Posts tagged emo shit

I should care less about the people and things that don’t matter. I should care more about that which does matter.

What matters, though? What is important?

My goals remain the same. I’m still trying to keep this ship on an even keel, but does that mean I’ve no say in path I take to shore? Sometimes I feel like don’t. I get angry. Should I always have to feel like I’m letting people down? Or is it my fault? Am I making myself feel this way? Is my anxiety so overabundant that it creates scenarios from nothing? I don’t know. No one has really come outright and said they are unhappy or disappointed in me. Is my own unhappiness with myself what I see mirrored back at me in the eyes of my friends?

It’s the anxiety that keeps me from going to the gym though I know I need to. It’s what keeps me from speaking my mind though I know keeping quiet only worsens problems. Has this fear been with me all the time? I think I used to be fearless. Maybe I was just drunk? Maybe I’m only fearless when it comes to games I know I can win? I don’t feel like there’s anything I can win these days. My strength is returning, but but even before almost snuffing myself my physical prowess was nothing to tout. My love life is as sad as ever. My voice doesn’t even fill me with confidence anymore, and when I do sing I hold back. I don’t even feel like I’m writing this properly, and have almost deleted it twice.

I don’t want to fall back into the same old tracks I’ve always walked, but this whole experience of becoming a completely different person is difficult and there is no clear-cut map. I don’t know if what I’m doing is right. I don’t even have a scale of right and wrong to measure it against. Right? Right for whom? For me? I thought my old life was right for me, and then it almost ended. Who is to say this one will be any better? What if the choices I’m making lead me right back to the bottom? Maybe that’s why I’ve such anxiety?

I just can’t sit in stasis forever.

I missed you for the first time today. I thought I did. Then I realized that I couldn’t have. I missed you all of those times before when you were supposed to be here and you weren’t; the times I called and wrote and got no answer. But no, truly, I didn’t miss you even then. I couldn’t have. To miss you I’d have to care.

I missed arms. I missed comfort. I missed someone holding me despite the pain. I missed the idea of solace, the soothing balm of someone’s concern for my pain above all else. It was never you I longed for. You are undeserving of even being thought a specific provider of those those things. You’d had to have shown me something like love first. You didn’t.

Even now when I wake up in the night in jagged pain and reach confused across the tops of my sheets for someone close, I am not reaching for you. I am reaching for the idea of a man you could never be. I am reaching with fingers that cannot feel, cannot touch, and cannot hold. If someone were there I wouldn’t know it anyway. It is no change from when you were my lover.

My nerves will heal. My fingers will clench again. I will reach out every night until they do. No, not for you—or a mythical man that will never be—but for the sheer joy of that luscious pain. Every time my tendons strain, my nerves sizzle, my skin tingles or my arteries twinge I will know that I am getting stronger. It will be my arm, frail now but not always, that will hold me at night. Oh I’ll share my bed again. I’ll feel skin with my reborn fingertips. My spine will strain and my hips churn. I’ll fuck for fun and smile in the heat of sweat-rank close proximity.

But I will need no arm for my solace save for the one that waves goodbye.

For all the times you called me yours. For all the times you said “nibbles” in that stupidly cute tone of voice as you bit me on my shoulder. For all the times we went to the movies. For all the times I defended you when my friends said you were a jerk. For all the times my mother said you were no good and I said she was wrong. For that time I bottomed for you even though it really hurt and I have issues with it. For that time I slashed my arm open and you kept pressure on it while the paramedics arrived. For that time you sat with me in the hospital while I almost died and you said that you loved me.

For all of that, and for saying “I guess I’m too busy for a boyfriend,” I hope you experience everything that I just mentioned…

And I hope you have it forcibly ripped away.

In the words of the great Pam Grier:

“Death is too easy for you, bitch! I want you to suffer.”

I’m actually a bit nervous about getting my cast off and sutures out today. I’m not scared of the pain, I’m worried about the scar. It’s been under some sort of cast for almost a month, and I’ve only had to look at it once. I’m not ready for it to be out for everyone to see, and I’m not ready to have to make up some elaborate lie as to why I have it. Also it’s been somewhat easy to ignore how badly I’m damaged. It’s been just shy of a month, and I still can’t use my hand. Without the cast I’m going to have to face the fact my hand may never work right again.

If it were winter I’d simply wear one of my coats and a long glove on my arm, but since it’s over 100 degrees most days I don’t think I’ll be doing my Rogue impression anytime soon, despite my bi-colored hair.

My friends want me to go out of town with them in a week for birthday party shenanigans and drinking. My mom wants me to come stay with her to “relax and straighten out my priorities.” I haven’t the heart to tell them I just want to hide in my house. I really don’t want to be seen by anyone. I feel broken at best, ugly and branded with a Scarlet Letter-magnitude mark of shame at worst.

And I’m pretty sure my boyfriend is over me. It’s not painful, not like my arm. I just wish he’d say it so I can shift my focus fully over to myself and my recovery, such as it is. Communication isn’t his forte, though.

It’s been 26 days since I quit smoking.

I don’t even feel like me these days. I’m completely lost.

…and only one hand to type them with. I want this cast to come off. I feel like I’m in a cage. I think I’ll cry like a baby when it gets removed and I actually have to look at the scar every day. I hate it when my dam breaks.

It’s March. It’s not the first time I’ve lied to my mother about where I am, or the first time I’ve lied to her about being with you. We’re alone in a house that my grandmother owns. She knows we’re there. We have permission. I have a key. We promise to clean up after ourselves. I have a feeling that I should be scared or ashamed, but I’m happy instead. I’m rarely happy. I’m eighteen.

It’s morning. The sky is cloudy and the ground is wet. It’s raining. We came to the house in the middle of the night. We’re both off from school for Spring Break. I’m off because I’m a student. You’re a teacher. The air is still fairly cold. We came to the house because it’s near the ocean. It’s too cold to swim. The rain taps on the tin roof. You get up to do something. You’re wearing only your underwear. I watch you while I’m still in bed. I think you’re sexy. You have a bit of a belly and you’re not perfect, but I love you. You look at me and smile. I try to smile back but I yawn. I’m not a morning person. We make love when you get back.

We stay in the house nearly a week. We watch movies and embrace on the couch. We have sex. We argue sometimes. Sometimes I fret and worry about my mother being suspicious. The weather does not improve much, but we do walk on the beach, and you write my name in shells. My grandmother calls to check in on us. The ride back home is not cheerful.

I am eighteen and I am in love with you. It ends badly. I grieve. I do not regret.

What if all I really can do is cause chaos and hurt those that care about me? What if that’s what I’m really here for?

I’m certain it’s not, but how do you stop a sinking ship from going under when even all the rats have gone overboard?

Oh hi there friend. Messaging me on Facebook at 4:00 in the morning, are you? I bet you have one thing on your mind, don’t you? I mean we haven’t spoken in a while, not since that one time we hung out, and that time wasn’t the greatest. You remember, right? You don’t? Well let me enlighten you.

You invited me over to your apartment in the middle of the night knowing full well that I was already mildly intoxicated and that I’d thought of you as totally hot since we met—what, maybe three?—years ago. You would have known this because I’d actually asked you out. You know, on arealdate. I’d asked you out several times over the course of our loose friendship. I was excited to finally hang out with you one-on-one, so I came over. We proceeded to drink more beer, smoke some pot, talk at length, listen to Neko Case, and sorta fall into bed together. There was haphazard kissing, you didn’t seem to be that into it, but we both took off our shirts and pants. It ended with me blowing you. Well, not really. It ended with you falling asleep in the middle of me blowing you. Let me tell you, that’s only happened to me one other time and it was just as annoying and upsetting with you as it was the first time it happened.

You explained the next day, in a rather roundabout and evasive way, that you had some issues to work out and you really weren’t that in to me. I got the message—that I was a drunken and regrettable hookup—and haven’t really talked to you outside of the occasional comment on your statuses on Facebook.

So why are you, when you said before that you didn’t find me attractive and don’t want to date me, now asking me to come over to your apartment? Why are you telling me you threw a party, your friends are gone, and you’re drunk? Why are you asking me to come over and “curl up in bed with you”?

Also, since you’re so interested in me all of a sudden, why haven’t you noticed that I am in a relationship? I suppose since I drunkenly blew you once I’m forever the backup slut? Oh, but only whenyouwant it, of course. Also I’m mad I didn’t get invited to your dumb party. I would have liked to have gone to a party. My night sucked.

Now I just sound petty, and no one likes a petty whore.

It really is easier to hate yourself when you’re single.

So there was a reason after all. You’ve got a boyfriend now. The time we spent together meant a lot to me. It meant nothing to you. Rather than simply tell me you didn’t want to date me specifically, you concocted some stupid story about how you didn’t want to date anyone at all, only to prove that wrong two weeks later with Facebook of all things casually informing me that you’re now listed as “in a relationship” with a boy far prettier than me. I’m sure he has many varied fun and artistic interests. I bet he doesn’t smoke as many cigarettes and likes fancy tomatoes. I bet you guys sit and listen to R.E.M., with which he is far more intimately acquainted than I.

I’m not bitter though. Maybe they’ll make it. Maybe they’ll stand the test of time. Who am I to sit and moan like a brat in the way of young love? Through a whirling shitstorm of their own emotions, unknowable to me, they managed to synchronize their desires and take that plunge; and in Spring no less! If I wasn’t so condescending and cynical at this point, I’d be happy for them.

However, I am condescending and cynical, and all this has done is hurt my feelings, and make me even more convinced that I am probably better off alone. I probably shouldn’t even be writing something that other people can see, lest I make myself look like an idiot.

Thank you for curing me of my ridiculous obsession with love.

I hope you both burn.