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Thursday, 28 January 2010

Tonight was...a mindtrip. Everything went down completely different then I thought it would. I thought it would feel different to actually come in contact with you again. I am repulsed by the idea that I could be smug about your troubles, but there comes a certain sense of relief about it all. I wasn't mistaken about you. You wrote "it's nothing personal" and it put four years into perspective. It wasn't personal. It was never about me. It was always about you. And now some poor girl has to deal with the same bullshit and I am not jealous of this girl like I thought I might be, I am troubled. You are taking another sensitive, unstable female into your hands and you are going to tear her apart. I am grieving for four lost years of my life. I am grieving for parts of me lost to your strange methods of emotional abuse. I am relieved I don't have to deal with it and that I had (finally) the presence of mind to let go of the terribly unhealthy cycle, but hearing that you are with this girl makes me relive everything I went through. True, this girl is not me. She sounds much more damaged and susceptible to destruction (although I try to imagine myself as fair --- maybe she's smarter than that, maybe she'll see through it before three years of her life passes her by, maybe she'll even change you), and it makes me. I don't. So sad. I don't even know why. I don't want another female (no matter how self-destructive and unstable she may be) to be victim to what she thinks is your love. I'm not trying to victimize myself or this new girl, I'm. Just. Saying. I'm realizing too late all the terrible ways you drew me into your dramas, and dude, a young girl in this world has enough drama for herself. She doesn't need to take on anyone else's.

Saying that makes me realize. Yes. Progression is happening. I'm still a mess in a lot of ways, but I love myself. I want to evolve. I want to be more than the person who was with you. And it's not personal. It's all about me.

Although I will say this. Tonight helped me understand that I do still have feelings for you. They're not nice or sweet or reminiscent, they're, well, pained and full of anger. I'm still angry that you sucked so much out of me without regard. I'm still angry at myself that I allowed it all to happen. I'm still angry that you continue to squander your life away on drugs and escapism. I'm still angry because deep down, I care about you, though it's not love. If it is, I'm not sure what kind. Even though you made me so unhappy, there was a spark somewhere in you that made me choose you at one point. I'm not in love with this memory of you (the way I was when we were together, causing me to constantly chase it), but I acknowledge it. You could've been better than this. Your girlfriend, this girl who probably scorns my existence and doesn't understand that I sympathize with her (even though it's probably more projection than anything else -- I don't know her, she's not me I have to keep telling myself), could be better than this.

But what I understand now is that I am better than this. That is all that matters.

Sunday, 27 December 2009

It's been about...oh, five months since my last entry. I think it's high time for a new one.

Except I don't know what to write about that is new or innovative. I'm still lazy, sloppy, disgruntled, loving, avoidant, unreliable, melodramatic, all of it. I remember when I wrote in my old xanga religiously, and every day felt like a new opportunity or narrative. Now I realize that the narrative is always the same, the characters and scenery just change. But all the archetypes are the same. There's still the boyfriend that stirs up "daddy-issues" (although this one is much nicer than the last one), there's still and will always be "daddy-issues", there's the revolving door of procrastinated priorities and dreams, there's still all the same guilts, hang-ups and follies.

There's still my mother, a fixture that provides much guilt, regret and sadness. There's still me, figuring out how to liberate myself from that vicious cycle. There's still my dad, somewhere, altering his presence from one threatening position to another. Before, it was about doing everything my dad didn't want me to do, and now it's about doing everything he does. I'm still tired and I wish I could sink into that brambly, sickish cloud of depression, just because it's all about easier expectations. But I can't do that anymore, and everything that bothers me now has to be rationalized, figured out, dealt with. It was so much easier to avoid everything. I know it will make me a more evolved human, but golly, is it exhausting.

Anyway, it sounds like it's all about the melodrama, but it's not, I promise. Life is picking up and that's what's of course making it more exhausting, but I know it's all worth it. But little things crawl under my skin and split it into cracks. People's expectations. Physical and mental and emotional frustration. Everything else about the way life's cookies crumbles.

But ohhhh, this Jimi song is making my soul peek out of weary windows. I have to note what this song is called - "My Friend". Music is still the only thing that can draw my mind out of a cloudy day and into a brighter picture. I wish you could bottle the essence of music sometimes, so that it could act as a defensive amulet that protects you from the blues. Even when it is the blues.

I don't know what the fuck I'm talking about, but it feels really good to write, as usual. I really wish I could write more often. I forget its cathartic, healing properties. It's one of those maintenance things I need to really start doing, because honestly, I need to start taking better care of myself. Depression, unhappiness and general world-weariness don't really feel like options anymore. There's all the physical things I need to do, like start being more active and that kind of thing, but I also need to start really focusing on nurturing myself. Not allowing myself to get into big guilt trips and sulky over-analysis. And writing allows me to see the ugly emotions and thoughts I have on paper and deal with them. Rectify them. Conquer them.

Xanga, I've missed you.

Sunday, 05 July 2009

I'm generally disgusted by everything right now.
Once. A long, long time ago, it feels like. You saw me in your old drummer's basement. You descended down the stairs and I looked up, high and giddy and nineteen years old. I guess my high giddy breeziness swept you up, because you walked two more steps into the wall while staring. I laughed. I turned away. Because I noticed the act, not the intent.

Once. A long, long time ago, it feels like. You pretended to get a lot drunker than you were. After a month of neatly trying to pursue me by buying the books I liked and sneaking out of your parents house to hang out with me, you threw subtlety out the window and asked if you could put your head in my lap. I agreed. You asked for a ride home and I gave you one. We sat in the car listening to Silver Jews for an hour and we both felt every pore in our bodies exude energy. Crackling at 2am. Finally I asked for a kiss and you shrank, terrified of how good it would feel. You gave me one. I was terrified of how quickly I knew I wanted nothing else.

Once. A long, long time ago, it feels like. You fed me cups of Fruity Pebbles and cradled me as I sat in a drunken mess. You wrote me songs that you sang from your gut. From onstage, you'd look at me and wink, like we harbored some delicious secret. You held my hand while we spent nights spooned on blankets on your floor. You listened, you heard. You talked, you laughed. You saw "us", not "me". You said you wanted to marry me, and three years ago, that sounded great to me.

Once. Not as long ago. We moved out together. We got two cats, a bunch of cheap IKEA furniture and some pots and pans. No longer teenagers, but domestic citizens. We'd wake up spooning and I'd go to work. You'd go back to sleep. You'd watch TV all day and I'd cook you dinner. You'd promise you'd keep the next job and I believed you. I'd lie and tell my mother I got another speeding ticket just to pay your rent. I'd cry and you'd light another bowl.

Once. Not as long ago. You started to laugh less with me and smoke more. The bills would pile up and I'd forget what it was like to hear the songs you sang for me because you stopped doing it. Instead you made songs that had no words, mechanized chunks of noise that sounded more superficial, but more appealing in your drug-induced states. You saw "you", you didn't see "us". I don't even know if you ever saw "me". You didn't read the books I liked or you liked, you just stared at conspiracy videos on the internet. Antichrist, Allah and the Illuminati. You felt things less and said things more. What you said made less sense.

Once. Not long ago at all. I left you. And left you. And left you again. But it never stuck. Because all I can think about is the damn Fruity Pebbles and the songs and the blankets on the floor even though that was three fucking years ago. And now after all this, we don't live together anymore, our cats are gone, the pots and pans are at my mother's house and you STILL have to sneak out of your parents house to see me. You still say you want to marry me, but it doesn't sound so great anymore. Four years have gone by and fallen into reverse. And I'm still here. And I wonder why everyday.

"Hope can be poison sometimes".

Love can be too.

Monday, 11 August 2008

Well. No matter what I do, I can't seem to get rid of xanga. I am
eternally kicking myself for deleting my old one, the one that detailed
five full years of embarassment and self-professed epiphanies, but. Oh
well. The second one was attempt at something I'm not entirely sure of.
Another expression of myself I guess? No. That doesn't work. It, like
whatever supposed spiritual conversion I was going through, didn't last
long. You always come back to what you are and what you know.
Hence,
the xanga. And not the trendier blogspot. Or even the less
self-conscious alternative, silence. But I don't do well with silence,
I've tried and I need written catharsis. Maybe that's why all my hair's
fallen out over the past months. I've been holding it in.
I guess
for the first time, this xanga is mine and mine only. I don't care if
people stumble across it, but I'm writing because I missed how good it
felt to process ideas and emotions through writing. I missed narrating
and preserving my own history.
Where am I standing in my
own personal history? It's hard to say. Same place, in a slightly
different shade of light. I guess I'm getting used to all the
mistakes and inevitable conflicted situations I fall into because it's
always the same. The emotions still feel fresh when something or
someone goes all deja-vu on me, but at least I know those
emotions fade into a wearier sense of resignation. Is this what
growing up is? I suppose. Growing up is like a leather chair.
Worn, sort of ugly, tattered, but . . . comfortable. Comfortable's
better right?
My writing skills have gone to shit, but I can't
care. I need to unclog my psyche first before worrying about my
adeptness with a language I've neglected for so long.
So.
Here's the sitch. I'm working at a job I hate. I'm trying to go to
culinary school. I'm in love with one of my best friends who can't
decide what he wants. I dumped my leech of a boyfriend of three years.
I'm experiencing something my doctor vaguely refers to as "spontaneous
baldness." My prescription is to relax. I am going through one of those
cycles where I hate all my friends.
And most of all, I have become disturbingly literal.
Poetry
is out the window. In my fingers and my thoughts. I only think about
tangible things. Food and money. Cats and boys. Sleep and alcohol. I
don't feel like a robot, but I function like one.
I went to
Baltimore this weekend and Nicole took me to an Anarchist bookstore
called Red Emmas. And oh, the floodgates opened. Books by people with emotion who were engaged and inspired
by their beliefs and ideals bombarded me and I felt so overwhelmingly
happy for a brief moment. Blase shit that surrounds me everyday fell by
the waistside and I wanted to bury myself in between the lines scrawled
by the Latin American guerilla-poets and the surrealist writers. I want
to be love with something again. I say something and not someone.
Although it would be nice to be in love with someone too. Except I
kinda sorta am. With my friend who'll probably never
reciprocate. But like everything else, these feelings towards said
friend inspire no artistic passion, but rather, itchiness and
frustration. As if love is nothing but a rash and a drag. I want to
stop feeling like everything eventually falls into a state of sturm and
drag.