June 1

Critical.

Critical.

Critical.

Criticalcriticalcriticalcriticalcritical.

Always critical, that's me.

And more of myself than others. Usually.

I'd like to pose a question, God. If you don't mind.

Why can't I accept the good things about me instead of focusing on the bad?

Like, for example.

She really does love me, even if there are a million little things I'm doing wrong I could nitpick at.

I talk fast, but it adds a sort of charm. That's a bit of a stretch.

I'm sensitive, but at least I'm not Mr. Macho.

I can't sing, but I can write all right.

I have good idea sometimes, even without a way to carry them out.

I'm negative but,

Well. Right now I'm being positive, I think.

It feels pretty good.

It's weird.

But I can see how this could add seven years to my life. Mick would have me seven years longer, Lord willing.

CRAP.

I just realized.

That social skills aspie workbook was actually right!

That whole positive countertalk thing works.

I'm surprised.

I thought they were whackjobs.

God, help me to be more positive like this, and less self-critical. Please. Help me to keep away those gray moods that seem to overtake me.

May 23

I'm never going to add up to him.

The way she speaks of him. He was on a pedestal in her eyes. She idolized him.

I crouch by her feet and beg for love constantly. And when I force her to, she gives it.

Casey says I'm what she needs now and she has to accept that.

I need to accept that.

He told me what he thinks I am.

"You are so sweet to her."

Except when I'm dragging her down.

"You say 'I love you' even though you know she'll respond with something stupid like 'I love me too!'."

She doesn't always end it at that...

"You do everything you can for her."

No, I don't. I still do things for myself. I'm self-serving.

"And the affection she doesn't always accept is really what she needs."

I just give it at the wrong times. That's my problem. I can't stay cold as stone like her. I'm not tough. I'm tender.

I watch [TITLE REDACTED]. Does not compute with tough. I'm a wimp. No matter how funny that show is, I'm not a man. Or the man she needs.

"She puts herself in a tough shell and can't open up for anyone because she doesn't want to."

Lord... help me break her shell... somehow. Or maybe you can just slide it off her gently. Like a silk dress.

This shell is tough... I can't break it on my own. I hate hurting her.

I wanted to spray the rest of the chocolate axe she loves into my eyes after last night.

I'm a pansy.

Lord, help me...

I just want to make her laugh.

(*But [REDACTED] does = awesome. That computes. I'm just not... enough of a man.)

May 18

I ran to second base.

Do I have character?

Or am I the problem in all my relationships?

I think I'm just a nice guy...

Nothing beyond that.

May 13

I act like I don't know you, when I crash you're the first I go to, when

I'm down and feeling alone, I'm better off with you...

Is that true for me? Who do I go to?

Mick. That's who I go to.

God, I feel inferior to everyone. I feel undeserving of anything good. I feel like I'm a pathetic mistake.

Which is funny because you don't make mistakes.

God, don't ask me why, but I find it hard to have faith. To trust.

It comes so naturally for Mick. She makes everything seem so easy, so simple.

When you're me on the inside, it's not.

Stone.

I wonder if the feeling right before someone dies is anything like this.

Numb. Cold. Blank. Like a gray granite countertop.

Or is granite too pretty of a countertop?

I feel ugly.

This feeling is making me sick.

Nick's so happy. She says she doesn't have a reason. I'm confused.

She's just doing it for my sake. Trying to make me feel better. She cares about me.

I don't deserve

Maybe I won't finish that sentence.

I could list a thousand things I don't deserve.

My own love.

Mick's love.

God's love.

Acceptance.

Hope.

Happiness.

Worth.

I don't even deserve to deserve anything.

I only have two of the above right now. I'll give you a hint: They're the two most important.

I'll give you another hint: It's not the first one.

I'd hate to die like this.

Because I feel like the old me.

And the old me put a five for chance of going to heaven.

That his parents manipulated him into putting a 10.

I wish they could just let me be honest to myself for once.

That's why I have Mick and the hours between 10 PM and 5 AM.

I don't want to feel like this the next time I see Mark.

Because I won't make it out of that office without breaking.

God, give me anything...

May 7

I have serious issues.

That is all.

May the 4th be with you.

Speaking aloud to God is about as useful to me as yelling at a football game or fumbling for a witty comeback at the general group of jerks that surround me.

I trip over words and sprawl over sentences. I stutter. My thoughts get blended and mixed before they leave my head.

It's easier here, when it's not in my voice. It helps me to sort them.

Sort. That's a laugh. I'm not organised.

I can be more honest here.

Like, for example.

God, I feel like I love Mick more than you.

And that's going to earn me death for real this time when she reads it. She'll leave me.

I know it's a problem, but I... I don't know how to love someone less. Unless that someone is my mom...

I need to love you more God. I don't know how to.

Probably reading my Bible, right? Yeah.

I've got a new big Bible. Mark gave it to me. It's for my discipleship thing with him.

This week: James 1:1-3. Study and take nuggets out of it.

He jumped right in. He didn't ask questions about my walk or personal life.

We talked about identity.

And I got a little suspicious.

I know it's obvious that I'm 'Tucker the Boyfriend', but some of the things he said were dead on.

Did Mick talk to him?

God, give me troubles and trials... I want to know if I'm really for you.

May 2

Thank you for helping me make my dream come true.

That was the title of the mass email sent from my Drama teacher to all of us.

It meant so much to me. I had been a part of something I love.

My dream is to be on stage. His dream was to direct a huge, professional drama/musical.

Magic happens when dreams collide. Magic and the smell of friction, smoke, and sweet, sweet things.

It's so lovely.

Thanks for the experience, God.

May 1

Every Sunday night God tries to tear me apart.

Apparently I have a knack for staring off posts poetically, but that's beside the point.

I take a class called 'Dating to the Altar'... God knows this, and that's who I'm writing to.

I'm inadequate. That depresses me like the old days.

EVERY NIGHT. Without fail. Reagan says something that makes me either want to change or die. Or both.

Combine that with previously mentioned lingering confusion/turmoil from that one day and my life feels ridiculous.

Unreachable goals.

Self-inflicted obstacles.

Crazy, stupid, pointless dreams.

I want to be on stage. That way, I can be something I'm not without being called out or judged.

Yes, I love drama. Yes, I have a passion for drama. Yes, I take my theatre seriously.

But that's my crazy stupid dream.

I know not to say it's unattainable. But somedays my life feels like a big relapse.

I want it. And that's a big thing for me. To actually want something.

I lived complacent and controlled for so long that it was hard for me to decide anything. I had no passion. Nothing.

I'm still getting over it.

I lost my train of thought. Maybe it'll get back on rail next time...

Lord, help me to be the freaking leader I have to be to feel the slightest bit adequate.

Lord, help that sort of bluntness never be said to you again... I'm supposed to respect and obey you, not talk back to you like that.

God, I need help. And hope.

Help me to deal with Mick the way I should. Take away this confusion. Bring me peace.