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...]

Everything. All of the time. October 28, 2009

Fuck.

 

It’s extremely fucking painful.

 

So painful, I need to listen to Tool at top fucking volume. And probably the only thing that will help right now is “Aenima.” Relax, turn around, and take my hand.

 

I know you’ve changed. I’ve changed. I’m changing. And it hurts. More than I ever thougth was possible.

The last time that I changed, that I tried to feel, that I tried to be alive, I took razors to myself to feel something. A change. Alive. Life or something like that. I probably should’ve picked up a guitar and made really awful noises. But I didn’t. I just sliced and cut and sliced some more.

And then. Yes. And then. When I thought that I could win you back from myself, I stayed up all night, singing into my voicebox, trying to make you music, when that’s the last possible thing I could do. The very last thing I could do.

“Lie. Feel. Something.”

Well, I don’t have to lie. I feel something. I feel everything. I feel like dying, crying and vomiting. Throwing things. Like myself. Across the bridge. I feel so much, you’d be surprised. I feel so much, everyday. I feel so much, I’m to the point where I can barely feel anything anymore. And I’d really like to feel nothing. In fact, I think I’m going to feel nothing right now. Here we go.

 

[Listen. For what it's worth, I'd like to honestly feel nothing. But I feel everything. Right in the depths of my chest, everything hurts. And I don't know what to do. I really don't. Everything hurts. Everything. It all hurts.]

 

At least you tried, he said. Well, sorry, Maynard. I haven’t tried anything, really. I just let everything work its way through my blood stream, and kill me all the more. I actually said tonight, I just want to go home and listen to Tool. As loud as fucking possible. As he was kissing my cheek. I just wanted to go home.

Bitch. That’s me. A real fucking bitch. I have someone holding my hand, kissing my cheeks, and all I care about is something that never reminded me of you until it did. I suck. I really do. I’m a terrible person.

I REFUSE to look up Tool lyrics. There’s something sacred about them. At least, with Aenima. So for this, I say: “Standing above the crowd. He had a voice that was strong and loud. And it swallowed me so soft as I’m so eager to identify. With someone above the crowd. Someone that seemed to feel the same. Someone prepared to lead the way. Someone who would die for me. Will you? Will you now? Would you die for me? Don’t you fucking lie! Don’t you step out of line! Don’t you step out of line! Don’t you step out of line! Don’t you fucking lie! You claimed all this time that you would die for me. Why then are you so surprised by your own eulogy? He had a lot to say. He had a lot of nothing to say. He had a lot to say. He had a lot of nothing to say! Come down. Get off your fucking cross. We need the fucking space, to nail the next fool martyr. You must step out of line! You must be crucified! Of course you cannot lie. Goodbye!!!”

I realize there’s a lot wrong with that passage. But I don’t care. I don’t fucking care. I don’t care that there is so much blasphemy in that, and I also consider myself a “Christian.” I care about little much at this point. Little, little much. So very little much.

Everything is so loud. Except for the moments when I walked from 18th and Union back to Bellevue and Mercer. Those were quiet. Like the times I walked to 15th and Denny. Or like all the times I walked to the waterfront, sometimes packing. Lunch.

I am not lonely. I am not bored. I do not miss having a relationship. I can think of plenty of things to keep myself busy. But what I do miss is him. And no one else. No offense, but writing PDC tonight made me realize, I don’t miss him. Not a bit. What I do miss is him. And no one else. Because everyone else is a copy of a copy of a copy of him.

So I guess, what does that make me? A copy of him? Or more likely, a copy of me, of a copy of me, of a copy of me?

 

I went to Upland Elementary School for kindergarten, 1st and part of 2nd grade. Once, we had a race, like this whole big to-do. I ran the race. I came in last. I always come in last when I’m running for something, when I’m racing for something, when I’m competing for something. I’ve learned better. I don’t run. But I stalk. I find my prey, and stalk it.

 

Oh, but do I ever get what I want?
“Someday you will find the one that DIDN’T get away,” he said.

Well, I fucking waited. And then waited some more. And then waited a little more after that.

And I’m still fucking waiting.

 

 

“Without the skin here. Beneath the storm. Under these tears now. The walls came down.”
I don’t know what it means, and I don’t care. All I really know is that it’s not enough. Nothing is. And all of my grand ideas are not enough. All I know for sure is that nothing works, and everything hurts. Everything hurts. Every fucking little thing. They all hurt.

And you know what the worst part is? Yucaipa will never mend these wounds. They will only remind me of what I’m missing. Of all things, I thought I could count on Yucaipa. But that’s the last thing I can count on.
Even my childhood has let me down.
I can’t do anything but laugh at this point.
Because otherwise…

I was born secular, and inconsolable October 16, 2009

My lips are dry and cracked. Probably because they haven’t been kissed in such a long time. Kissed like they need to be kissed, anyway.

My arms have atrophied. Probably because they haven’t held anyone in so long, at least like they’re capable of holding someone.

I had a good, long hug today. A few, actually. A long distance, over the phone hug, and a furry, tail around the neck hug, and I was happy to get it.

I’m drinking more than I should, alone. But at least Tienda doesn’t judge. I can walk in, buy beer in the middle of the day, and not be questioned about it. Maybe they realize that my heart hurts, and they choose to stay quiet.

My life has flashed before my eyes the past few weeks. I saw Tommy Lasorda last night, and missed my grandma. I have talked to old friends, and missed my old life, as damaged and imperfect as it was. I saw a picture of you today, inadvertantly, and immediately felt the flush of pain wash over me.

Where is God, now, when I could use some God? He works in mysterious ways, I hear. He gives, and then He takes. Was there a reason He gave me him, and took him away?

I would assume. And I suppose that being almost, practically 29 means that I still have some time to figure things out. I was ready to settle, but obviously settling is not something I should do, ever. Maybe I should never be settled. Settling only leads to earthquakes and losing things in the dust.

I wish you, dear reader, could hear the song I’m listening to (“Born Secular” by Jenny Lewis and the Watson Twins), because the instruments are beautiful, as are the lyrics.

I sang to my furry little friend, and I think he heard me. I think he enjoyed it. I think he felt my pain, and wrapped his paws around me, assuring me that I am loved. At least by him. If not you, too, dear reader.

Jennifer, Veronica (everything, all of the time) October 14, 2009

[Actual passages out of my journal for the past year...I know, ridiculous, right? What would Jennifer do? Take a shot and move along. What would Veronica do? Take him for all that he's worth, and flick him away with a long, dark painted fingernail. But what does Molly do? Dwell...but I'd like to grow my fingernails long and sharp and scratch it all to hell, leaving my mark, not on some asshole's back, but on the entire world. I think Molly has yet to be determined...don't let the labels fool you, dear reader...)

10/12/08: It hurts, it hurts, it hurts. Cutting myself is not enough — I want to slice myself wide open. I did what I had to do, and if there was a reason, it was you.

10/14/08: Did you see me walking by? Did it ever make you cry? What is he thinking? Does he miss me? Does he remember? Does he miss loving me? Does he remember that time at Six Arms?

10/15/08: You broke my heart. Please forgive me my trespasses, and I’ll forgive you yours.

10/18/08: You said you’d always love me. I started looking for excuses.

10/29/08: Why depression and why not me? Why sorrow and why not love?

11/1/08: What’s there to write about when the scars on my legs say it all. The pain rose to the surface, even if I was the one who had to help it out.

11/6/08: I love him so much. Alone is the last place I wanted to be.

11/11/08: Oh, it hurts. It still hurts. SO BAD. Why? Why? Why?

11./18/08: I want to forget him. But I can’t. Because forgetting him is forgetting me.

12/3/08: I loved him, and he broke my heart. All the hurtful, painful fucks aren’t going to fix this heartache. A thousand other fucks won’t erase the memory.

12/10/08: Trying without luck to forget the damage inflicted on me…and trying to ignore the damage I inflicted. But trying hardest of all to walk that line.

12/14/08: It’s your birthday. I miss you. I might still love you. Is there hope for us?

12/18/08: This hurts SO MUCH. Do you know how much this hurts, God? It hurts SO much.

12/26/08: Saw “Benjamin Button” today. And thought, he would like this movie. I hope he gets to see it.

12/28/08: Why didn’t it work? It needed to work. Why didn’t it work? I hate this. I hate this. It’s all a mess. But maybe it’s a mess I can fix.

12/29/08: I’m healing, and it’s hard. But healing takes time. Learning takes time.

1/2/09: I still love him. And I know he still loves me, or he wouldn’t try.

1/5/09: Unfinished. An unfinished life. An unfinished love. He called our love not unrequited, but unresolved. I said unresolved is the wrong word. Unfinished. And we paused. And his voice cracked.

1/6/09: Be here with me, keep me warm, keep me sane, love me as I love me, but more, differently. Keep me safe, and let me keep you safe.

1/9/09: Love is the most important part of life. Because why bother living without love? I don’t know what will happen. I don’t have the answers. But I have love and I have hope and I have honesty.

1/20/09: I love him tremendously, but I cannot lose myself again.

2/2/09: My beautiful boy is back. Molly, Dave loves you. So DON’T fuck up.

2/10/09: I love him. And I’m not scared at all. I trust him. I can give myself to him

3/12/09: Everything all of the time. How I hate you, Thom Yorke. How I hate you.

3/15/09: I miss you. I feel your absence like a phantom limb. Almost four years. Thank God I still have you.

6/3/09: My God. It’s been this long since I’ve written, spurred on by melancholia and the first random song on my sad  bastard shuffle: The Engine Driver. How apropos. His depression, even the slightest bit of it, affects me tremendously.

8/16/09: Here I am, expecting just a little bit too much from the wounded…difficult not to feel a little bit disappointed, passed over…but I look right on through, see you naked and oblivious. You don’t. See. Me. This song makes me come and cry. Eyes of a fallen angel, and a tragedy…oh well, oh well.

8/17/09: I feel so alone. How could you love me this way? I’m so fucking sick of dating a lie.

9/11/09: There are so many things to say to you. Namely, I still love you. I sleep in your shirt, using your pillows, wiping my tears over everything. Who do you love? If I were lucky, it’d be me. If I were the better person, I’d leave you alone. But I’m small and selfish and miss you and want all of your time.

9/23/09: Something is wrong. My head is splitting wide open. Is it some sort of existential crisis? (A work of art…a work of art…)

9/25/09: Keep me safe — even if you’re not here anymore. Because I wake up scared, wondering where I am, wanting to be safe.

10/5/09: Everything reminds me of him. Even this. Especially this.

10/6/09: Why would I want him if all he does, if all he remembers of me, all he thinks of me is that I’m trite and immature?

10/7/09: Neither one of us is either thing the other accused us of. We’re both heartbroken and petty.

10/13/09: I miss him. Every single day. I paid the price, I certainly did. I never held you in real life.

These are all passages from my “diary,” the very personal thing that I write the worst of the worst in, from a year ago, when he first began tearing my heart into pieces. You will read these items, and think, Molly, you did it to yourself, you did, and that’s what really hurts.
Sure, I’m a very stupid girl. I don’t, however, believe that I am either “trite” or “immature.” Immature people don’t overdraw their own checking accounts to send the love of their lives money so that he can eat. Trite people don’t actually post their own diaries for the world to read. I am many things, but “trite” and “immature” are not words to describe me.

In fact, even when I don’t feel like loaning things out, I do. Because why do I need money, movies, music, books and so forth, when my friends ask to borrow them? I would give any one of my friends the shirt off my back, I would give them my last four dollars, I would offer up, at the very least, my sofa to sleep on, and I would offer to make them dinner. Even the people that have screwed me over? I take them back, into my loving arms, and forgive them, and apologize for the trespasses I made against them.

But I still suck at a lot of things. Like, expressing my feelings in a cohesive way. Or having the patience to wait for someone to heal. Or having the knowledge to know that they’re not going to heal in my arms. I could’ve sacrificed myself, willingly, waiting for him to find stability. But I did once before. This time, I tried a different tactic. And the heartbreak exploded in my face. At least I know one thing for sure. No one will ever, EVER, love him like I did.
But I am worth loving. And I WILL find someone who knows that, and treats me appropriately. And maybe I won’t have to scratch at the walls, trying to figure out how to deal with someone whose wounds weep more than I ever thought mine could.

Think what you will of me. But I am sitting here, my journal sprawled on my bed, as I type in passages from the depths of my soul. I have been called a lot of things, but I am nothing if not honest and open, and willing to expose myself.

Because I know I’m not the only one. I’m probably not the only one who has ever loved you to the point of destruction, or maybe I am. But no one will ever love you as much as I loved you. I truly believe that in my heart. No one will ever love you as much as I loved you.

But maybe, my dear readers, you’ve felt the same way. Well, as you can see, in the past year, I’ve repeated patterns and ended up worse off than before. Read my story. Heed its lessons. Promise me that my heartbreak has not been in vain. Don’t follow my example. Do better than me. Teach me how to live. Just, whatever you do, don’t live like this.