I could say that I'm planning to run away to Ecuador and join a commune of devil-worshippers and no one would bat an eyelash because no one reads this blog. I'm too much for people, my blog's not enough to make anyone want to read? I don't know. I'm just testing the waters here, I'm not fishing for compliments or ego boosts or whatever.
This is NOT manipulation and I KNOW this, because I practically INVENTED manipulation.
please believe me.
I cut my needs down to what I thought was the bare minimum, _and_ split them between two people, but it's still too much? I am way too broken for anyone to handle. Is there no hope for me? Will I never get it right?
It tears at me and rips. There is no sympathy and no hesitation marks. It's here and it's my whole universe. Red, slithery but jagged, and coming from the very center of me. Not my heart or guts or brain or stomach--from the point in the middle of my diaphragm, the mathematical, volumetric center of me. It comes from nowhere and it defies the laws of physics. My pain does not recognize the persistence of matter. I double over, to maybe contain it? Or just because it's such a blow I couldn't think of staying upright. On my knees, my hands in fists and my arms held in tight. My head pushed down and I cry like I'll never stop. There are only simple words, never more than a few: "he left me," "she hates me," "I failed," "I'm so alone." The tentacles reach my brain and the only signal left is "cut." Must cut, must try, must see blood, must be now. I don't know where the opposition comes from, but sometimes it comes and I write. Ten, twenty, thirty pages to assuage the need for a one-inch slice out of my arm.
At times the red is too much, though, and I can't write. I cry until the razor's in my hand and when I cut, it doesn't hurt. The numbness doesn't last, and soon the sting shoots to my brain and my hand instinctively jerks away. But now there's something to do: apply pressure, rinse wound, bandage as necessary, put razors away.
Step one, step two, even slashed-up me can deal with an instruction manual. Could I someday have instructions for dealing with the blood-colored vines? To stop the cloying, grasping relentlessness that ties me down and reduces me to mere survival tactics? Hurt. Must fix. Cut. Now bandage. Feel better. Move on.
They're battle scars, though. Marks of bravery and triumph. My enemy came, and I prevailed. Who would believe a soldier with no tale to tell? Who never saw the front lines, who never faced the choice of fight or run? Run, and you will live, fight, and you may die, but a deserter knows only scorn and cowardice.
I look at my scars, my half-healed wounds from my fight with myself. You can't say I'm weak *now*--where are *your* scars, "sane" person? When did you stand up and face evil?
But instinct takes over and I carry my coat, a book, I put my hand in my pocket so no one can see. A hero of a hated war never gets a parade.
I can only imagine what they think, what they whisper to their friends, but I see the fear of me in their eyes. If I can cut myself, what truly terrible, practically unspeakable things am I capable of? They don't understand and the unknown is frightening.
Maybe they don't have portals to hell in their diaphragms. Maybe their life is so calm and pleasant that they've never felt the clawing multitude of limbs take over. But have they really lived? To know greatness, do we have to know failure? To know good, do we have to see evil?
An empty life they must lead, though calm enough. Dry, smooth, uneventful.
My pain is a volcano--it erupts and the ash chokes and smothers everything. But volcanic soil grows plants better than elsewhere. Is my life all the richer from all of this?
I have to find hope and meaning somewhere.
"Life without idealism is empty indeed. We must have hope or starve to death" -Pearl S. Buck
I have over-analyzed and over-stressed so much that I have lost all confidence in myself and no longer know what I want to do with the rest of my life, other than I know I don't want to live on the street and I don't want to be in a job I'm not going to do well or like. I simply can't put myself in a position where I come home from work every day and want to kill myself rather than wake up the next morning and go back there. And goddamnit, I shouldn't have to take a job that will make me fucking suicidal!
It's so great that you can take a fucking joke. I'm so glad that I tried to be involved in what you were doing so that I could get to know your girlfriend and be a part of your life. So. Glad.
Oh, and the song you're playing now is the stupidest song on the whole damn game.
Worst. Song. Ever.
I'll just sit back and allow myself to be pushed out of your life, seeing as how that's what you seem to want. Sorry I took up so much of your time.
Oh, and the fact that I was all "bitchy" when you first came home? Legitimate reason: I didn't know where you were, if you were bringing home dinner, or what. I was hungry and annoyed.
Thanks for being so inclusive. I'll just stay out of your way, since we only live together and don't have a really long history of going through tough shit together. It's not like we're best friends or anything.
So, yeah. Just wanted to let you know.
p.s. could I _be_ any more Chandler?
Well, right after I complain a little more. My neck is so sore! I have no idea why, but it hurts and I have a headache and I don't want to cook anything but I'm the only one home and eating will help my headache. sometimes I hate being an adult.
All right, I give in, I'm "cooking" (baked potato in the microwave--it's food, it's heat, it counts as cooking!) and I'll have some more stuff, too--ohhhh a smoothie, yes, definitely....mmmm.....fruit and sugar.....
Ok, and back to the task at hand--proving to the extremely few people who read this that my life is not all bad things. I tend to write about the bad stuff because I really need to get it off my chest, and bad stuff is more likely to get me the kind of attention I want (=sympathy) (there's that self-awareness again). I'll try to write more about the good stuff too. So, here's some good stuff:
English, British, Scottish, Welsh, Irish, whatever else they've got on those beautiful islands...I love to hear people with these accents speak. Women, men, children, everyone. Especially men. Hot, sexy men that aren't the British-stereotype-foppish-pussies. Men like this:
Yes. Hot. Wonderful. Yum. (They are OF AGE) Also:
Oi. Give me. Yes, delish. AND:
Holy! Prince Harry turned out HOTT. Maybe hotter than his brother.
They could all read me the phone book and I would be rapt. And it's not 'cause they're famous. There's a certain reader on LibriVox by the name of Graham Williams, with a wonderful british accent. I would love to have him read everything. Also, just to prove it's not that I just want to listen to men talk, Joy Chan read Tristan and Iseult, and I loved it. *sigh* I would really love to date a tall, lanky, red- or dark-haired, somewhat-freckled Brittish/Irish/Scottish/Welsh man. For a big University city, you'd think I could find one or two. I'm on the lookout. ;-)
Ok, so, there's something good, to balance out my rants. Off to find some more good things to eat.
Oh, and to start knitting. Or spinning, I haven't decided which.
I'm so mad that people I want to talk to don't talk to me. They have their reasons, but damn, must you really sleep so much? Are you really that tired? Is that other person that much more interesting than me?
I know that some of them were beaten so badly that the idea of love, with or without a condom was so precious that in the moment, and every moment it happened, it felt so much like light that it didn't matter.
She was talking about working as the director of the Southern California HIV/AIDS Hotline. I wasn't physically beaten, I was emotionally beaten. Mostly by myself and my perfectionism. And my situation isn't as desperate as the one she describes, but really, the gist of it is the same. I'm much better about this all now, but I'm still working on it.
Please forgive the crypticness--I don't want to shout this to the world, but I want to talk about it.
So sometimes things are meant for a certain purpose and wind up serving the very cause they mean to undermine. For example:
I could not-do-it, and that might make him see me in a different light, in a whoa-she’s-really-unable-to-be-normal-I-m
I did it. I did most of a yoga DVD—I left out the handstands and headstands for my safety. And then I had wonderful tilapia and French fries for dinner. And then I went grocery shopping. Just like he said I should. Just like I said I didn’t want to. And it was good. And then I got home and ate two “Raised Chocolate Bismarcks”, and damn they were good. But then I wanted another, and in an effort to avoid eating three weeks’ worth of calories in one hour, I chose instead my demi-baguette, with butter and jam. I think that the baguette had fewer calories, but with the larger volume, it kind of made me sicker than I think the Bismarck would have.
But, all in all, it was just as nice as he said it would be. Endorphins make me happy. There was only one twinge of depression in there, rather than an evening’s worth of pity and wallowing. Except. Except when C called.
C is not someone I want to date. He has been described as a “player”—I want loyalty. He’s short and bald—I prefer tall and with hair. I don’t find him attractive—that’s really a requirement for a date. But the real deal breaker is that he’s such a hick, a redneck, a country boy. I was on the phone with him and he was talking to his “employee” (as he called the person), and said “Start your car? Bitch, start my truck!” with that sort of jovial laugh that lacks a genuine sense of joking. As if he fully expected this person to do nearly anything he said. As if he were the kind of country boy one might find in, say, Pardeeville.
Why do these boys—because I can’t call them men, they’re too selfish to be called grown—consider women to be their personal slaves? Bitch, go get me this, and bitch you have to stay home and watch the kids. Drunks, mostly, and they drink and drive. Because “I know how much I can drink.” And apparently that’s a case of the worst beer available. Cocaine, weed, any drug they can get. I’ve heard such stories that I once thought were only fiction. Husbands who won’t let their wives do anything but stay in their run-down trailer homes and watch their children. And the women who submit to these “men”? They get pregnant and marry the fathers in order to get health insurance and because “that’s just what you do”. I’m speechless—for now.
What I can say is that I’ve been turned off from all country boys. All the ones I’ve met have been patriarchal misogynists who haven’t got a high school diploma and have ambitions that go no further than showing off their new truck to their equally anti-feminist male friends, while the women they’ve roped into this scheme make sure they’re never left holding an empty beer can.
Maybe I’m being sensationalist. But I’m not sure I could find anything particularly redeeming about this little slice of Americana. The cowboy hats are pretty sexy. That’s all I’ve got, for now. I’ll let you know if I come up with another.
I should make it very clear that I’m not against all “country boys”. But I haven’t met a single one who didn’t make me want to run screaming for a museum, a college class, the city—anywhere they wouldn’t be. I’ve given some chances and they’ve proven to me that they are only interested in me being barefoot and pregnant and makin’ them a sammich. Now, for the right man, my shoes would be off and I’d be in the kitchen in a second. But that right man would have to recognize and respect that the delicious sammich a la moi was made for him because I wanted to do something nice, not because serving him is my sole purpose in life.
Really, truly, I have been shocked by the backwards and anti-female sentiments of these so-called “good ol’ boys.” My plan is to remain open but wary to any male claiming he likes to go four-wheeling, loves his truck, wears a cowboy hat, prefers country music, or calls himself a redneck.
Coming soon: my rants against pretty boys and guys who say things like “cash money fo eva”, mountains of praise for the little-seen and oft-taken-before-I-meet-them cute geek.