This doesn’t constitute as writing, I’m not sure what does.
I have been unemployed for just under a year now. There are probably more things to say on that but here’s something simple: Being sad is one thing, going to therapy is another. The latter required a great deal of time spent alone, at home, not working for anyone but myself.
I’d like to get to a lighter note at some point. I always play the wrong ones in front of a crowd.
I can’t even begin to explain how much that pains me.
Big words, all I use are big words. Ok, ok I get it.
I’m an idealist and that’s something that holds me back. I like to practise till I get things right, but not in front of anyone else. Because I still hold that picture in my head of me at a party, nobody has heard me sing, and I blow them all away.
My first book was supposed to be a novel and it was supposed to blow your mind. My first time was going to be a trip, all of my parties will be photo-worthy, all of my photos will be beautiful.
So then, it’s no wonder I find myself in darker times crossing paths to meet yours, again, happy as I am, in love with someone else who loves me. In my memory are your lips and the way your body lilts. Perfect was the beginning, something I could never have practised. Ideal in an ideal world.
For this I may be not even worthy of love.
I just hope everyone else is doing ok.
Putting A Knife Through Your Tires (I Wish)
I did want to be the one to forget first. I’m not one to be sombre at a cliff edge, I’m fuming as you dive over again and again and again.
Everyone in my life needs to re-string their life as the year nears the end. When my sister was in the institution the guards were on high-alert as suicide rates sky-rocket near Christmas. In all honesty, the idea of spending Christmas alone never bothered me, but then I’ve never had the opportunity. I am humourless in the face of a lot of things, none-so-much as forced-family gatherings.
My flatmate, who I won’t name as I don’t name anyone else. Here, I’ll give you an idea of what she might be like, you can paper-clip her to your life for a while. She’s shorter than me, maybe 5”4, 5”5, long blonde hair with pink at the ends. Flat stomach, tiny waist, small breasts and a open, laughing face. She gets dimples on her chin when she smiles. She hasn’t been smiling very much lately, this is what I’m getting at. After a pretty haggard life, a life with teeth falling out, bad breath, whatever, she seems pretty intent on reliving it to see if it would turn out any differently. It wouldn’t bother me so much if I didn’t understand it. I’m starting to become aware of the wall mental illness puts up between the affected and the affected-by-the-affected. Being on the outside is like being on a road with no footpath, dodging cars and screaming for someone to please open the fucking door.
In the mornings there is vomit in the bathroom and I know this, here, is where her knees have been, warming the linoleum like the sun she never sees. And here, this is where she washed her hands, and this mirror is where she studied her swollen face, red-rimmed eyes, like a rabbit.
After an evening of ramming slick fingers down her throat and clawing her insides to the outside, she dresses and nobody knows. Nobody could ever know, nobody must know.
On the outside, there is nothing beautiful about the quest to be so.
Growing up? Maybe. I haven’t made myself sick in over a year, my scales have run their batteries out, I won’t be changing them.
But it’s not so much a matter of growth as it is a swift change in priorities. I wish I could divide hers up and make her eat them, make her eat anything.
My own strings are tired, too. Comparing past relationships to my current one. Whatever was the point of comparison anyway?
"Paul Slazinger says, incidentally, that the human condition can be summed up in just one word, and this is the word: Embarrassment."
And It Hurts
The week has only started but my boyfriend never kisses me.
I don’t think I’ve mentioned this, because it’s embarrassing. After spending my youth wanting to be a beautiful woman and finding short-lived value through boys, girls, women and men who only ever wanted to kiss me, against walls, with their hands on my face, on my waist; it’s appalling, really. I am appalled. I don’t know how to describe a lack of passion except that I feel pathetic in my complaints, sometimes my knees up to my face. I feel sexless although I am having sex, I feel lipless although I’m talking and my teeth never get in the way.
I’m going to go ahead and say that’s what’s missing from my writing. Blame me all you want but all I ever did want was to be a gem to someone, and that’s pathetic, but at least I’m owning that.
And Dissolution, Too.
I have to assume that not everyone is unsatisfied. I can sit quite safely on that statement. It’s comfy.
But I spend a lot of time alone which lends to thoughts which inevitably make me feel worse and doomed. Doomed to be at the top of the world with a joke-gun instead of a real one, when I go to pull the trigger and a flag comes out and it says BANG and the lights go down.
So there are people that are satisfied, but in bed at night I think they must be unintelligent. And on the bus I think they must have had children too early. Biting my nails till they swell and bleed and all that’s underneath pours out, in my dreams I’m drowning in all my unfulfilled wants.
23 is a trip.
I’m in the inbetween. I no longer want to fill other people’s minds with metaphors for depression or make you feel dwarfed by how much sex I’ve had. A dirty youth is durable, I’ll give you that, I could write screeds of parties, drugs, late-night-early-morning-walk-homes and there would always be people wanting to read it. My intelligence is earnest, it sits on my shoulders and rolls its eyes when I am self-destructive for the sake of being self-destructive. Where to from here, then? It can’t answer me that, but it’s telling me what not to do, as if that’s enough.
You are a poor parent but the kind of parent I wish I’d had.
Wellington City is killing me. So precious are the shoes that strike the streets, the feet inside of them. I am dehydrated almost always even though it rains and rains and rains.
I have been besotted but the honeymoon period is over and the kids have ruined the welcome-home.
I fucking hate Cuba Street. I hate that goddamn bucket fountain and I hate everyone that takes photographs of it. I feel like a bitter hag in the face of every fresh new city-foreigner.
But what if there is no more magic anywhere?
I live in fear of nothing ever being as good as the days when I was not afflicted by depression. Sporadic, but in comparison to the underwater weeks, they were a heaven I fell for the charms of every single time.