Looking at the world from the bottom of a storm drain February 9, 2010

I’m sitting in a coffee shop directly across from the store where, standing in the dark, swirling night, we touched for the very first time, lips to lips, hand to hand, heart to heart. Where I was certain that I was in love with you, and pretty sure you were in love with me.

Staring at skateboards and trendy t-shirts, we embraced, and the whole world stopped as I looked into your eyes and just knew. We had the future in the palm of our clasped hands, and cupid laid out a perfect, if long, road for us.

Until.

Until we split apart, destroyed by emotions, loving each other so much that we collapsed, we couldn’t handle it any more, too blind to know how to take care of each other any longer. Too afraid, too tired, too much.

I think about you everyday, although I try not to.

The rain falls down, like it did in Seattle, and I’m staring at the site where we first loved, wishing that magically, you’d appear and I would forget everything and lie down in the middle of the wet gray street, singing your name, unafraid and whole. If I stare long enough, will you appear? Will you come back? Will you…

will you?

My sex could be on fire… December 14, 2009

Lay where you’re layin’, don’t make a sound…

that’s like asking the steam on the shower mirror not to drip down in lines as the cold air trickles in and goosebumps begin.

that’s like expecting me to sleep in pajamas, to act coy, to be somebody’s sweetheart. that’s like asking me what i like to drink and thinking i’ll say vodka tonics. that girl faded away. this girl drinks her whiskey straight up, down the hatch. in a word: swallowed.

and the music plays, and the valium is ingested, and i throw my head back, playing my laptop piano, singing at the top of my lungs, because there’s no other way, vibrant and true, hoping beyond rationality that you’ll remember me, hoping beyond hope that i’ll forget you.

So, in an effort to get off tonight, i looked for some inspiration, just like a guy looks at porn to get off. i realized that i deleted all the pictures of my lover, and even the picture of my boytoy, and that nothing is going to turn me on, except music and the touch of my own body, and the thoughts, memories of where i’ve been and where i might go. thinking about who i used to be, a tiny little girl, not fully developed, and how it took broken hearts and thousands of miles and many years, but i became a fully actualized woman comfortable in her own skin and brave beyond belief, not to mention flexible in more ways than one. In short, i wouldn’t want to waste my time with someone who didn’t know what he was getting himself into, and was ready for a challenge, for one hell of a ride.

Where is this coming from, right? From a long time without sex, without the possibility of sex, without even so much as a crush. The last person I thought was “hot” was the same person that I bled myself dry for. I’m not lonely, but I’m bored, and I miss the days of making out with some random dude in front of a skater shop, and I miss the random days of hooking up in the back of some dude’s truck, or bending over the bathroom sink while drunken party-goers are waiting for their turns in my best friend’s bathroom. I miss the mystery and desire and thinking that everyday has the chance to be something unexpected.

Instead, all I ever hear anymore is “you didn’t miss much,” while I stayed home reading alone. I figured I wouldn’t miss much, but sometimes I like to be wrong.

I need some mystery, some drama, some excitement, some possibility, some face to picture in my dark nights. A crush.

Until then…I will admire my pale skin stretched over my 5′8″, 160 lb frame alone, tattoos, piercings and red lipstick kept to myself, and take solice in knowing that I’m not settling, and that my sex will be on fire, eventually. I will still down my whiskey and stand naked in the shower just a moment longer than necessary and not wash off the mascara, just because I can.

Where does the good go? December 11, 2009

Look me in the eyes and tell me you don’t find me attractive, sings Tegan & Sara.

…look me in the eyes and tell me you don’t love me. Where DID the good go?

All the breath was sucked out, blown away without thought to the consequences, like maybe my lungs couldn’t take it, and I’d stop breathing and die.

Or maybe I’m not a statistic. Either way, I’m addicted, to more things than one, and it’s time to quit.

But easier said than done. Where did the good go?

I’m sad, but it’s nothing you’ve never seen before December 1, 2009

It’s true. I’m sad, but it’s nothing you’ve never seen before.

I hide in my cave, and I am reluctant to come out. Instead I lose myself in other worlds, dream-worlds and book-worlds and movie-worlds and song-worlds.

When I dream, I dream of you, and all is as it should be,  until something twists and turns, and I wake up thinking, why?

When I read, I think about the adventures the characters go on, and how you and I could’ve gone on an adventure, and how I could still go on a solo adventure, but those are never as much fun as when you have someone to hold your hand and fight your demons for you, so I keep on reading and ignoring reality.

When I watch movies, I see how beautiful everyone is, and I think briefly about how I used to be beautiful until the self-destruction took over, and now I’m just bruised and beaten, slumped over in the makeup chair, unwilling to sit up straight.

When I listen to songs, I fall in love with whatever could be, like a swooning voice or haunting melody, and I twirl around in my thoughts and in my heart, and my eyes flutter with possibility…but then I sigh and remember that my voice means nothing and you never heard me anyhow.

When I write, however, I fall asleep in the spaces between the paragraphs, and come to life in the spaces between the words. My mouth opens up and I am filled by letters and symbols, and I am placated by my typewritten symphonies. My fingers play the keyboards like a grand piano, and sometimes I am Beethoven and sometimes I am a child in a music shop. One way or another, something comes out of my blood, and this is it.

I’m lost in a cave of my own making, sure. I’m alone and crying out for help, and sometimes you hear me and sometimes you go on with your life, and who could blame you? Sometimes I pack it all in and leave, and sometimes I just roll over and go back to sleep. Sometimes you should wake me, but sometimes

you should just let me sleep.

Yes, I am sad. But it is nothing you have never seen before.

you’ve got to be fucking kidding me November 26, 2009

huh. and so here i am.

crying at yet another grey’s anatomy episode.

in my bed. right where i should be.
all snuggled into my pillows and bear, right where i should be.

so i got fired/laid off/i quit. and i’m thrilled. i couldn’t stand another day at work. it’s like i’m in seattle all over again, unable to force myself out of bed to do another day of drudgery. and i know, i had a great job. but i couldn’t do it anymore. i tried to get fired, and i succeeded. just like i tried to be dumped, and eventually, it happened. my passive-agressiveness won yet again, and therefore i’m free. maybe one day i’ll make decisions for myself, instead of letting them happen to me.

i’m crying. part of me is just so sad, that i can’t do anything but cry, and the thought of doing anything else is absolutely ridiculous. i will just cry and cry and cry until i run out of tears. and they will be because of you.

but another part of me knows that i could reach out and have someone listen to me, and hold me tight, and keep me from the immediate pain. my friends. thank god for friends, who are ready to keep me safe from myself.

safe. i am beginning to be safe. if i stayed here any longer, i would die. my liver would give out, my lungs would quit. staying here is a matter of life or death. and the best part about that?
i want to live. and so, that’s why i’m going. i want to live. i want to live. i want to live.

How the be the better person, part 29 November 11, 2009

He died. I died. We all died.
Ring around the rosie. Pocket full of posies. Ashes, ashes, we all fall down.

And down we fell. Past the rabbit’s hole, into a black hole, into utter blackness, into outer space, into a space which I have never recognized because

I was never truly there before.

Like the plague. Like a handshake that gives you the shakes, the mono, the cholera, the everyday normal death.
It went like this:

Hi.
Hi.
I lust you.
I lust you.
No one will ever add up to you.
[Silence]
No one will ever add up to you.
[Years]
Oh, well, hello.
Hello to you too.
[Years]
I love you.
I love you too.
But I really love you.
Well, I really love you too.
[Together]
I love you.
[Silence]
(Acceptance)
[Silence]
I love you.
(Caution)
I love you too.
I love you.
I love you.
[Love]
Where’d you go?
(Silence)
Bipolarland.
Well, I still love you.
(Silence)
I love you?
[Silence]
I…
I love you.
(Um, me, me, me)
I love you, but…
[I can't do this anymore]
I can’t do this anymore.
(Silence)
Hello?
[Silence]
Wait, maybe I can.
[Go fuck yourself]
(But I love you)
[Silence]
(But I gave up so much for you)
[Go fuck yourself]
{Cry, cry, cry}
[Silence]
(Acceptance)

Yeah, so, a gory allegory: I moved on. Eat a shit sandwich and die.

I’m paraphrasing. But that was the gist of it. What I don’t understand is how you say you love someone, and then, suddenly, you don’t.
And I’m finding this to be more and more common.
How DO you love someone, and then suddenly treat them like shit you step around on the street? Like, the past five years never meant anything, like you were just biding your time until you could pull out your knife and stab them in the heart repeatedly.

That’s fun. What a fun hobby. “Hey, I love you. Oh, whoops, no I don’t. Here, I’d like you to die. A rather painful death. And I’m gonna go ahead and instigate it by telling you, showing you, imbedding in you my hopes, my dreams and my love, and then HEY, I’m just going to go ahead and murder you dead. Have fun!”

And they ask why I don’t want to date anyone again.

 

I have a space song. It’s glorious and weepy and all things invading one’s soul. My space song is the one that I sing when I am all alone and I wonder where I am going and what will happen to me. My space song keeps me warm at night and keeps me safe from the devil. My space song is what I count on to keep me alive and keep me safe from harm.

But the sad thing about my space song? It’s me. It’s all I’ve got. In the middle of the night, just me. In the middle of the day, it’s just me. When I’m feeling sad and lonely and desperate and full of regret, all I have is me, and sometimes, it borders on not being enough. I’m hanging on by a thread, but at least I’ve got my at leasts.

At least I’m not self-medicating. That much. At least I haven’t gotten over it by getting truly under something else. At least I tried. And at least I’m still trying to be a good friend. At least I’ve got the self-respect to take care of myself, and keep myself from harm, especially if that harm is from my own hand.

[Like last winter, when you saw the scars that I inflicted on your behalf. And you said you'd never allow that to happen again, and you insisted that I scar you like I scarred me.]

I stopped self-mutilating. Not that I don’t feel like it sometimes, seeing blood on the outside instead of knowing that my heart is bleeding internally, even if it’s not really, it just feels like it. At least I’m not railing drugs, or even drinking until I’m too drunk to even write. Instead, I take the pain and put it into words. And they may hurt, but at least I’m purging, and not in a “I just threw up everything I had for dinner tonight” sort of way. No, my sandwiches are staying deep inside of me, giving me the energy to get up another day and face myself and the life that I want. Without pain and with grace.

He told me so many things, so many beautiful things, and now that he’s gone and become Darth Vadar, I’m not sure what to believe, except myself. Because when I told him beautiful things, I was not lying. And when I did beautiful things, I did them because I wanted to. And when I do beautiful things now, it’s because I’m learning, slowly, slowly, but surely, how to love again, the person that needs to be loved the most:
Myself.

So to you, dear Molly, I give you more wonderful gifts for this birthday: grace and dignity.
And the following prayer:

Our Father in Heaven, hallow be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth, as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. For thine is the kingdom, the power and the glory forever. Amen.

Here’s the thing. I don’t hate myself anymore. I’ve made a lot of mistakes, but I think that I’m worth them all, and a lot more. I’m worth the wait. I’m worth the wait.

The ghost of you, the mannequin of me November 11, 2009

So. I loved you once. You loved me once. You love me not. Right now. I love you not…so much…anymore.

Or do I love you at all? Did I love you ever?

It’s funny, how you died. Once, you were amazing. You were my Joan of Arc. You were my everything. You were my song, you were my…love.

And then you died. In a fire? Spontaneous combustion? Some sort of evil that rose up within you? And then, you were gone. Dead. Dead, gone, dead. Not alive. Six feet under. Your entire existence ceased to be.

I can’t believe that you could just forget, so easily. You just turned your back, like we had never met, like I was some parasite coming to suck the life out of you, when really, all I tried to do was breathe some life back into you. Like we were scuba diving, and I tried to share my oxygen with you, but instead, you just grabbed the tank and let me succumb to the depths of the sea, and yes, that’s when I got The Bends, and all the old hurt started stabbing me again.

I just keep waiting for the day where I can go a good 24 hours without remembering you. When I can move back to my Seattle and live my life. I’d like that back now, please. Along with my ring and my feelings, and probably my heart.

Until that happens, I will try to keep breathing on my own, I will try to find my own oxygen tank and slowly creep upwards towards the horizon, and place one foot in front of the other, and try. And keep. Going. Without. Falling.

Into you, or the ghost of you.

that guy died November 8, 2009

that girl just changed her hair color.

I was faking it all along November 6, 2009

i think i’m going to start telling people what i really think of them

[breathe, uh...uh...]

you wanna hear the truth? the truth is

[breathe, uh...huh...uh...sigh...]

i will never be your girl

[breathe...uh...uh...lust...sigh...sigh...]

the truth is: you’re a really great friend. one of the best. but you kind of smell. you are one of the best friends. but you are really bad at keeping in touch. you are the best friend. but you’re kind of bitchy.

[sigh...sigh...]

the truth is: i kinda wanna be a whore, but i guess i already was, and now i should probably be something classier. like a call girl.

[breathe...in...out...breathe...i can't...breathe...uh...]

or maybe i will be again. you’re only 29 once. and then you’re old…and then…

[uhhhh...breathe...sigh...uh...uh...in...out...]

truth: you are not very bright. truth: you were mildly good-looking, and a fairly good fuck. truth: i’d totally hit that shit again.

[breathe...in...out...in...out...breathe...sweat...uh...uhhh...sweat...reach for one more...you'll do...breathe...uh...breath...]

in a very low voice, i will breathe into your ear, my mouth covered with you and sweat and saliva and sordidness and surprise. your dick was better than i expected. and all the eyeliner was sorta hot.

[guitar solo]

do the leaves still fall all amber and red in texas? or is that just some new england myth?

[sigh...uh...sigh...uh...]

i have a headache. i have seen some russian army. i have a headache, apparently, and will never be your girl, according to her. my mystery stays locked inside of me, or at least inside of a skateboard shop on pacific avenue in santa cruz. or the gap. take your pick. you can take me home, but i will never be your girl.

[BREATHE...SIGH...UHH...BREATHE...SIGH...UHHH...IN...OUT...]

like we’re standing on a pier or something. like we’re costumed or something. or like we’re other people, and i’m not me and you’re not you. and for one night, we’re just people breathing into each other’s ears, desperate and lustful and luscious. and i don’t care.

[sigh. sigh. sigh.]

i think i just found the crux of my problem. when i met “him” i was not myself. i was “jennifer” or someone like that, someone different. i lied from the very beginning, pretending to be someone else, pretending to be a beautiful whore, when really, i was just a pretty slut.

[breathe. kiss. sigh. uh.]

and he pretended to be an engineer, with a college degree and all. he pretended to be hardcore. he pretended to be strong. but all he was was some random mister with a mohawk and piercings. i pierced my own nose without medication, and i’ll do it again. i will tattoo myself and not feel pain.
all he really was was a whisper of what he wanted to be; but all he was was a fraud.
truth: show me your college degree. show me that you finished something you started. show me your marine medals. show me real pain, not some shaved head.
i’ll show you the scars i placed deliberately on my body with a razor blade, if you show me some sort of evidence that you are capable of absorbing pain.

[breathe. in. out. in. out.]

i never saw any evidence of being able to absorb true pain. you were just faking it. just like all the times i

[uh...breathe...sigh...uh...in...out...lust...breathe...in...out...oh...that's right...]

meanwhile

i have a favor owed. and in the meantime, i have me, and my

[uh...that's right...breathe...in...out...uh...sigh...breathe...brad...
...pitt...]

How to be the better person, part 12 November 6, 2009

One eye on the prize, one eye on the eject button. Ear lifted to the sound of an escape hatch. Smelling…me. The only person I want to smell right now. Touching the door knob, tasting a life that may be within reach.

Sensing that satan may have gotten behind me. But I guess it took reading the devil’s email.

True love, true love…it’s the devil’s crowbar.

I’m just disappointed I wasted 5 years of my life. That I was sad for so many years. That…that was that.

But I’m not going to shift blame. That’s only going to land me on “Intervention,” and I’d rather watch that than participate. My own personal intervention will take place when I nap down on my mom’s sofa over Christmas break. Or, perhaps I already had one when I decided that I would be angry instead of devastated.

It’s not like my castle crumbled, or my Andy Wood overdosed. Rather, I guess that I’m going to have to purge, and get rid of some old shoes, and keep burning cigarette holes in pictures, and figure out what really matters in this world, and remember that Eddie Vedder was always right: I’m still alive.

I may have scratches, all over my arms, one from each day since I fell apart, BUT, I’m still alive.

And, dear reader, so are you.