I am in fact, ignoring your phone calls. Leave a message, and I will listen to it at my earliest convenience. Send me a text and I will likely answer promptly, so long as it’s not an invitation for company. I’m avoiding company, as my own is the only I desire at the moment. Unless I gave birth to you, that is; Babe is always welcome. Because Babe and I understand one another. To share a space with her, even deep in heartbeat silence, is to feel a more meaningful connection than I do with anyone else in my world.
But I digress.
There is a difference, to me at least, between being a recluse, and being reclusive. Presently, I am reclusive. You can’t begin to fathom the mechanisms that make me tick-tock. Unlike you, I process on my own; I do not seek your ears until I’m certain I need them. You may not fucking get me, but you accept me. For that, I thank you.
I have become exceptionally introverted since my hip replacement surgery. Contrary to popular belief, I’m an introvert anyway, so I am not at all concerned about my mental welfare. And I know you’re not either because you’re accustomed to my bouts of stillness; that, and you know my strength of will; you’ve seen me walk through every level of hell. Believe me, it’s a specfuckingtacular feeling, knowing that in your eyes I am a tough mutha–and someone you can count on for sound advice and a patient heart.
But Jesus, fuck! I am too damned tired right now to play psychologist. I don’t know how many more ways I can convey this to you without punching the words into your head. I need someone, anyone to fucking hear me. So, this is what you’ve reduced me to–bitching in a blog entry. One that I know you will read…and feel offended by because that’s how you operate. I know what makes you tick-tock.
You are good, honest, and loyal. But when the shit is thick for you, self-absorption rules you.
I pity you. And I love you.
Damn it, I wish you loved me as much as I love you.