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’m not the only one, part two September 26, 2009

I wish I just could write you directly.

I can’t, though. It would be harmful…I guess to us both.

Hey. I still love you. Hey. I am still in love with you. Does it matter? Does it matter?

What good is it to have a blog if you can’t ask questions and rue the mistakes you’ve made?

So many…so many that I’ve made.

Just to name a few. Never move for a guy. Should NEVER have moved to Riverside. Who lives in Riverside? Only desperate people. Like me and Paul. Desperate we were.

Why did I leave Seattle? It was MY CHOICE to move to Seattle. Seattle was MINE. It always was. Before it was Paul’s, it was mine. And maybe Brandi brought Dave to Seattle, and maybe Brady and Shannon moved to Seattle, but before all that, someone called Eddie to Seattle. And I don’t care if it was someone connected to Kurt. Cause I really never cared all that much. It’s Eddie’s lyrics that are tattooed on my arms. Eddie. I will always follow you. I will NEVER follow some bullshit guy again. And you, reading my blog, make me some sort of promise, please. Don’t ever follow a guy. I promise you, it’s not worth it. You don’t want to find yourself locked out of a 1-bedroom in Riverside, or alone in Bellingham. Or anything else. You never want to find yourself alone and bored in San Jose. Please…live your own life.

Of course…I am still addicted, my voice is still not heard. My being is still lost between here and there. For someone that drank her twenties away, I am still cogniscent and, well…sad.

In my  biography, there is the Upland Library, that has nothing to do with anything, except that when I remember it, I wish I could take you there. But I can’t. Because you left me before I left you, and I’m left with this stupid big old rock that nobody understands but me and other Upland rejects.

I’m not the only one that loves you. I made my family love you, and they probably still do. Love doesn’t end that easily, although we all wish it would.