Today is a bad day. Nightmares ruined what little sleep I got last night. My brain is waging all out war on me. Life’s little irritants are too much for an addled person like me. I’m fighting a million little battles, normal for most people I think. Maybe I’m just not cut out for it.
It feels like I am a cake, and each layer represents an aspect of what normal life should look like. Marriage, kids, work, etc… The frosting is causing real issues. It is ruining the cake itself; it is too thick and there’s too much of it. Or maybe the recipe got screwed up and generic sugar and food color are making it worse. Because the frosting wasn’t made with good ingredients, it not only tastes and looks bad, it doesn’t function like normal frosting. Good frosting serves multiple purposes, it enhances the flavor of the layers, makes them a little easier to swallow if you’ve overstuffed your mouth, and it can help hold the layers together. It’s kind of a structural and culinary marvel. An excellent frosting is based on a recipe that stands the test of time. Good ones are handed down for generations. Sort of like good parenting skills.
The frosting represents all of the mental and emotional damage that plague me. It is ruining the integrity of the cake itself, layers can’t stay stacked together and are sliding all over the place. No decorations or fun sprinkles. It’s an ugly cake. Not appealing to look at and certainly not appetizing.
From a purely metaphorical perspective, I love cake. At least I want to love cake. I want to appreciate all of the subtleties of my cake, textural differences, and the like. But I can’t. The fucking frosting wont cooperate and it’s overpowering the entire serving platter. It’s made the whole thing a mess. I hate the cake.
I suppose on some level, I should just be happy about the cake itself. I mean, any cake is better than no cake, right? I’m not so sure. But, what’s the alternative to cake? I don’t think there is one.
As I work through the messiness of my childhood and adolescence, I am forced to consume it all again. To eat the fucking cake. Over and over. I’m having to remember it all, think about it all, talk about it all. The chewing is relentless. It’s supposed to help me, eventually. Though, if I’m honest, I’m not sure it will. It’s like that super crappy trend of newlyweds smashing cake on the other’s face. I don’t want cake on my face.
I’m sad. Defeated. I’m tired of fighting the fight. I have whipsawed from a place of caring about other people, all in the name of self preservation, to this position of not caring for my own basic needs. I denied the damage that was done to me for so long, that I almost believed it wasn’t real. But it is real. The cake is falling apart.
Today, the fight is too much. The burdens too heavy. I just want to be alone to waste away into nothingness and be at peace. I don’t want to do it anymore. I don’t want any cake. I don’t even want the hope of a better cake.
I have no appetite left.
