let my finances dictate my feelings. But, they do. Somehow, they have a negative magnetic pull that brings me over to the dark side.

That dark side is not a good place for a masochist like myself. I think I enjoy the fall into ‘broke’ because I get to hang out there in the shadows of myself and play pity games and practice my self-loathing and wallow in my aloneness where there is no music and no dancing and the blinds are pulled shut and the blankets on my bed can stay unwashed and the clothes on my body are only half-there because I am only half there.

It’s a tangible excuse, really, this being broke thing. It is an excuse to indulge my misery fetish. I’m doing it right now and I’m not even ‘Red Alert’ broke yet. I’m only pre-broke now, but the anxiety of it is working me up like a hot date plotting the quickest way to get me out of my clothes and into his bed while he begins with a devilish smile and a hand up my skirt beneath the table where no one can see how fucked I’ll be by the time the morning comes.

And I know how fucked I’ll be and I’m getting off on the risk of helplessness.

So, when my finances start to tumble, I don’t break. I stay whole. I just stay a whole darkened self. I stay whole because my mind and body follow suit and the whole of me breaks down together for that masochist self-orgy that I’m sure is soon to take place.

If sleep and my right brain don’t overcome me first and take me away to a restful dream fantasy of disconnect from my waking nightmare my twisted waking left-side has created.

Because really, neither one of these worlds is real. Both are dreams. Both are fantasies. I prefer the waking nightmarish ones because they allow me to figure my own way out…without the help of a fairy prince or Almight Savior.

Just me.

Saving me.

And breaking me.

And saving me to break me again.

And breaking me to remind me that I can save me.

…for another breakdown.

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About heathencomehome

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