It turns out that ‘who I am without the fantasy’ is a woman dedicated to her work. I’ve been focusing on the day-to-day, trying to build new routines. Right now, that involves waking up later than usual but fairly consistently, showing up five minutes before my shift and leaving five minutes after, turning off my phone and going for a long drive until I get tired, then going back to my motel room, drinking a glass of whisky and going to bed.
Sometimes,
I’ll stop in another town – or at least neighbourhood – and kill someone. They’re
not particularly memorable kills but they released just enough endorphins to
get me through the next day. A stab here, a bludgeon then, I made one woman
drink windshield washer fluid before tossing her over a bridge. They’re not my
most creative kills but at least I’m doing something. I think that’s enough.
Why does
everything I do have to be creative and memorable? Why do I want to be
remembered or the best? Why can’t I just… be happy with what I have?
I mean
right now, I have fuck all, but in general: am I allowed to be happy? Is that
so much to ask? Can I just have one fucking week where my life doesn’t feel like
it’s fucking falling apart at my feet?
Why can’t I
be happy? I have my job, and my family, I’ve found my passion, I’ve felt
immeasurable loss. This means I get to be happy now, right? I’ve earned it. I’ve
earned some fucking peace and quiet.
I deserve
it. I know I do. So what do I have to do to get it?
It’s clear
that I can’t find what I need here. I need a change of scenery – a new
environment with no baggage attached.
I need to
take Casey and go.
I need to
leave tonight.
I need to
pack.
As always,
dear readers,
Stay Safe
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