The Essence of a Home

I thought living alone would be the hardest thing I ever did.

The first time I tried was a disaster. Despite that house being etched into my soul, it still was not a part of the fabric of me and built entirely of safety

This house is a framework of trust. A coat of hope on the walls (such a soothing moss green).
Sunlight pours in with ease.
The kitchen is a perfect dream of space and honey-colored love.

The woods and cemetery in my backyard would probably concern most. But to my skewed sense of comfort, it’s perfect. Quiet, serene, and lonely. Just like I am. I’m rarely surprised by random passerby’s.

I do fracture regularly still. But the pieces of me all have comforting sections of the house.

There’s a small room under the stairs that only handful of people know exist (yes, like Harry Potter). A safe space to hide when the demons seem too strong and close.

The kitchen is another favorite, with a window seat right across from the long counter. Huge windows that easily slide open to let in air. Enough space for me to lie on my stomach, and even have Zoe join me.

Then there’s the balcony. Breezy, semi-private, and perfect to lounge on for hours.

Perhaps I can get this dang book put together finally. With a little help from this precious house that’s wormed its way into my heart and soul.

No Water

(trigger warning- depressed and self-harming)

Due to a cockup between the county and the city water suppliers, my water got disconnected at noon today. And the county (my supposed legit supplier) refused to turn it back on today, even though I completed their auto-payment two hours before the “cutoff time”.

I informed them they should edit their paperwork so to not be blatant liars. Then they said rude things about my attitude. Then I said rude things about their ability to be forthright with their citizens.

My water will not be turned on until some vague time tomorrow because they refused to give me a specific time.

I am trying to not have a complete meltdown but it’s been really fucking hard. Grey (my brother) brought some friend home even after I texted him and told him not to have guests because we have no working water (i.e. toilets).

My fucked up coping brain decided to take a couple narcs because the common side effect is constipation. Therefore I won’t have to poop. Now I get to be high and not poop. Tonight should be unicorn farts.

Instead more self-harm is happening and time is skipping like an elementary jumprope. Skip-pa-tat-tat. Tick tock tick tock.

Hips and arm. I know it’s bad when the cuts are in multiple places.

Maybe I’m not cut out to be a homeowner.

Or an adult.

What the fuck is wrong with me? Can’t even handle a little stress.

Just a little.

It’s not like I’ve been struggling to find a job without success for 6 months and my savings are dwindling to a joke of a joke. The only bigger joke is my pool of friends. Not a pool. Not even a puddle. Barely raindrops. I don’t deserve friends or jobs. Or houses. Or water.

I deserve blood blood blood.

Tick tock tick tock skip-a-tat-tat.

“Making my own road out of gravel and some wine.” -Gin Wigmore