There are rocks left in both of our shoes

Sometimes I swear to god I deserve whatever I get from my gullibility. This time next year I'll have it all figured out, won't I? And I won't ever fall for stupid bullshit again. And people won't take advantage of my good nature. And I will finally take charge of the variables in my life. And any tears I cry won't be cried in anger at myself. And I'll feel like my life is actually worth more than the air it displaces. And I won't have to walk on eggshells in my own apartment. And I'll remember what it's like to not hate everything about myself. Is it possible?

I have to be candid right now, for posterity, before I think better of it: I have not been honest with you. There are so many things I have not said, so many yarns I have not spun, so much that is essential to the story that I have left out on purpose, to be polite, to keep some things private, to not air shared secrets for the world. But in the process, I have omitted so much of the story — so much of myself — that is essential to make sense of everything else. And so much of me is tied up in the parts of the story I have left out. I don't know when I will be able to go back and plunk down the last few pieces of the puzzle for you or for me. Not now, though. But please don't look at the puzzle with holes in it and think that's all there is to see.