Don't You Want to Share the Guilt?

When you are involved and he belongs to someone else,

your self becomes less of a self.

You only get fragments.

At first they're the good parts:

excitement and giddiness,

until confusion seeps in, and confessions pour out

and then you get the sad parts and the mad parts.

All the while you're constructing yourself as an image,

spending hours creating an idea

made of lipstick and moisturizer and deep-conditioned ends,

so when he shows up -- late,

if he shows up --

you can smile and sympathetically nod,
offer yourself as affirmation,

until he exhausts himself of complaints

and you reach out to touch his arm

and provide a different way for him to exhaust himself.
This is what validates you.

And he pants

and he begs

and he whines,

and he's so much like an animal

he makes all men animals.

It is guilt

and control.

You torture yourself with pictures of his "real life",

consoling yourself with whatever flaws you can find to tear it apart --

she has man lips --

as if that's some sort of a sin she should be punished for.

As if you're entitled to do the punishing.

You are appearance.
He is not interested in insightful or profound,
so you dilute yourself,
hollow yourself out,
tightly contain everything you,
because he might get annoyed.

You don't get a whole person.
You are not a whole person,
You don't deserve a whole person.

He leaves over and over and over --
because you tried to be a real person,
you demanded attention that you didn't deserve,
you used the word 'feelings' --
but he always comes back,
pleading, insisting that he needs you.
This makes you feel secure.

You know it's only you because you're there,
but you like his reason better.

He gets to disappear
and leave you to contend with
all the ugly little pieces.

The Longer I Lay Here

   Two posts in one day? Talk about narcissism! But seriously people, shit's about to get real.

   I just had a long conversation with Johnny, who you may or may not remember and are welcome to catch up on here. He and I have fallen out of touch with each other, due to time, distance and the awkward stiff exchanges that have developed in their wake. It's often easier to let things fall by the wayside, to succumb to the seeming inevitability of drifting. Until today, when he pissed me off.
   I posted a dreamy facebook status about the romance of youth and letting the world break your heart, and he responded with a snarky psychoanalysis, claiming I was projecting frustration I felt with my own apathy onto the rest of the world. I responded with a sarcastic thank you for his insights, and forced myself not to send him a text message demanding that he never dare psychoanalyze me ever again, for fear of death or whatever.
   Tonight I saw him on facebook chat and decided to make a joke of it, asking very sarcastically when his interest in psychoanalysis had developed. He responded sincerely, the bitter undercurrent evidently (and fortunately) having been swallowed whole by the internet, explaining that it was an ongoing process, "sparked by the fire of self-discovery." Driven by his sincerity, I told him I was in the process of redefining my own identity and trying to overcome my fears of intimacy and communication through breaking down my mental barriers, but that it was still in its infancy and I wasn't sure "which barriers were appropriate." He responded with: "You are awesome. Honestly. I'm so glad we can talk like this and I want to support you any way I can." This led to an hour and a half of confessional honesty, a baring of egos and self-inflicted obstacles on relationships and the construction of self-images and the limits of our very similarly contained selves.
   The conversation ended with an agreement for another later in the week. Whether it will happen or not- your guess is as good as mine. Either way, I'm happy and nervous that I overcame a little bit of myself tonight. And that's one of the best things I've been able to say to myself in months.

Tell Me in the Morning

   The Weekend That Shall Forever After Be (Kind of) Remembered as The Birthday Bender


   I got drunk Friday at noon, and basically stayed that way until Sunday morning. It was the most exhausting weekend of my life.
     We spent Friday afternoon talking to the most country bartender ever, who told me about "an article" he read that was talking about sexting, explaining that there are vibrating devices your phone hooks up to that you put between your legs that are signaled every time you receive a text. The ride home was spent laughing with Sister #3, who turned 31 Friday, about how how grossly misinformed he was.
     "I wanted to be like- you have OBVIOUSLY never sexted" I gasped.
     "I know, seriously! Because THAT IS NOT WHAT HAPPENS!" she added, equally hysterical.

   Saturday we went on a Pub crawl. Bobby came along and I got so wasted that at one point I actually pointed to him and yelled to my cousin, who has read my blog via my Twitter account, "THIS IS BOBBY MCGEE! THAT'S HIM!" (Note: When you are drunk enough that you TALK ABOUT YOUR OWN BLOG, you should have stopped drinking at least an hour ago. And that wasn't even where it ended.) There was also a sing-along, which was super awesome, and at one point we talked about Pink Floyd and I insisted repeatedly that The Wall album "gets me on a level that no person EVER will. EVER. EVER." Which was true when I was fifteen. Not as much anymore.

   Then I went to Girls Night with several of my friends where I rambled nonsense and told them over and over "I broke my phone and I DON'T EVEN CARE!" 

   I dropped my phone hard enough to destroy the screen, and now I kind of do care about that. I also spilled an entire drink in my lap. I hold my liquor really, really well. Anyone want to party?

Maybe I'm Just Tired

Sometimes I miss you to the bone

in a way that keeps me up at night

you used to keep me up at night,

with your pleading and your laughing and the guilt-ridden, empty promises

you forgot to take with you

when you disappeared.

i finally shut you out

but my mind let you back in

while i was sleeping.

Waking Up and Walking Out

     For the past week I've been writing an entry in my head, a sprawling ode to self-discovery and the self-awareness I've been bathing in, a hard-earned and much-needed achievement after about a year and a half of drowning in a sea of purposelessness and lack of of identity. It's still a process, but I finally feel like I'm in motion.

   19 was a bad year for me, and 20 has been better, but hasn't been spectacular, to be honest. My last semester away at school, happening when I first started this blog, was brutal. I spent sixteen weeks anxiety-ridden and desperately lonely, fearful to leave my room, refusing to eat for days at a time. Most of the time I lay in bed, deriving a sad, singular sense of power from the hunger that spread through my limbs and settled there. I spent hours in front of the mirror, analyzing every inch of my body, determining what needed to be smaller and calculated the exact caloric content of everything I put in my mouth. I felt instantly rejected by every person I encountered, despite the fact that I almost never made any attempt to interact with anyone. The happiness I had was in Bobby and Mr. Fantasy. Bobby, being 3 months younger and, due to the times of our birthdays, a school year behind me, was away at his first semester in college. He was the first person I talked to when I woke up in the morning, and we maintained contact until one or both of us went to bed, he amusing and sustaining me with anecdotes and questions, giving me a sense of purpose and security at a time when I was totally without either. Mr. Fantasy kept me occupied in the evenings, his attention supplying me with scraps of confidence that I absorbed like a sponge. Every time I left my dorm room, panic swelled so powerfully inside of me that I could barely stop myself from shaking. I felt disconnected from everything, like I could drift away into nothingness, and no one would notice. When my sister, hearing my complaints about being bored and lonely, suggested I transfer home, it was like suddenly there was possibility again. I did the paperwork, packed and fled in a manic state of grief and fear and relief and regret.

   If school was floating, home was drowning. I sank into myself, feeling the bitter weight of my failures. Mr. Fantasy disappeared, unsurprisingly breaking the promises he'd spent the past four months making. When Bobby introduced me to his friends from school, I spent the afternoon paralyzed, begrudging his freedom and happiness, resentful of these strangers he had built a life with. I felt like I didn't belong anywhere. I was nervous, uncomfortable and frenziedly defensive. His life was just beginning, and mine was ending. I was angry with myself. I wasn't able to recognize or understand this, so I instead began searching for things to hold against him. I found them, and spent the next several weeks repeatedly thrusting them at him urgently, forcing him to apologize for innocuous statements and behaviors. He did so confusedly at first, and then with resistance, and then he finally pushed back. I withdrew completely, telling myself over and over and over again that he had committed some terrible wrong, though not bothering to invent what it had been. I was afraid at how much I had depended on him the semester before, terrified at the feeling that I needed him to get through the day.

   I spent the next nine months in miserable excess. I traded my dorm room's bed for the couch in front of the television, and ate until I felt sick, trying to consume my own grief or fill the sheer emptiness inside of me, take your pick. I hid from the mirror, catching glimpses of myself only in pictures, and being overwhelmed with disgust. I felt totally powerless. Mr. Fantasy started dating someone new. I tried not to think about it. I reconnected with Bobby, and there was awkwardness as we struggled to rebuild the relationship I had decimated. Spring ended. Mr. Fantasy proposed to his girlfriend. Summer ended.

   School and work started and I was too busy to think. I replaced meals with coffee and started hating the mirror less. Fall semester wasn't fun. I went to school all day and worked long shifts. I requested a Saturday off and Bobby came home. We went out to lunch and exploring in a park. I remembered what it felt like to be happy. That was a good day. I got the nerve to demand a day off per week. I felt like I could breathe again. Fall ended.

   Winter. Two new nieces were born. Another baby is expected in May. I'm not sure where I am now. Putting the pieces together. This semester is better. I've accumulated enough credits to graduate on time, which will be a year from now, and then I can go anywhere for my Master's. I like my classes. They're challenging and interesting. They're giving me answers to questions I've had about the world for my whole life. I've been forcing myself to look ahead when I walk, rather than at the floor. I'm searching for ways to validate myself that don't involve male attention, though I'm not sure yet what they'll be. I'm dancing as I get dressed in the morning. It's the little things, right?

A Half-Assed Post Full of Pictures Because I Missed You Guys

   I've been a terrible blogger. I'm sorry. I'm hoping to be back more often. Here's what you've been missing:

Esther moved to Florida for school. 

I miss her a lot but I'm super happy and excited for her.

I had my Annual Christmas party. This is Bobby & me posing with Santa.

Everyone said it was the best one yet, but I thought it kinda sucked. For some reason I was super uptight and kept turning the music down and making everyone use coasters. I think the problem was that I stopped drinking after like a half hour, when I clearly should have done like sixteen shots and cried or something. Ew, am I growing up or something?

Me & a lady I like at a Christmas party where she's dressed like snow & I'm the Virgin Mary.

I drank way too much, came home and threw up on the living room floor. I got mad class, yo.
(Guess I don't have to worry about that "growing up" thing I referred to back there, eh?)

New Year's Eve I wore a gold sequin sheath dress and a bird mask. 

I'm here with Bobby's sister, who is the most beautiful and coolest chick of all time.

We started drinking at 2pm. By 3:30 there were costumes and dancing. Somehow I ended up with the clown, which is so fucked up and not okay at all.

Happy New Year!

Love and Some Verses

   My last remaining grandparent- my father's mother- died Friday night. She was in the hospital for a week beforehand, drifting in and out of consciousness, shifting restlessly, occasionally crying out to ask where her husband was- my grandfather, who died two weeks before my ninth birthday-  and when he was going to arrive. I spent that final week with her exclusively through secondhand accounts, trying to limit my intake of updates, forcing out the impulse to live vicariously through my father, the oldest of her six children, who wandered through the house, quiet and misty-eyed, physically present, but mentally a million other places. I found myself wondering every time he entered a room: Where is he now? Is he three, and screaming, demanding her attention? Is he eleven, ice skating in the backyard, waiting for a cup of hot chocolate? Maybe he's sixteen and sliding out from underneath the body of a car, begrudgingly fulfilling her request that he clean himself up before dinner. Hoping he wasn't in the hospital with her, I silently begged his memory to stretch out beyond the immediate, to lull him back to the comfort of her now-absent maternity.
   I couldn't stomach the wake. I walked into the funeral home silently repeating my mantra of detachment and distance from reality. I looked through the pictures, noticing I wasn't in any. I shrugged it off, rolled my eyes at the exclusion; it meant nothing. Pulling my jacket closed, I entered the room full of family members. I noticed my father at the casket, and felt my throat begin to close. I made eye contact with a cousin, felt my eyes begin to fill and gasped "I just need...I'll..." and stumbled backwards out the door where I pressed myself against the wall and felt my composure crumble. I raced to the car and fell apart.
   The funeral was easier. I concentrated on keeping my composure, and managed to, aside from a few stray tears. Eagle's Wings gets me every time, you guys! I can't help myself.
   It was the first time I'd been to church in over two years. I examined the pews and the altar with a sense of nostalgia, infused with a mild amusement. Mass seemed kitsch in a way I had never noticed before.
   Religion is too big. My mind has no room for it. I have a distinct aversion to anything that could swallow me whole like that.
   My grandmother was lovely and sweet. I won't say a single prayer, but I'll keep her wrapped up tight in my heart forever. That's all I've got. It's the best I can do.