I wish I was a Bimbo

I am a boat lost at sea, a rudderless boat with no radar or compass. I am caught in an endless black night with no stars to guide the way and just wave upon wave crashing into and over me, tossing me around from side to side.

What a week it has been. I’m being tormented by thoughts and ideas and fears and emotions that are not totally unknown to me.  I know every single one of those things and usually am quite capable of putting an end to their taunting, when they come at me one at a time that is.  I guess I have just never before experienced such an onslaught of all those things throwing themselves at me in wave after wave, the one trying to be bigger and stronger more real and more intense that the previous one.  I am drowning.  It is completely and utterly irrational and my mind is my worst enemy.  I know I need to stop because I am heading for self-destruct mode and if I don’t pull myself together I will end up running for the hills.  I know all of this because I have been here before, but the taunting won’t stop and my mind is racing with a million things at the same time, thinking and over thinking creating yet another short-circuit that leads down a new path of torment.

I have so much to say and four different drafts staring at me – just rambling away but not making any sense at all.

I want to write about loving from a comfort zone where you know how it will end, because you have been down that road so many times vs loving from a place that scares you, because it is so unlike anything you have ever known.

I want to write a letter to the men I’ve loved before. I want to know if they ever stop to think about the chaos they left behind.  I want to know if they ever really felt anything.  I want to know if any of it was ever real to them.  I want to know what I did wrong.  I want to know why I was never enough and if I ever will be.  I want them to know that their combined efforts have changed me on a fundamental level.  I am now the scared little bird with the broken wing and I hate being this way.  Are they proud of what they have done?  Do they ever consider the consequences of their actions?  It’s pointless, I know.  They will never see it and they will never know.  They probably don’t even care.  Should I do it to get closure?  Closure is not an option.  The questions will remain unanswered and no matter what I do I will always wonder why I could never make it work.

I want to write about the phobias I have developed. Yip, while spending sleepless night in turmoil this week, my friend Google have introduced me to a range of phobias that I never knew existed.  Phobias that are too close for comfort and that are guaranteed to ruin any relationship.

I want to write a letter to someone who is very special to me. I wish I was better with words, I wish I could just speak my mind and tell you how I feel.  I envy the girls in romantic comedies who can just blurt it all out in a serious case of verbal diarrhoea and everything comes out all wrong but all right at the same time.  I wish I could purge myself of everything that I want to tell you.  But the hurt and phobias created by the douche bags have left me completely out of my comfort zone and I am back to ground zero where I just want to run.  Running is the easy way out.

I wish I was a bimbo – the kind of girl who can just go through life flirting from one flower to the next without thinking too much or caring too much, taking each day as it comes, not trying to figure it all out. But I’m not a bimbo and never will be.  I am complex.

I wish I had an anchor to bring me to a halt. I wish I could find some sense in it all, a safe harbour.  I wish I could run ashore on an island where the nights were spent in peaceful sleep and there is nothing to question.