In the midst of stumbling on and off my face lately, I fell through the door yesterday to my very quiet apartment and was immediately unhappy.
I kind of reckon Artists have a unique pain thresh hold. And since I hold on to this “every low is followed by a fabulous happiness” I really make a legit effort to limp through.
However, some days I suck at it. And yes, it is still a traumatic reaction to an ex-partner’s uselessness. I’ve finally come to see over the past three or four months, I don’t miss him. I just can’t live alone.
When I was single digits lying on the floor in my bedroom writing in looseleaf notebooks with grey lead pencil, there was life in every room surrounding me. Two sisters below me, one in the room next to me, my parents on the other side. More creatures down the hall.
There is a very low lull to life that I require around me at all times. It’s why I live in Hell’s Kitchen with the windows open, and why the Upper Whack Side in its suburban vacancy literally gave me the creeps.
And sometimes voices six flights down on the sidewalk don’t chill me out. I need like, someone reading a book or drawing around. I’ve come to accept it’s just part of who I’ve grown to be considering I was in a house full of people, then a handful of share situations before I got hitched.
I hate living alone. It’s somewhat toxic for me.
Therefore, you can imagine my joy toward a 48-hour slumber party with my bestie Chris. We ate $1 pizza off the avenue at 1am and watched B-grade horrow movies on Hulu until around 2.
This is what I rely on keeping my sanity in passing periods of strife. Up picking.