Give it a year.

Damn you John Denver.

I hate sitting here, wet from a shower, numb from playing online tetris, and fighting in my mind every second to not call you because, fuck, I’m still angry and you should call me. Our competitive natures I guess.

But John, you have to come up on my shuffle, and I’m back one week, god just one week, when we were driving through the mountains, talking about how the government must have had him killed, and I was sharing the songs of my childhood with you. And now he comes up singing of how his life is better with whoever in it, and all I can think of if that yesterday might have been the final straw.

I wasn’t angry with you in the mall when I had to leave. I just wanted some comfort. God, the first picture on the wikipedia article about anxiety/panic attacks (of all things) is one grey cartoon calming the other, because that’s what you’re medically supposed to do. Apparently, I should have just said, I need a hug, but I think I was subconsciously testing you to see if you would, and you didn’t.

Anxiety isn’t rational, panic isn’t rational. For me, it’s an overwhelming amount of negative ideas filling my mind like a flood, and I spiral into an indescribable sadness. It isn’t logical, and most of the thoughts aren’t even how I feel about things usually. But in the flood they are true demons of my mind; the dark thoughts most people are good at suppressing that only haunt them as they fall asleep or when they get a really unfortunate glimpse of themselves in the mirror.

When I started to get angry was when you were incapable of saying anything. And when I asked, as it began to subside if I had ruined the afternoon, I just needed you to say that we still had a great time (and we had, up until then) but you didn’t respond. And when I started to cry again and ask, as you judged me across the seats, if you had anything to say, that is when it began.

Apparently, I just throw temper tantrums. Apparently, I hate poor people. Apparently my career choice means I will never be a stable human being. Apparently I’ve signed myself for a life of disappointment. Go ahead and sit on your high horse telling yourself you’ve never had a moment of indulgent sadness where you needed someone to say, it’s going to be ok; because, that is a dirty lie. I have been the one to talk you down through grad school. When you felt you were failing as a teacher, or never going to finish, or sleep deprived, or wondering if it would ever end, I have been there with soft reassurance. Fuck, I’ve never even seen you teach, but when you love someone, sometimes you just suck up your own bullshit and are nice to them.

You used to try to be with me, and now you just accept it as happenstance. You used to care if we were fighting. Neither one of us could stand to be angry for too long, and given an hour or so to calm down, we would be right there and ready to talk it out. We are pushing 24 hours, and no word. When we would go out in New York, you would engage my friends; you would make an attempt to be a part of the group. And this weekend, you sulked and sat alone as I had the chance to see people that mean a great deal to me. I wanted to show you off, for everyone to see what a great guy you are. Well, good on me and you, you showed your true colors by not talking to a single person, judging them all as frivolous dumb actors, and generally being a dick. And don’t tell me it’s because you didn’t know anyone, because you did. And although I may have had some anxiety about spending time with lots of your friends at first, I was always engaging, and I always made an effort. Oh, and we always hang out with your fucking friends.

I’m still angry. I’m still hurt at how you treated an upsetting moment of mental anguish as child’s play. As soon as I’m upset you tune me out, it’s like my opinion doesn’t exist any more. Every word I say is written in stone and you throw them all back at me. I’m upset that you are still so bitter about acting that you assume that I will never be stable simply because it’s my chosen vocation, let alone the work I have been doing for the past two years to become financially stable while I act. My choice means I will never be good enough.

I’m not going to call you. I’m going to go see my friends, and I’m going to look beautiful, and I’m going to have a nice day. Fuck off.