Currently I feel a biohazard level of anger-acid bubbling away in my tummy. It could also be this fourth cup of coffee, without any food or water. I woke up fighting mad, even though it’s a sunny Monday, with curtains up and coffee brewed. I woke up almost two hours later than I had wanted to, felt anti social, and lonely. S and I spent a pleasant day being fairly unpleasant to each other. He’s been sharp since he went back to work, which I can understand. I’ve been suppressing and exploding in equal measure and generally I’m just feeling toxic. My stress about money, the europe trip, his stress, my weight gain and my fucking application status have been suffocating. I refuse to talk about any of it, because I can’t seem to find a way to do that without being hurtful, or insensitive, or childish so I’m just here trying not to choke.
I had the most wonderful yoga practice yesterday. He was watching a show I don’t love, so I went to lay in bed, thinking I’d read, but that was just making me blue, so I asked myself how I could make myself happy, and got up, set up music, my yoga mat and a candle in my office and closed the door and it was bliss. Stretchy, grateful good times. I can be such a furious force for productivity and movement and change, but when I’m encountered with stuckness, mine or someone else’s, it totally breaks me down, I get worn down by the advice that isn’t wanted or listened to, i get down about my inability to fix it, and all the instability that causes. I hate the instability, I hate the negativity. I’m still a little girl in that my joy and calm are fickle and easily swept away, and I inevitably retreat in the face of that despair. So only alone do I find undisturbed calm, which is just as fragile, but less frequently washed away because I’m good at being alone, better at ignoring my own pain than that of someone I love.
I’m nurturing my own sadness right now, just as he nurtures his stress, and frustration. It’s a human thing to do, but it causes so much unhappiness. I’m not good at forgiving, or forgetting and I’m especially bad at letting things pass unnoticed.
One of the most extraordinary thing about this blog, maybe the only extraordinary thing about this blog, is that it provides an amazing snapshot of exactly where I was emotionally in a given moment. I can reread the words and hear my tone, and recall where I was, who I was loving or hating, wether or not I was exercising, eating well, reading enough. Sometimes this is difficult, because if I’m unwell and I scroll down the page long enough to find a moment of happiness, then I’m even less happy. Those times are not the majority and most of the time I feel grateful looking through these posts. They allow me to measure a paradoxically objective sense of my development as a person. You would think that reading my own words is objectives opposite, but I feel I get a truth about where I was. It’s amazing how much we forget. The specific sting of depression, shame, rage, passion, frustration, impotence fade in time. Leaving only the truly intense bursts of aliveness to resonate fluorescent in the minds eye.
I’ve been letting good ideas slip by me lately. I think them, write them out in my head, but almost consciously delay putting them into writing. I get bored of my narration, and fear the egocentricities I’m sure will come if I’m too indulgent with my inner artist.
That reminds me of an argument I got into with a friend. He drunkenly levelled “you must be a very left brain kinda person, aren’t you?” at me. I didn’t say anything particularly clever back but it’s been bouncing around in my brain for a few weeks. The general gist of what he was saying was that I’m a reasonable person. I make lists and mostly make responsible decisions, that I’ve grown up. Peter Pan has ordered me off of never never land. He meant it as an insult.
He’s right. I only lose control when that’s exactly what I mean to do. I can remember when I cured myself of that abandon. The imitation leather coffee table scattered with cigarettes, little baggies, cards, lines of white powder, a rolled twenty dollar bill. I can remember the coke pressing through the booze, making my hands go cold, and every inch of my face numb. I can remember feeling the air get thicker, and the room get quieter although I sat cross legged between people laughing and talking. The panic set in pretty slowly, which is unnerving, as nothing seems to happen slowly when you’re that high. I kept going, taking my turn as it came, until my heart hammered in my ears, and I couldn’t get warm. My companions kept going until all the coke was gone, but at some point I had wandered off, to lay under my blankets, hoping to silence the sharp sound of drugs being pulled into someones sinuses, the only words making it through “We’re going to die, We’re going to die, We’re going to die.” Slept only took me sometime that afternoon when our guests had left, and I had a warm body to cling to. It took days to feel normal again, and I never really did after that, feel normal. One foot always stayed planted, even though the world around me kept going as it always had. I was now afraid of dying. Wether that said that I cherished life more or less, I’m still not sure.
That all said, I’m so much better than I was 6 months ago, better than a year ago. Maybe a little more tame, maybe a little more scared, but a little less sad, and maybe a little less dead inside.
The most calming thing you can do in the middle of an anxiety attack is place your palm over your own heart, or someone else’s if they happen to be near enough. The simple act of reminding yourself that you’re a living, breathing thing with blood pumping throughout the…
I’m constantly hungry these days. I eat until I feel sick. I’m tired. Tired, panicked, bordering on sad, a little lonely. I’m scared of succeeding as much as I am of failing this exam. All the change that will hinge of this success, and the successful entrance into the program. My inner yearnings are all childish right now. I want to be taken care of, read to, I want to have hands playing in my hair, I want to be entertained and to be coddled. I want someone to act like the very little that I’m doing compared to someone with a full course load is a “big” deal, because it feels big. It feels like so much more work than I’ve ever done for my education. If it didn’t come easy to me I didn’t do it. I don’t want to be that way anymore. I want to put time and effort into things and see the fruits of my effort and organization. I want to become a runner. I want to slip out of bed while my boyfriend’s warm body dozes and see things that I wouldn’t have seen, and go on little mini adventures all in the silence of my mind. I want to be the product of a regular meditation practice.
I want to keep laughing with my man. Lately, without any effort, i’ve been laughing more at home. He bugs me, we laugh about it. I act foolishly, we laugh about it. We make jokes, we laugh. I carry around this little packet of love that flutters and wriggles when ever I think about him. I’m even slowly getting out of my habit of assuming a huge fight means that we’re terribly wrong for each other and that we’re heading for heartbreak. Somehow it seems like just a fight, one that feels yucky, but that will pass. In that feeling, I’m able to hold my tongue a little bit longer.. never quite reaching that apocalypse level of anger that leaves us reaching to take our words back as they fall from our mouths. It’s really nice. I like it. I like him, more than I ever have before.
If I’m clear about what’s wrong, its just that I haven’t slept enough, and my system is overwhelmed. I have an immensely productive day, and I now need to let it be over. My restlessness is a funny bug though.
studying makes me horny. so does fresh dark red nail polish. Candlelit showers, and time alone also make me horny. Exercise makes me horny, moving sweetly to a sound deeply focused sweating, makes me horny. The muffled streets after a snowfall, the world in quiet contemplation make me horny.
sometimes i just want to get into my body, get into the universe and let go in a chorus of breath and sweat and skin and rage and salt and nothingness and goosebumps and tenderness. Be a human of freckles and creases, muscles and sinew, hair and smell and fickleness and flaws. I want to be in pain, i want to be made vulnerable and fed trust from a severe hand, i want to be powerless and in that weakness have the united power of all beings and all things all spirit passing through body as I forget my self, and remember all the little bits and pieces of humanity that I separate myself from everyday, to make an “I” where I could have had a “We”.
Sometimes the only way I can close the divide that I have re-inforced every day of my life with a humans selfish drive for individual merit and pleasure is to fuck. Is to share all that is raw and beautiful about being alive wordlessly. As one might in death, or birth.
How To Tell If Somebody Loves You:
Somebody loves you if they pick an eyelash off of your face or wet a napkin and apply it to your dirty skin. You didn’t ask for these things, but this person went ahead and did it anyway. They don’t want to see you looking like a fool with eyelashes and crumbs on your face. They notice these things. They really look at you and are the first to notice if something is amiss with your beautiful visage!
Somebody loves you if they assume the role of caretaker when you’re sick. Unsure if someone really gives a shit about you? Fake a case of food poisoning and text them being like, “oh my god, so sick. need water.” Depending on their response, you’ll know whether or not they REALLY love you. “That’s terrible. Feel better!” earns you a stay in friendship jail; “Do you need anything? I can come over and bring you get well remedies!” gets you a cozy friendship suite. It’s easy to care about someone when they don’t need you. It’s easy to love them when they’re healthy and don’t ask you for anything beyond change for the parking meter. Being sick is different. Being sick means asking someone to hold your hair back when you vomit. Either love me with vomit in my hair or don’t love me at all.
Somebody loves you if they call you out on your bullshit. They’re not passive, they don’t just let you get away with murder. They know you well enough and care about you enough to ask you to chill out, to bust your balls, to tell you to stop. They aren’t passive observers in your life, they are in the trenches. They have an opinion about your decisions and the things you say and do. They want to be a part of it; they want to be a part of you.
Somebody loves you if they don’t mind the quiet. They don’t mind running errands with you or cleaning your apartment while blasting some annoying music. There’s no pressure, no need to fill the silences. You know how with some of your friends there needs to be some sort of activity for you to hang out? You don’t feel comfortable just shooting the shit and watching bad reality TV with them. You need something that will keep the both of you busy to ensure there won’t be a void. That’s not love. That’s “hey babe! i like you okay. do you wanna grab lunch? i think we have enough to talk about to fill two hours!” It’s a damn dream when you find someone you can do nothing with. Whether you’re skydiving together or sitting at home and doing different things, it’s always comfortable. That is fucking love.
Somebody loves you if they want you to be happy, even if that involves something that doesn’t benefit them. They realize the things you need to do in order to be content and come to terms with the fact that it might not include them. Never underestimate the gift of understanding. When there are so many people who are selfish and equate relationships as something that only must make them happy, having someone around who can take their needs out of any given situation if they need to.
Somebody loves you if they can order you food without having to be told what you want. Somebody loves you if they rub your back at any given moment. Somebody loves you if they give you oral sex without expecting anything back. Somebody loves you if they don’t care about your job or how much money you make. It’s a relationship where no one is selling something to the other. No one is the prostitute. Somebody loves you if they’ll watch a movie starring Kate Hudson because you really really want to see it. Somebody loves you if they’re able to create their own separate world with you, away from the internet and your job and family and friends. Just you and them.
Somebody will always love you. If you don’t think this is true, then you’re not paying close enough attention.