The Bloody Doors Off

I was about to brag about exerting self-control over my impulsive need to purchase a ticket to the Postmodern Jukebox tour when it stops in Toronto next February.

Look at me. I stopped myself.

But did I?

Was this the battle or the war?

The answer may surprise you.

That’s the part fucking me up right now.

I’ve tried ignoring these impulses before. Failed almost every time.

The temptation was too great.

And my justification always made perfect sense.

I don’t know how to describe the sensations.

There’s a generalized sense of anxiety, that you have to do the thing.

Because not doing the thing is wrong.

Your head buzzes. Arguments back and forth. Pros and cons.

You don’t notice how bunched up your shoulders are until you give in, and they fall back down.

Teeth unclench.

You can breathe again.

Oh.

Endorphins.

Anyway.

The show is four months away.

And my impulses like to play the long game.

Seeing how she (yeah, the impulses are female, because they’re so seductive) occasionally resides in my brain.

Maybe I should give her a name.

Make her more tangible.

Like Harold, my despair.

He’s not some dark cloud wrapping itself around me.

He’s a ‘physical’ presence.

Something I can fight against.

Don’t worry. It’s not dissociative identity disorder.

If you want a comparison, think Inside Out.

But Harold and — I’ll come back to her later — can’t co-exist.

So if one is around, the other is on the couch, binging Netflix.

Harold is intense. He hits fast, and hard.

She, on the other hand, is like a gentle breeze. Gives you goosebumps.

Teases.

There can be more.

Right.

This post took a turn for the strange.

Wonder what my psychiatrist will make of this?