I have a story that wants to be told.
I don’t understand it. I truly do not understand why I can’t keep this one to myself. It’s all over. I've had so much therapy. I’m okay with it, it’s been decades, and I’m done. I’m good. But for whatever reason, it simply won’t back down. I’ve been arguing with it. Pipe down, I tell the story. You’re not that interesting. I have much better stories to share. But the damn thing won’t shut up. It’s like, pick me! I’m going to be so embarrassing for you! Yay!
I wrote about what happened on an anonymous site, and you know what? Stupid story’s not satisfied. It jumped up and down on its little hobbit feet. Not good enough! it cried. Tell the world that I belong to yooooou! We’re going steady!
Then there are the dreams. My subconscious is not leaving me alone. Tornadoes keep popping up into my dreams, sweeping in out of nowhere, tearing down my house and sucking all the breath from my body. Then that wasn’t scary enough, so they were fire tornadoes. I’m running and hiding and the damned fire tornadoes keep getting me.
Do you get it, do you get it? asks the story.
Yes, I get it, shut up. You’re still boring and stupid.
But I can’t just have one recurring dream, oh no. Next up comes the “things in my mouth” dream. First it’s clay, then it’s gum, then it’s dirt. I can deal with those. Then it’s pulled pork. I’m yanking pulled pork out of my mouth and gagging. Now I can’t eat pulled pork. I really liked pulled pork.
This week I dreamt that I was pulling organs out of my mouth. My own organs. But even as I pulled out all my insides and they spilled all over the floor, more kept sliding up and choking me. It was entirely too gross.
Yesterday I went to therapy to go over these fucking dreams that I have had enough of, and then I headed to Deanna’s to record our latest podcast episode and just like that, while we were chatting with Paul Gilmartin, I went and blurped out my story.
I have no idea if I said anything coherent or if I even spoke for the rest of the podcast.
Then I went home and sat on the couch for a few hours. A distance voice reminded me to feed the child. It was probably the child.
I’m not going to tell you the story here, sorry. You can listen to the podcast (which doesn't air until next week) (and I'm keeping you waiting, I know. Listen, didn't I say the story isn't interesting? I swear it's not). I promise you this isn’t a way of getting you to listen to the podcast, I just can’t type it out. I may be cracking up, but I don't think so. Seriously: don’t worry, I’m okay. Remember how I said I was going to write like no one’s reading? This is what I’m doing. It’s okay for me to publish this because no one’s reading it.
Someone said to me recently, “Maybe it’s better if you don’t think about it. Because the mind wants to forget.” But this is exactly wrong. The mind wants you to remember, and it will fuck with you until you do.