& also just being 23

PHOTOS
TIDFSI@gmail.com

It hasn’t snowed again and I feel my heart drop to my guts looking towards September and spring and all the little girls in little dresses and my boyfriend surfing on a crowded beach somewhere.

Early Morning (Marked)

It’s 2:17am and I can’t sleep. My therapist used to advise her patients that any time after four am, you get up. In all fairness she also said she loved all of her patients which I find hard to believe. I’m all for loving broken people but there’s only so much you can take without the assurance they love you back.

I think I’m awake because my flatmate has a French boy over. He might be Italian. I’m not all that good with dialects of any kind, with my own voice, even. People often think I’m Australian or was maybe born in the U.S.A but moved first thing thanks to flighty or well-meaning parents. That kind of thing always lends an air of intrigue, starting with roots elsewhere. In practice, it probably feels as lost as speaking with a voice not even your own.
They’ve been playing ukulele and through the thin walls I feel patchy with my lack of cutesy boy-meets-girl endeavours.
He might be Russian.

It’s my Step-Mother’s birthday tomorrow and there’s a pair of scales somewhere in the back of my mind weighing up wishing her the best Vs my Boyfriend calling me stubborn through the phone. She is a crucifixion. No, she is the stake you are tied to, she is the means and the backbone of every terrible thing. 
I keep on having dreams about shit, just shit everywhere and not being able to get it off and not knowing where the shit came from. Talk about a snake in the grass, she’s an alligator in a parking lot. 

I couldn’t tell you why I stopped going to therapy. I loved the early-morning bus-rides, I couldn’t keep my eyes away from the street. All the people are examples of something, even if I couldn’t possibly know what. I felt squat in comparison, wearing my nothing and finding that nothing so hard to wear. 

I hope he leaves, this boy. His voice is deep and thickened by an accent that only seems to make him speak louder in an effort to be understood. 

A girl at a restaurant yesterday broke a glass and everybody stared and stared and stared and I was so appalled by all the staring that my appetite clear went. 

Life Update Pt 30475

I’m taking part in a study on bisexuality and I couldn’t be happier about this. I started dating a man three months ago and for whatever reason, whichever gender you date, you can’t be bisexual. You are not allowed. 
When I date a girl, I’m gay. People say I’ve made the journey, I’ve ripped the closet door off the hinges. Scissor-shadow-puppets.
I am in love with a man, looks like it was ‘just a phase’ and young people always experiment, it’s healthy.

I will fuck your husbands and fingerbang your wives. There’s going to be a point where I’m hanging out the skylight of my boyfriend’s car, raising two middle fingers in place of guns. 
And it can’t be soon enough. 

I want to swim underneath your skin but sometimes we go for weeks without kissing. 
Maybe it won’t work, maybe my doubts are bigger fish than us. The end already hurts. 

Eating macaroni and cheese because it reminds me of my Mother, sitting on the kitchen bench with ruddied knees whiles she begs me to tell her about my day. I’m pushing my fingers past my lips to my gums, trying to rub them clean. My mouth is full of lies I tell to the people I love.

Happy People Get Sad Too but
When did I stop trying to see my point of view as realistic? My Father complains when I give him books to read.
It Was A Bit Morbid, Amber.
And maybe it is or maybe that’s life. 
I have been sick of things for a while now.

Sometimes I am staring into the intersection of two streets and I think it might be time to take my leave.
But who am I to say it’s over till it is?

I think at some point I said that I was going to do more stuff or write more words but that was along with getting in touch with my parents more and drinking less. I live in a bubble and that bubble is stuck to the inside of a wine glass that never empties. It’s not alcoholism till it is, I’m likening it to being a hypochondriac. You both end up in hospital a lot.

Being in love is like being on somebody else’s luxury yacht in the middle of the ocean. You can think about that for a bit because I don’t want to explain it. I’m sick, I got sick even with all the vitamins and then I passed on my sickness to my flatmates and my boyfriend. They don’t even take vitamins, so my vitamin-taking might be a bit superfluous because we all end up in bed anyway. 

Where am I going with this?

Where am I going with any of this?

Unworldly Vs The World

I’ve only spat in somebody’s face once, and that was in a dream. In the dream an old school-friend had accused me of lying about my Dad’s cancer, which I hadn’t, obviously. I’d gone to the wards to see him, though not as much as I should have, because I was not a ‘Good Daughter’ in the sense that a ‘Good Daughter’ would drop everything and suddenly not have the social anxiety that had plagued her for most of her young-adult life. The first time I went, my Dad was hooked up to a heap of pain medication after having a section of his lower bowel removed and the whole room stank like shit. My Step-Mother took my little brothers out into the hall as if on cue and my Dad didn’t hold my hand or anything, instead he said, as if in a daydream where I was not there and he was rehearsing what he would say in the event of such events occurring: ‘You know if anything was to happen to me, I’ve got things set up for you and your sister.’ That was probably the part where he imagined my sister would look to the ground and weep, but she wasn’t there, it was just me and I was perpetually hard to read. I mean, so I’ve been told. I always feel misunderstood but I always think I’ve gotten my point across. I’ve been told many times this isn’t the case. On this day, though, when I left the room, my Step-Mother asked if I was O.K and I looked her plainly in the face and said ‘No.’ And then later on I spat in that girls face while I slept. So, for all the lovers who told me to stop playing games, when it really matters, I lay all my cards down. You simply did not matter that much.

The girl whose face I spat in was named Alexandra but we all called her Zandy. She had me pushed up against a wall, though not one from my highschool, which was probably the environment in which I saw her last. I’m not one predisposed to anger, or rather I‘m not one for displaying any unbecoming emotion whatsoever. Unless it’s general defiance, which isn’t an emotion, really. Other times maybe I seem sad, although not quite sad sad, more ambivalent, which isn’t an emotion either, I guess. I used to smoke cigarettes out the back of cafes and drink black coffee and look ambivalent because I was a shithead in only the way a person in their late teens can be a shithead. Figuring out where you belong usually leads you down paths that you don’t or paths that aren’t even there in the first place. That is, all my black-wearing, chain-smoking, beer-drinking and boy-kissing was out of pretence. And then my Dad got sick and I had to re-evaluate the path and place. What I mean is: everything stupid seems important until someone you love is going to die.  

Some of my friends started having kids and my Dad was going to die. These two things clashed with each other like milk and shit. Although even now I can’t say which one was the milk and which was the shit. Both made me feel sick and hopeless. When I was sixteen I had my first real boyfriend, he hated his elbows. That’s the first thing that comes to mind when I think of him, how much he hated his elbows. His name was Max, he was a skinny little boy with fiery eyes. To everybody else his eyes, which were this rich amber colour, were probably warm and comforting. The thing is my name was, in fact, Amber, so the only things I could associate with that word were usually violent. Or fucking mosquitoes stuck in tree-sap. Or, to other people, something to do with dinosaurs. Thank you Jurassic Park.
This first real boyfriend and I met each other at the end of our respective school-days, I was dropping out one year early and he was one year older than I was. So we had sex a lot. I don’t mean that to sound as if sex is a given in a young relationship but he had a Subaru and his parents were away for two months when we met so, yeah.
I can vividly remember pissing on a pregnancy test in my Mum’s nautical-themed bathroom and waiting for five minutes or whatever it was, for the little line or double lines to appear. Max wanted to wait with me but I had this bizarre and fleeting moment of absolute ownership of my body. Little lines, little lines. I wasn’t pregnant.
I came out of the bathroom, we hugged and then we fucked, again. Shitheads.
And it wasn’t too long before people I knew started having kids.

On a side note, Max’s Mum got cancer later on. Maybe he doesn’t hate his elbows so much anymore. Simultaneously, maybe there’s a small part of him mimicked in me that almost half wishes we had had a baby, so that his parents might be grandparents. So that my Dad might be proud of me.

Growing up is odd in that is follows no basic path for any one person. Much like you are a mash-up of your parents’ features and biological traits, as a young-adult you are a collection of experiences and choices you have made. This might sound completely obvious but for the most part, people are keen to forget shitty times in their lives. And there will be shitty times, there will be more shitty times, there will be an abundance of shitty times that you want to forget.
But my Dad in the hospital ward, smelling like shit? I walked home in the rain that day, my hair slick, my face decidedly low-grade, but not a shithead. Ignorance is bliss in black jeans, red hair and winged eyeliner. But sometimes you need the shit to hit the fan so that you can change your clothes. 

I Am A Fool

My heart is in my mouth or my mouth will not speak for itself.

At the restaurant where I’d be crying in the hallway, a girl who wouldn’t remain my friend after I’d left said it was so hard to leave her boyfriend in bed in the morning. They would greet each other as if reuniting after months, slinging arms across each other like skin grafts. She would always say the same
Hi, Lover.
This was in winter and I didn’t understand. I broke a bottle on the back steps of my place and when the kids next door came out I looked at them so sterilized and said
You Don’t Know What It’s Like To Be Twenty-Two.
I was hospital grade. I was scalpels and cold steel on steel on steel. They were eighteen or nineteen or almost twenty and I didn’t hate them for their age, I hated them for their cheap beers and the lack of cigarette butts flooding their front door mat. 
And the laughs through the walls. I hated them for that the most.

I went four years without ever finding it hard to leave a bed for anyone but me. It would have been a bitter, pathetic admittance that I might really have wanted my heart like an outgrowth, but I did wish my sleepless nights were not just my own. 
Hi, Lover.

So stung I’d wrapped myself in wasps and hoped someone could brave the pain to grab my hand. And he does love bees as much as I do.
Now I hope you hate me for the laughter through the walls.