No One Wants to Read This

I’m getting on a plane to London tomorrow. Every fiber of my being is throbbing with confusion. I’ve just come from my oldest friend’s brother-in-law’s band's gig. Made me feel so old when they played Uncle Al. I almost couldn’t hack it when the merengue came out. My limbs are throbbing—cartilage can’t handle booty music anymore.

A Seasonal Helping of Wretchedness

It’s too much. It’s too fucking much.

I’m beginning to think there’s seriously something wrong with me. I am pulling farther and farther away from people (from all people). I have alienated myself from family and friends, old and new.

I find relationships so uncomfortable. The thought of going out for a drink with my boyfriend disturbs me. I feel anxious whenever the phone rings. I can’t relate to people. I can’t reconcile my relationship to others and the world.

Relationships are so tense—I can hardly bear them. I keep disappointing those who care about me. I have become estranged, like I hardly exist. Or others hardly exist.

Every moment invites constant negotiation. I am burning up inside. If I am not busy, I am burning up inside. Oh, what is this feeling? What is this situation and how did I get here?

My sisters were cold as ice tonight. They think I’m “weird.”

I am the blackest of sheep.

My father can’t relate to me whatsoever. It’s getting worse. I can’t bear superficial moments (a sideways hug and light squeeze).

Have I always been this way? I genuinely do not know.

I am liable to slip away.
What will happen if I slip away?

I suspect the awkwardness is mine alone—a minefield of my creation. How do I fix it? Do I even want to fix it? I think I do. I yearn to connect, but something stops me. A flaring panic I’ve had for years—and fears. I blame this on other people half the time, but it is me.

How can I appear to be such a different person than I actually am?

I have had an incredible life and become traumatized—this I must admit.

Mock the weak.
I can only buck up.

But I am sick of disappointing others. When I try to stop and think about it, I can’t think. For ages, I have resolved that something must change, but what and how?

The things I care about are so stupid.

Perhaps I have a nervous disorder.

My stomach hurts.

Do other people feel this way?

I wish to disappear. It’s getting to be too much.

PLEASE don’t let my life be a waste. There is so much I wish to write.
If only I could think.

Welcome Home

I pause for a moment and the light changes.
I've not been home in a year.
The rumbling of the self, like shifting plates, catastrophically changing the face of the earth.
It’s so big.
So swayed by emotions—I indulge to chart the depths of this bizarre experience.

Never will I be able to speak as I write to you.

Lost in the footnotes of Dave Eggers’ Heartbreaking Work, I read something like, “and I wondered if they wanted me to just go away,” something so earnest and self-deprecating—I felt something twist inside my chest. How could such a brilliant soul honestly feel a burden? And tighter still because I knew, too often feeling that way myself.

There is no way to win this game.
There is no sense in wishing it were different, because it would still be the same.

The amount of stupid things I’ve said and done.
I am cringing practically every moment, except when I know I’m distracted.

My awkwardness is like a flaky crust.
My insides runny and pathetic, with the occasional savoury morsel.

Sometimes I’m too tired to buck up.

Expect nothing from me.

I Can't Get No Satisfaction

I can’t sleep. I feel terrible. So much is wrong, I can hardly write it. Lying stiff as a board, glaring into darkness, skin burning, blood throbbing, a deep dull ache, gnawing until I give in and rise from bed.

I’m so very tired. And everything hurts. I’m meant to wake in three hours, followed by a hectic ninety-minute commute to the worst job I’ve ever had. I’m supporting seven-year-olds with serious behavioural problems. The worst of them, Joshua, spends a good deal of time plotting and attempting to kill me. My shins are purpled with evidence of his clunky rubber shoes.

The red of an alarm clock beams through the dark, a flashing reminder of dwindling time. I dread the piercing sound at 6am. I’m awake. The realisation settles like a pregnant cloud on my chest. Nothing has changed. Another day facing the ruin of my life.

I listen to my boyfriend’s breathing. Is he awake? I’m really sad. We’re going to split up. As usual, we had a stupid fight (too stupid to write). He instigated it as I climbed into bed, thus murdering my chances of sleep. He’s so fucking passive-aggressive. It’s hard work. Everything is hard work.

Often, we’re fighting before I realize what’s happening. He’s tricky like that. He’ll drop a bomb and fall out before the smoke has cleared, leaving me alone in the fog. After fighting, I wanted so much to forget it, to feel better—I slid down his legs, taking him into my mouth, his penis springing to action…

he flips me over and enters the race, a epileptic contender. I grasp for something, anything, my grip loosening as he nears the finish. The dark seems endless as he jets inside me. Full, but I feel so empty.

But how can I tell you? Surely you know it already? Sex has become a pointless exercise. Empty a cartridge and chuck the rifle over your shoulder. It’s time for a nap.

Except that I can’t sleep. I’m meant to be waking in two hours and I can’t sleep? I steal away, menstrual blood running down my thighs, the white screen pierces the dark and burns my weary eyes.

I have a sore throat. I’ll call in sick. I can’t call in sick. I’m trapped. I desperately need the money.

Which is worse: getting back into bed or not getting back into bed?

I can’t remember what Sun Tzu writes in The Art of War about backing your opponent into a corner. Will the underdog rise when ultimately trapped? In the eleventh (fourth, actually) hour with nothing to lose? Or, lacking the possibilities of escape and retaliation, will the underdog be vanquished?

The blood pools and the stain grows on the armchair cushion beneath me.

I'll turn it over later.

The Wayward Warrior

Well.

I’m not a social being. In fact, I spend a great deal of time avoiding the things that normal people do.

Grocery shopping in the middle of the night, for instance; busying myself with fine print or dashing round corners to dodge the handful of other humans that, like me, desperately seek reduced produce as the sun comes up.

Going to the shop has often been the major activity of a day (or night). Often, it’s all I can muster. The familiar soothing tits of consumerism. I’ve used the mental arithmetic of an eight-year-old to compare sizes and prices and now, I’ve bought something. Everything will be OK. Yes, planting herbs on the balcony in the middle of the night will make me feel better. And when these supermarket-chain herbs die in a week, it’ll be a perfect excuse to plant new ones.

Sometimes I force myself to sleep with carbicide. How many pieces of buttered bread can I stuff into my bloated body before it literally shuts down? I lose track as a soft sleepy feeling creeps over me. It’s a damn shame, given how intensely I love and crave health and fitness.

The self-hating masochist in me seems to be winning at the moment.

My blood runs bitter. I am filled with spite and it’s scary. It’s the worst thing in the world. My growing self-resentment turned out into the world like a shield. I’m unhappy with myself and therefore unhappy with you.

All the time, I remind myself to keep a lid on the darkness. I need an attitude change, an attitude change. No one can ever see the darkness that lingers like a cloud over my intentions. (Don’t worry, the silver lining of mania also ensures optimism and compassion, bordering on hysteria.)

But where to go if not inwards nor outwards? How can I expel the darkness? I’m beginning to think I must acknowledge—record even—the dark set before drawing the backdrop of light. So, let it be here (and only here), uncut, inhumane and burning like the application of salt and ice to unsuspecting nipples, the honourable quest to quell unspeakable darkness and to march backwards into the symbiosis of life.

May it blind me!