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.