Sometimes I lose my shit. I don't mean I misplace my possessions (though I do an awful lot of that too.) I mean I lose. my. shit. I freak the fuck out, complete with full-scale stuttering and hyperventilating.
I did this today. One minute I'm grouchy that I was woken up mid-nap to go to belly dancing, (I have a Shakira complex), the next I'm sitting alone in a parking lot, mumbling incomprehensibly through sobs to my Mother on the telephone, who is very sympathetically telling me she hasn't caught a single word. "Nevermind!" I exclaim, frustrated, hanging up. As a car pulls up next to me, I curse the extended daylight hours I look forward to all winter long for making me vulnerable to this stranger. I'm not the type of girl who cries in public. I reach in the back seat and pretend to search through a bag, trying to look as if I'm doing anything other than having a complete mental and emotional breakdown by myself in the parking lot of a dance studio.
Thought process: Exhausted, annoyed, apprehensive. I feel stress building. There's no other thing I can easily focus on, I'm too present in this experience. I need to remove myself mentally from this. As I swallow my grievances, I suddenly see the inside of my head.
I'm watching every bad feeling, every negative thought I have, You don't seem to feel that my time is of any value whatsoever, falling down my throat, You will never be the man I want you to be, and softening inside me. I love you so much sometimes, and other times I think we're both selfish assholes who return to each other out of boredom and convenience. I literally see myself internalizing my fears and frustrations. But if you don't love me at all, what the hell are you doing here? And if I don't love you, why have I thought about you every day for the past four years? Even when we're apart, you're such a part of my life, of my head, of my waking up and going to sleep every day. "Do you think about me when we're not together?" I asked, fearfully, one night when I felt our relationship was secure enough to sustain honest discourse. "Sometimes," you said reassuringly, insistingly, as if that was supposed to please me. "Sometimes isn't enough," I wanted to protest. Of course I didn't. I just fought my facial features into remaining expressionless until the instinct to frown was suppressed. I watch my bold, sharp words, vivid red with anger and passion and honesty smoothly dull at the edges, turn blue and then dissolve as I stifle them with detachment. This is my coping mechanism with bad things; I withdraw, retreat into myself and smother them until they're gone.
Plus, today after reading an account of a toddler's mental scheme of a cat: small, warm, furry, soft, I became obsessed with adopting a kitten. (Admittedly, this is probably a pacifying replacement for my completely irrational desire to fast forward the next five years of my life, get married and have six babies.) But then my parents, who I am genuinely enjoying living with, dismissed the idea. I tried to accept the decision like the rational person I am, but hours later when my mother made a joke about it, I could barely control my absurdly emotional reaction. I know I never had him, but I feel like you're taking him away from me, I wanted to plead. I imagined him and it was like he was real, and I wanted to feed him a saucer of milk and introduce him to my niece and play in the yard with him. But I swallowed the plea, sent it inside to soften, turn cold and disappear with all the other things I want to say but never do.
So, today was trying, from start to finish. But it's over and tomorrow, as always, is full of possibilities.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Morning Yearning
I've been going through old diaries on and off for the past week or so. It's enlightening. If you have some, I recommend it, but consider yourself warned; it's tumultuous. Everything seems so different in retrospect; the tragedies seem trivial, funny, while the triumphs break my heart a little.
Anyway, it's interesting because my life has not become what I envisioned at age sixteen. (Does anyone's?) This isn't upsetting so much as...like waking up? Not in any traditional symbolic rude awakening sense; it's been more of a late morning, where my eyes open slowly, contently, ready to regain consciousness. I frequently convince myself of things that make my life simpler; that I am cold, independent and indestructible to the core. And that I always have been. The vulnerability exhibited so openly and honestly in my accounts of youth are unsettling.
My sixteen year old imagined account of my future goes something like this:
Anyway, it's interesting because my life has not become what I envisioned at age sixteen. (Does anyone's?) This isn't upsetting so much as...like waking up? Not in any traditional symbolic rude awakening sense; it's been more of a late morning, where my eyes open slowly, contently, ready to regain consciousness. I frequently convince myself of things that make my life simpler; that I am cold, independent and indestructible to the core. And that I always have been. The vulnerability exhibited so openly and honestly in my accounts of youth are unsettling.
My sixteen year old imagined account of my future goes something like this:
i sprawl out to cover the part of the bed you just left.
it's warm and still smells like you.
i inhale deeply, to fill myself with you.
to others this could feel lonely,
but i'm surrounded in the silent promises
you flood throughout my room,
you flood throughout my room,
even in your absence.
i'm so in love with them. with you.
you are grace.
you are bliss.
you are love.
and after a while in silence,
i drift back to sleep with the quiet remnants of you
i drift back to sleep with the quiet remnants of you
on my sheets being gradually embedded within me,
joining the other traces of you
that live underneath my skin and flow through my veins.
(I didn't believe in capital letters when I was sixteen.)
The reality? Keeping in the context of the situation:
I hate taking showers
when I'm dizzy and I might throw up.
I should have drunk more water last night.
I just barely remember
sneaking out of bed
to put on makeup
before waking you up
and telling you to leave.
After this
I will tear the blankets off my bed,
stumble downstairs,
and shove them in the washing machine,
hoping to rid them
of your smell
and your skin cells.
Monday, March 1, 2010
A Spoonful Weighs a Ton
"You're a jerk."
"Sorry, I always forget how sensitive you are. I was only joking."
"Whatever."
I'm doing my best not to feel bad, because you don't get to make me the bad one. You're not allowed to traipse back in at your leisure and suddenly be the victim. I'm leaving it there because it's already too far. What is with our mutual insistence on bludgeoning our relationship to death over and over and over and over again? Can't we just let it die in peace?
"Sorry, I always forget how sensitive you are. I was only joking."
"Whatever."
I'm doing my best not to feel bad, because you don't get to make me the bad one. You're not allowed to traipse back in at your leisure and suddenly be the victim. I'm leaving it there because it's already too far. What is with our mutual insistence on bludgeoning our relationship to death over and over and over and over again? Can't we just let it die in peace?
The Thin Ice
March! Already?!
As an angst-ridden teenager, I hated winter. I spent the entire season miserable, waning in my listless lamentations. I dreaded it annually, making charts and lists to count days until it would end. Around 17, when the all-consuming haze of adolescence at last began to dissipate, however gradually, I resigned myself to the inevitability of the season, which in Western New York, lasts about six months of the year. I resolved to find something about winter to excite me.
The season takes a lot from me. I seek vitality from the world around me. I absorb bleakness and melancholy from winter's harshness. Until I get excited about fashion.
For me, the desolation of winter is not overcome, but celebrated, through adorning the season in ruffles, feathers and sequins (though not all at once, mind you- wouldn't want to look tacky.) Winter becomes an image of deep-colored velvet, cascading satin and clinging lace, red lips, garter belts and thigh highs. My winter fantasies are rich with dark color, bold accents, a perfect balance of soft, floating fabrics with the rigid, structured stiffness of inflexible articles.
I've always had the mentality that fashion is whatever I can get away with. At times, admittedly, this has led me in the wrong direction; off-the-shoulder transparent silk-blend floral shirts, trimmed in satin, draping mustard yellow tops designed for obese grandmothers, black lace tank tops over red and white striped Where's Waldo shirts- I have made some interesting choices, to say the least. As embarrassing as the photographic proof is, I still feel a twinge of pride at the reminder that I never tried to fit in. Winter, to me, is the ultimate season of fashion; I see it as a dare. I revel in the unbounded opportunity for self-expression.
As the season begins to draw to a close, the thought of switching out my wardrobes has started to make me nervous. Brief explanation for those unfamiliar with my obsessive compulsions or the inside of my closet: I have a wardrobe for each of the four seasons. The season of a piece is determined firstly by fabric, then color. It's mostly common sense, but I have some rules that have been dubbed idiosyncratic. I follow the widely ignored rule that white is only to be worn from Memorial Day through Labor Day- a large part of what makes it so special and gorgeous. I reserve colors like orange, brown and mustard yellow for Autumn, pastels dominate in Springtime- etc. I think this is normal, but am repeatedly reminded by my Little One, among others, that it is not. The idea of putting away the decadence, the extravagance of my personal Winter has me a little on edge. Rather than anticipation, I feel a minor sort of dread, a certain shallowness of breath.
Then I think of what's coming; the glorious return of the sun's rays, tulips and daffodils at first peeking, and then bursting forth from the ground, the dizzying euphoria of nature's triumphant rebirth. And then: the fragrant twilight of summer, the long, clement days of alternating between soaking up the sunshine and seeking refuge in the shade of leafy green trees. Floating aimlessly down the river, dreamily running my hands through the water as it rushes by, feeling its cool comfort as it runs over me. Watching storms from porches, driving with the windows down, feeling the breeze tangle my already-messy hair. Sitting in circles around outside fires, Corona with a slice of lime, picnics, naps in the hammock in the back yard.
Time always makes me nervous, but only when I forget how fucking beautiful every single thing has the potential to be.
So, Winter, we're still together, but Springtime is coming and I won't have a choice. Before we know it, I'll be back in velvet dresses and hair combs, freezing my toes as I slide through the ice to the car. But until then, I think I'll enjoy our time apart. I have three separate seasons to revel in before our reunion, and I have every intention to do so to the fullest.
*** Fashion isn't the ONLY thing I like about winter. I also enjoy snow shoeing, cross country skiing and hot tubbing during snow storms. Fashion's just my favorite part and what I generally devote the most time and energy to thinking about/planning. ***
As an angst-ridden teenager, I hated winter. I spent the entire season miserable, waning in my listless lamentations. I dreaded it annually, making charts and lists to count days until it would end. Around 17, when the all-consuming haze of adolescence at last began to dissipate, however gradually, I resigned myself to the inevitability of the season, which in Western New York, lasts about six months of the year. I resolved to find something about winter to excite me.
The season takes a lot from me. I seek vitality from the world around me. I absorb bleakness and melancholy from winter's harshness. Until I get excited about fashion.
For me, the desolation of winter is not overcome, but celebrated, through adorning the season in ruffles, feathers and sequins (though not all at once, mind you- wouldn't want to look tacky.) Winter becomes an image of deep-colored velvet, cascading satin and clinging lace, red lips, garter belts and thigh highs. My winter fantasies are rich with dark color, bold accents, a perfect balance of soft, floating fabrics with the rigid, structured stiffness of inflexible articles.
I've always had the mentality that fashion is whatever I can get away with. At times, admittedly, this has led me in the wrong direction; off-the-shoulder transparent silk-blend floral shirts, trimmed in satin, draping mustard yellow tops designed for obese grandmothers, black lace tank tops over red and white striped Where's Waldo shirts- I have made some interesting choices, to say the least. As embarrassing as the photographic proof is, I still feel a twinge of pride at the reminder that I never tried to fit in. Winter, to me, is the ultimate season of fashion; I see it as a dare. I revel in the unbounded opportunity for self-expression.
As the season begins to draw to a close, the thought of switching out my wardrobes has started to make me nervous. Brief explanation for those unfamiliar with my obsessive compulsions or the inside of my closet: I have a wardrobe for each of the four seasons. The season of a piece is determined firstly by fabric, then color. It's mostly common sense, but I have some rules that have been dubbed idiosyncratic. I follow the widely ignored rule that white is only to be worn from Memorial Day through Labor Day- a large part of what makes it so special and gorgeous. I reserve colors like orange, brown and mustard yellow for Autumn, pastels dominate in Springtime- etc. I think this is normal, but am repeatedly reminded by my Little One, among others, that it is not. The idea of putting away the decadence, the extravagance of my personal Winter has me a little on edge. Rather than anticipation, I feel a minor sort of dread, a certain shallowness of breath.
Then I think of what's coming; the glorious return of the sun's rays, tulips and daffodils at first peeking, and then bursting forth from the ground, the dizzying euphoria of nature's triumphant rebirth. And then: the fragrant twilight of summer, the long, clement days of alternating between soaking up the sunshine and seeking refuge in the shade of leafy green trees. Floating aimlessly down the river, dreamily running my hands through the water as it rushes by, feeling its cool comfort as it runs over me. Watching storms from porches, driving with the windows down, feeling the breeze tangle my already-messy hair. Sitting in circles around outside fires, Corona with a slice of lime, picnics, naps in the hammock in the back yard.
Time always makes me nervous, but only when I forget how fucking beautiful every single thing has the potential to be.
So, Winter, we're still together, but Springtime is coming and I won't have a choice. Before we know it, I'll be back in velvet dresses and hair combs, freezing my toes as I slide through the ice to the car. But until then, I think I'll enjoy our time apart. I have three separate seasons to revel in before our reunion, and I have every intention to do so to the fullest.
*** Fashion isn't the ONLY thing I like about winter. I also enjoy snow shoeing, cross country skiing and hot tubbing during snow storms. Fashion's just my favorite part and what I generally devote the most time and energy to thinking about/planning. ***
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Lesson Learned
Every. Single. Time. I write you off for good you come surging back, wide eyed and smiling, to coerce me back into us. I'm finished believing you and desperately hoping you'll finally stay for good. Sometimes fantasies need to be dissolved and history dispelled to make room for possibility.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Somewhere a Clock is Ticking
As previously detailed, there has been much tension and discord lately between Me & Bobby McGee. (I'll admit it, I've been waiting on the edge of my seat- Seat? Have I ever blogged from anywhere besides my bed? Absolutely not. There has to be a better way to phrase that- since the moment I started this blog to use the last four words of that sentence in that order.) We seem to be on opposite apology schedules, each of us forgoing stubbornness and reaching out only moments after the other's windows for sympathy and forgiveness have closed. I don't generally think much about it- I tend to ignore things that have a possibility of painful or awkward confrontation in hopes they will miraculously solve themselves without my help- with the exception of a couple of apologetic drunk dials and random texts about Liz Lemon.
I also told you I moved back home but haven't exactly provided an abundance of details on how it's going. I've noticed that's a problem I have- I treat my blog like it's a personal celebration of my love of the English language that's happening inside my head. I'm cryptic and I use way too many words. I've been meaning to explain my tendency to phrase things as confusingly as possible for months now and haven't gotten around to it. I will, I promise!
Mr. Fantasy (who, retrospectively, should maybe have been called Friend of the Devil) has naturally resumed his infamous disappearing act- his all-time favorite trick- which he proudly performs immediately upon successfully rebuilding our relationship every single fucking time. I've mostly recovered, though I'm still occasionally overcome with the desire to slam his head into the wall, and may daydream about him having to watch me fall madly in love with a biracial, green-eyed, bearded, mountain-climbing physics major, with a cool name like Tyrese or Tafik who wears impeccably tailored jeans with suit jackets and ties and never falls asleep when he's supposed to call me or forgets my annual Christmas party he promised he'd go to that I reminded him a million times about or goes on nhl.com to check the score of the Bruins game while he's supposed to be listening dutifully to every word I say. Like I said, that's only an occasional (though, yes, incredibly specific) idea I hardly ever think of. Roughly every time he updates his facebook status?
Anyway, upon the realization that our relationship bore similarities to the disaster that is Audrina Patridge and Justin Bobby I decided that enough is enough is enough! When he reappears, his calls can go straight to voice mail. And I'm hoping this time I mean it?
Living with my parents is nice, although I have zero motivation to do anything except lie on the couch and eat chocolates all day and it's unfortunately starting to become obvious in the ever-expanding size of my ass. Plus going to school part time, being unemployed, single, living with your Mom and Dad and not having a car at 19 is more fail than I'm comfortable with. I'm working on it, people! Right after this episode of "What Not To Wear" and this giant bag of cashews. Nuts are healthy, right? Hey, there are nuts in the Snickers too!
I also told you I moved back home but haven't exactly provided an abundance of details on how it's going. I've noticed that's a problem I have- I treat my blog like it's a personal celebration of my love of the English language that's happening inside my head. I'm cryptic and I use way too many words. I've been meaning to explain my tendency to phrase things as confusingly as possible for months now and haven't gotten around to it. I will, I promise!
Mr. Fantasy (who, retrospectively, should maybe have been called Friend of the Devil) has naturally resumed his infamous disappearing act- his all-time favorite trick- which he proudly performs immediately upon successfully rebuilding our relationship every single fucking time. I've mostly recovered, though I'm still occasionally overcome with the desire to slam his head into the wall, and may daydream about him having to watch me fall madly in love with a biracial, green-eyed, bearded, mountain-climbing physics major, with a cool name like Tyrese or Tafik who wears impeccably tailored jeans with suit jackets and ties and never falls asleep when he's supposed to call me or forgets my annual Christmas party he promised he'd go to that I reminded him a million times about or goes on nhl.com to check the score of the Bruins game while he's supposed to be listening dutifully to every word I say. Like I said, that's only an occasional (though, yes, incredibly specific) idea I hardly ever think of. Roughly every time he updates his facebook status?
Anyway, upon the realization that our relationship bore similarities to the disaster that is Audrina Patridge and Justin Bobby I decided that enough is enough is enough! When he reappears, his calls can go straight to voice mail. And I'm hoping this time I mean it?
Living with my parents is nice, although I have zero motivation to do anything except lie on the couch and eat chocolates all day and it's unfortunately starting to become obvious in the ever-expanding size of my ass. Plus going to school part time, being unemployed, single, living with your Mom and Dad and not having a car at 19 is more fail than I'm comfortable with. I'm working on it, people! Right after this episode of "What Not To Wear" and this giant bag of cashews. Nuts are healthy, right? Hey, there are nuts in the Snickers too!
Monday, February 8, 2010
Modern Romance
How is it possible to have so many fucking contradictory thoughts that you mean wholly, 100% at the same time? It's like I'm so many different people that I can barely keep my sentences straight.
I want to be that normal, emotionally available girl who doesn't throw up in her mouth when her romantic daydreams come true.
I'm only interested in love if it comes with complete control.
I want to be that normal, emotionally available girl who doesn't throw up in her mouth when her romantic daydreams come true.
I'm only interested in love if it comes with complete control.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
