I’m done talking about the Butcher for a little bit. I’m just irrationally despondent about it and it’s gotten into my body. My arms and legs hurt and I’m having trouble moving. So, yes, I’m avoiding it. Yes, I know and have seen repeatedly that dragging the things that hurt you out into the light tends to make them shrivel up and seem more manageable.
But there’s just too much here. It’s not just the Butcher, it’s how precarious our finances are, and how unhappy he is and how I feel somewhat responsible for that because I needed him to move down here, and how I don’t realize that he’s just as fucked up as me, and how help is not coming. It’s just him and just me. We can debate why that is–if I’m fundamentally unlovable or if I push people away or if I don’t know how to ask for help and so never get it (in which case realizing that help isn’t coming is probably just another mode of that). But help is not coming.
My whole life I’ve been praying to be rescued. It has never happened. It is not going to happen. There’s nobody who sees how fucked up things are who’s going to fix things. The sooner I can get that through my head, the better off I’m going to be. But I have needed to be rescued from one thing or another for a long time, so stopping holding out hope for it isn’t easy. Coming to grips with the fact that there’s only me to save me is pretty damn depressing.
Anyway, so let’s talk about other things. It’ll probably seem stilted and awkward, but I’ve got to move on.