Murphy’s Law.

Unfairness knows no bounds, it appears. It’s been a nightmare week, if I’m to be completely honest. I think there was a brief period there where I forgot what it was like to have the foundations of my life be shaken relentlessly, until the world feels like it has no right side up. Moods I can handle. I can take the thoughts. Bring them. It’s the rest, the things that are out of my control yet not out of my control.

I go on autopilot so much that it doesn’t feel alien to me anymore. Even doing things that are enjoyable has this sensation of being automatic. Everything has lost its magic. It’s not new, it’s not fresh and exciting. It’s what it was yesterday. It’s what it was last week. It’s what it was a month ago.

It starts off with my quad needing to get repaired. Even the tires are being replaced. So lately I’ve been borrowing my father’s quad to go out with, if only to get myself out of the suffocation of the house. The other day I was going up a steep hill and went over a bush to discover that it had a huge boulder concealed beneath it. I centered up on it quite violently even though I was going pretty slow. I get to the top of the slope and stop to check out what damage I’ve done. At first glance it doesn’t seem like I’ve done anything too terrible besides scratch it up a bit, so I shrug it off but decide to cut the trip short just in case. I’m dreading getting home, because I know my dad will give me one of those looks and probably won’t talk to me without a grimace for several days—if he talks to me at all.

Naturally he makes a big to do about it. I go inside and decide that he can throw his tantrum by himself. He made it out like I’d done something horrible, but I know there’s a good chance he was just exaggerating. He tends to do that so that he can have an excuse to be angry with me and give a long speech about how nothing ever goes right for him because everyone else is always fucking it up. It’s not until a day later that I realize something is missing.

I’m hurrying to get dressed for work. I barely slept at all, having stayed up all night staring at the television screen in one of my typical bouts of numbness. Then I go to get the cellphone and can’t find it. I search everywhere, throwing things off of my messy desk in a huff. I don’t find it. I’m running late. I leave without it, using my dad’s instead.

I get home and he is in a mood. Hostile as fuck, and not someone I want to be near. I search through my room, search everywhere, and can’t find it. I begin to think that I lost it on a trail. It could have easily fallen out of my pocket. I spent the next few hours looking for it. It was hot and I was tired, but I looked. I managed to find the trail where I’d hit the rock, but it wasn’t there. I even walked down the entire hill, checking.

I get into this mode, the autopilot one. I misplace things perpetually. I forget what I’m supposed to be doing, or why. It drives me insane at times that I can’t keep up with the demand. I feel like I’m so barely alive.

Other things went wrong that I don’t even want to think about. The cellphone had to be shut off. That same day as I’m using my computer in the living room, it suddenly shuts off. I plug it into the power cord and leave it for several hours. When I come back it hasn’t charged. The battery gave out. Fortunately when I ordered it, one of the things I did not skip on was an extra one, so I used that. Just as an example of how stupid it can get, as I was taking the back panel off to replace it, the flashlight I went to use to better see where it was attached, flickered and died. I feel like everything I touch is doomed.

My cat is sick. He keeps shitting everywhere. He’s done it on the floor, in my chair, on my bed. This morning I went to go to sleep and as I start pulling the covers over me I let out a groan. It was the second time in a week that he’s decided to leave me a nice present. I was so tired I just removed the offensive material, balled up the blankets, then left them in the hall and snatched up a few clean ones from the cupboard. I only slept a few hours on the bare mattress, then threw myself a nice private tantrum.

And here I am now. I know I’m being a baby about it, but what does it matter? I haven’t said anything to anyone, just went on my merry fucking way as I always do. It seems like there is no point to say anything. My mother gave me an earful this morning, going on and on about how bad dad was yesterday and how he was saying all his bullshit about me.

The one thing that pisses me off the most about all of this, is that if it was just me on my own it would have been fine. I would have bought a new phone and not worried about it. I would have looked at the quad, my computer battery, and shrugged. But you can’t do that in my house. I can’t say how many times my dad has done something stupid with his phone. He’s left it on top of his car, lost it, dropped it in the lake…. And of course it is no big deal. I do it once and the world stops spinning to punish me for my simple little mistake. Gee, dad, so fucking sorry.

Over, done with, gone, I suppose.

Don’t look back.

I don’t like turmoil. I think everything is still building as it was before, going toward this insane climax that I am trying to ignore. Things keep stopping and starting, and I miss the sense of sameness that I am so used to.

The other day, my mom decided to have another of her moods. She gets distraught over things very easily. I don’t quite remember what it was (yes, it was that important), but she was bitchy when I got up, and she was pretty rude when I said good morning to her. I happened to be in an alright mood (a rarity for mornings), so it kind of irritated me, but I just thought to myself, “whatever” and rumaged around the kitchen, pointedly ignoring her. I could hear her talking on the phone, sounding tired and monotone.

She always changes her voice when she’s upset about something. She loses inflection and kind of croaks things out as though her throat is sore or something, and it really pisses me off for some reason. Maybe because I feel like that all the time but I don’t have to make a fucking show of it to get some sympathy.

So I decide I’m going to go out since it is relatively sunny, and I shower and get dressed and all of that, then go back into the livingroom to tell her that I’m leaving for awhile. She’s sitting there in front of her computer playing solitaire. Her head is bowed down and she’s crying. I can tell from across the room, even.

I say it flatly: “What’s wrong.”

It’s not even a question, because I know she’ll elaborate. She’s like that. If I do something that bothers her she goes straight to my dad with it, like a child that doesn’t know how to handle a problem. And she always sits there and prattles on about things to me, things she knows I don’t give a shit about. I have told her on more than one occasion that I could easily go into a monologue about the digestive system if she wants to keep talking about the price differences on food from different stores. We’re nothing alike; our interests are like night and day. Finding things in common is quite difficult, which is probably why we often fall into constant arguing.

Of course, she jumps on the chance to have someone to talk to. I know she’s lonely, but fuck. It’s not like anyone is going to pay me the same courtesy. She goes onto explain the whole thing, and blah, blah, blah. I’m standing there with a helmet in my hand, impatiently waiting for her to finish. I don’t bother to tell her that I’m missing half of what she’s saying because I have my headphones on. She doesn’t notice. But I make it obvious that I’m not in the mood to commiserate.

All I say is “Yeah.” 

She wants to say more, I can tell, but my heart is like ice to her. I don’t know what I feel toward her anymore. I’m a physical guardian, it seems, nothing more. It does not go beyond that much of the time, and it scares me a little. I should feel bad, try to help, but all I can think of is all the times I suffer alone, constantly. The ache of misery never leaves me, even if I am number than numb. I am not a savior, and I refuse to be hers. She can mourn her loss all she wants, I will not stand by her and offer my shoulder. Those times are gone.

I look at her. I sigh, more out of annoyance at being delayed than anything else.

I walk away.

Surrender.

I don’t know what I was planning. The day started off bad, probably due to yesterday’s not-so-pleasant ending. I needed to get out of the house this morning, found that I couldn’t, since I happen to be at the beck and call of my mother. My driver’s license isn’t valid right now because I’m not on the insurance, so there was no hope of even driving to town to get away from myself, not that I would be brave enough to do it anyway. 

I was stuck in the house going fucking mad. I barely slept last night, and for whatever reason decided to leave the cats out of their cage to wander around aimlessly so that there would be something alive and breathing, even if it meant hearing them crash into things at all hours. I couldn’t stop thinking or get my body to rest, and today it was the same, though with a lot less panicking and crying and a lot more anger. I had to tell a lot of lies yesterday to keep my little episode a secret; blamed my crying on hormones and a stupid story with a bad ending (I wasn’t even reading yesterday, but of course, my mother believed me). Then my godparents decided they wanted to talk to me over my webcam, and wouldn’t leave me alone about it. So I told them I was sleepy and looked like shit, to give them warning. All they said when I got on was, “You do look really tired”. It’s amazing how easy it is to put in that ridiculous cheery tone and act like I’m perfectly fucking fine. I even baked cookies yesterday for distraction.  

Today I was a belligerent fucker. I snapped at everyone and everything. Even my cat was an annoyance, though he has been hounding me since yesterday because he knows something is off. He keeps trying to crawl into my lap and I just shove him away. He finally went and fell asleep in the window after a long session of staring at me unblinkingly and getting yelled at for it. I think today I was mostly annoyed by the confirmation that no one is ever going to notice. Even crying can be written off as from something else. My pacing is normal. My moodiness isn’t unnatural to them. 

Months of living on almost nothing with binges in-between, have really fucked my body over. All I want is sugar and sleep. I end up forsaking actual food for a few bowls of ice cream and nothing else. And that only lasts two or three  hours before I feel the gnawing hunger and have to do something to keep my mind off of the sweet, sugary, packaged crap stored in the next room. But I’ve kept my weight normal enough that no one is worrying, though they certainly comment enough. I want to throw people out of windows sometimes. Needless to say, being perpetually starving has done nothing to ease my temper, and it has made my mood swings all the more terrible. I still feel fat, awfully so, which I acknowledge is just stupid. But for whatever reason, I can’t get it out of my head and I keep losing more weight as the months drag on. All of the clothes I bought recently are too big now. I have to keep altering everything so it doesn’t look like I am wearing something two sizes too large.

Yesterday all I got was the sugar, not the sleep. Today I only got the sleep. It makes me feel psychotic, being this way. Trading one sin for another and hoping that it will be enough to get me through another day. I went quading after waking early, since it became obvious that the only way I was going anywhere was if I did it myself. I nearly crashed a few times driving far too fast around winding corners. I didn’t care. I came home no better, no freer. I still feel my chains no matter how far I run, that is the sickening part. There is no getting away. I finally drugged myself up with some pills from the cabinet. Fell asleep for hours and hours, and woke with the night creeping in through the curtains and a cat milling around below my bed.

I can only ask myself these days, if there is anything worth it to make going on like this a bearable burden. I can write all I want, read, I can draw, I can fight all I want, but every single day I go to sleep knowing that it will get no better. I can integrate, I can make a life for myself, but it will not make me happy or even slightly less insane. I will never wake up feeling vaguely contented with where I am at and who I am. There will always be visions of something wretched.  

In the end I know that all I am doing is the thing I so adamantly disagree with: searching for reasons that I’m never going to find, just like everybody else.

Rift.

I want to self-sabotage. I want to ruin everything and make sure there is no hope. I admit that. I don’t want this to work; for once I want the failure, if only for a reason, a little shove.

My mom was giving me a long talk this morning, the kind that is supposed to be comforting. She was telling me what I should do, I got annoyed, and said something like, “Yes, I know”, which prompted her to say some words, that at the time, I took the wrong way.

“You always make so many mistakes.”

A long pause.

“Why, because I’m a fucking failure?”

I said it out loud, I said it. I said it in that bitter, if-you-only-knew voice, and smiled grimly even though I knew I sounded childish. Of course she says she didn’t mean it that way. She makes the point that I always come back after doing something and talk about what I should have done, that I should try to be more prepared this time, since I always forget what I’m supposed to say or ask. 

Yes, because I can’t get anything right. I know. You wouldn’t believe how acutely aware I am of it.

It was just not the time to say it, not at all. I felt like it was all glaring back at me, laughing, mocking me. Sometimes I think the past is what kills me, more so than the future. It seems to transcend time and taint any positive thoughts I have left. I let it get to me, because in some ways, I feel it’s what I need to force myself to make some sort of move and end my idleness. I play it over and over because I want to drive myself crazy. I want to snap. I want to look at the world as more vile and ugly than anything else, and see not a single redeeming quality in it. Just to make it easy. Just to make it worth leaving, even if it isn’t entirely true. I’d use a lie if it could make it simple. I’d end as a hypocrite, quite contentedly.

I went to the city, did what I needed to do. Put resumes and cover letters in everywhere. I stopped by the Humane Society, put in an application and filled out some other papers so that they might call on me to volunteer sooner or later. It was very difficult at first, walking in, asking, when I feel so fucking inadequate. I have so much trouble just talking to people. And the more time I spend alone, locked away in this room with all the curtains drawn and the sunlight chased out, the more I let it take its hold.

But the numbness has grown worse as I predicted, and for whatever reason, after the first few times of approaching yet another customer service desk, it didn’t make my hands shake. I was nervous, but it was very diluted and vague, not quite the tangible thing I’m accustomed to. Instead, there was mostly tiredness and a voice in my head that told me darkly, that it is all so pointless. That voice of pitiless truth. Maybe that was why I managed to go through with it.

There always reaches a point where exhaustion is far surpassed, and a strange residual weariness sets in. Instead of walking, you slow to a crawl, dragging your feet, dreading every single step, almost counting them. I always tell myself when I start running, “Just imagine how much it’s going to hurt the further you go”.

I’ve kind of given myself a secret ultimatum. I don’t really like where either option leads, but these days I don’t seem to like much of anything to begin with. I feel like I am sort of at this turning point; perhaps it’s age, but nothing to do with legality or anything of the sort, just an inner feeling I can’t fully put into words. Compelled, is close to what I mean. I’m being drawn in toward something, or maybe subconsciously I am pushing myself in this direction. I think I want black and white, which I know isn’t all that possible, but in this case, it is, oddly enough. I’ve made it that way. I was afforded this one piece of control, this one meaningless life to fuck up if I so choose.

 I was irritable beyond belief for most of the day (my mom got the brunt of it, unfortunately), and putting on a fake smile made me grind my teeth. It took all day to get everything done. But everyone was very friendly; I didn’t meet one person who was rude or who wasn’t willing to help, which was a very pleasant change. When I finally did finish, I was in a better mood because I hadn’t any reason to be angry with what went on. It wasn’t what I expected, and though I had no appetite, I did not feel as ill as I had expected. I wanted nothing all day but for it to be over and night to fall again.

Done, for now. And night has indeed come.

Worst nightmares aren’t so terrible when you live them.

I can’t think of anything more horrible than having a bunch of neighbors milling around my yard. Truly, there is no thing that irks me greater than having my personal sanctuary violated by indolent, rubber-necking strangers. I just couldn’t believe we invited them to be there.

 They always gawk; that is the way of people in tiny backwater communities. But having a yard sale around here is like some grand event. The termites crawl out of the woodwork to inspect the goods. It had to be done, I suppose. Our garage is like tumor that just won’t stop growing. So many storage containers piled halfway to the ceiling, making a miniscule (and very precious) void to park vehicles. Technically it’s a four car garage, but Christ, you wouldn’t know it. We had to get rid of some of it, and why not make some money while doing so?

But three hermits having this sort of thing is weird. Everyone was clearly intrigued, plastered to their car windows every time they went by our house. Not that they aren’t always…we’re like the haunted house on the block. Too neat to fit in, too distant. They watch us. Even our acre of property isn’t protection from their constant stares.

It used to be I could walk out into my yard with nothing on, or half dressed. Our old house had so much property, all atop a steep hill. I could do whatever the fuck I wanted, and our two neighbors, the wife beater & wife to the right, karaoke family to the left (you could hear their screeching across the canyon—goddamn those loud amplifiers), couldn’t have given any less of shit. They couldn’t even see our house, and the thought of coming over and saying hello never entered their conscience.

Those were the good old days, back when I couldn’t walk up the hill to visit my goats without fear of ticks and poison oak. But fuck, the damn solitude and beauty of the place made up for it. I found out recently, that the family who bought our beautiful little house couldn’t make the payments. It’s all empty atop that hill, where one pine tree, the same age as all the others, has grown twice as tall from all the childhood pets I buried beneath it. I guess that saying is true: you don’t know what you had till it’s gone.

Don’t get me wrong, the woods here are amazing, but they aren’t lush and green like I remember so fondly from when I was a kid. There are no leaves here to change with the season, no lovely reds and oranges and yellows. The ground isn’t that almost black, incredibly rich soil that used to grow anything. You’re lucky if you can get a rugged little pine tree to grow here without complaint. I like it, but it’s not my home. I still don’t feel like this is it, “The Place”. I know that if I do come into money, I will easily leave this place behind. Someday, maybe I’ll go back home again. 16 years is what it took for it to root into my heart, and as ridiculous as it sounds, I know it will never be fully replaced. Now I’m telling another story….

Today stretched on forever. I was a little homesick, for the first time since leaving. It’s been so long, so I really don’t get why I feel it now, of all times. But all those people invading and looking around, just made me miss my little ‘cottage’ on the hill. We never would have thought to have had a yard sale there.

I dealt with the people. I had to put up signs the other day, and when I was hammering one into the ground near the highway with the blunt side of an axe (yes an axe; someone misplaced the hammer), two boys rolled down their windows and shouted obscene things at me. There parents were in the car with them, too—that’s great parenting for you. I grinned, completely disgusted, and waved my axe at them. 

I placed people’s purchases in the bags, and stayed out of conversation for the most part, when it was avoidable. It was very hot today, but I wore long sleeves and gloves and kept my hair down to keep the sun at bay. I get burned so easily here, that I constantly have to cover up and suffer because I know I’ll end up red if exposed for a mere five minutes. Even sunscreen isn’t all that effective, so I slather it on repeatedly. I’m like one of those stereotypical nerds people make fun of when they go to the beach. I never see daylight except behind sunglasses and long sleeves. I should feel foolish, and people always comment, but I don’t bother caring anymore. Oh well. You think I’m weird? That’s grand. It probably didn’t help that I wore all black clothing, was somewhat dusty, and smelled like a gasoline canister. Quading clothes from yesterday. I didn’t even wash my hair, though it had that scent of engine exhaust to it when I went to bed last night. It’s like an aphrodisiac. I want to bottle that smell. Maybe I should work somewhere with cars.

So many people said, “You’re that girl who goes walking!” It was a bit disturbing to think about. But they bought my shit, useless shit I don’t want anymore, so I guess they can be tolerated. It was life story day too, like at college. I tried to talk to someone over IM about this, and she more or less said I was an ass for getting irritated with people who were trying to build an acquaintance. Well, I dunno, when you first meet someone at college, and this girl tells you that her boyfriend was shot in some horrible accident and she went to such and such elementary school, such and such junior high, and such and such high school, and her parents were over for Thanksgiving from whatever state, and that last night she had blood in her stool—and oh, do I think she should go to the doctor—-is a little too much information for a first introduction? And no, I did not just exaggerate, believe it or not. This really happened. In all honesty I don’t think I’m being overly harsh when I say, blatantly, I just don’t give a fuck. I’m not apologetic about it either—I just don’t.  

This is turning into five posts in one, but anyway…. It went okay. It wasn’t total doom or anything. I didn’t die, or run inside and hide in my room. I faced the beast and he pissed on my clothes rack and it wasn’t so bad (that was actually someone’s dog, but I digress…). I did eat enough ice cream to stock up for next winter, and binged on every food imaginable from all the stress after the day was complete. I drank White Russians and ate birthday cake that wasn’t mine, and went quading in the heat and saw three deer. It was like I lived a week of my general dullness in one day, and it felt like overload.  

I have to get up and do it again tommorrow. Damn.

Hiding away.

I’ve returned to my bizarre nightly schedule. The entire being awake before 1:00PM routine just isn’t for me, apparently. I only lasted a week. It’s 3:30 in the morning—I feel the tiniest bit delirious. 

I don’t know what is going on with me. I’ve been having nightmares, which never happens, and I’ve been shrugging everything off. I’m very Scarlett O’Hara lately, and fuck, tomorrow is another day, is it not? I haven’t even begun to think about the college thing, because each time I do, my stomach tightens and I feel the acids churning unpleasantly. I could try more places for work, but the truth is, I don’t feel like going through with it anymore. It’s a waste of time. People are going to go in and give a sob story about how they need a job to support their family, and I’m going to look like the privileged child who is looking for employment purely out of boredom.

Okay, the last part is half true. But hell, I would give my parents money if I could. We are always struggling. It’s hard to sustain three people when only one works, one is disabled, and the other is too stupid to have had a job previously. We’re such a motley group, mother with her love story obsession and 3 pound chihuahua, dad with his guns and fishing boats, and love of flowers, and me with my cats and loads of electronics that I sure the fuck don’t need, and mountains of horror movies that I watch through half-lidded eyes.  

I’m sinking deeper into the numbness for awhile, and it is much needed this time. I’m grateful. I want something to take over for awhile, that blessed autopilot. I know it is useless to say anything. I’m choosing to remain static in the world of chaos, as always. The dullness of it is so easy to fall back into. I forget sometimes that there is supposed to be something beyond this, that my laziness and safe position will not last forever. My parents will only tolerate me for so long. Sometimes I wish they would just give up on me; it would be easier that way. But I guess the truth is, I don’t deserve the easy way out in this situation; I’ve done it all to myself.

The dove is best part, because life goes on, doesn’t it?

Day gone wrong. The apathy.

I know I should be angry with myself right now, but I’m not. In fact, this is one of those rare occasions where even the guilt of knowing what I should be feeling still hasn’t managed to break through the apathy. It’s impervious, for the first time in a long while, and I am not sorry.

It started off as a bad day, the continuation of an irritating night. I never slept, but stayed awake well into the morning. I get very annoyed and hostile when I go without sleep, and that’s saying something.  I decided it needn’t be an entirely useless day as the past few have been. It was 6:30, barely 20 degrees, and I went for my walk. My mom was feeling ill before I left, and had laid down on the couch to try and rid herself of nausea. She took something for it as well, so I thought nothing of it.

I get back, and she’s still not feeling good. I had promised I would make us something, so I lived up to it, and made a pizza from scratch for lack of anything else to do. While I was working on that, she got no better. When she ate, however, she seemed to be alright. She was sitting up acting normal, so I assumed whatever it was had passed, and that the bread had helped soothe her stomach issues. She has insomnia quite often, and due to her spinal cord injury, it can result in some very bizarre side-effects, that to anyone else would appear to have no connection to sleep loss. But of course, I’ve been through this before, I know the drill. But she feels sick again after awhile and lays back down. I wander away, unconcerned, not even thinking about it.

I’m watching some low-grade horror film while I dye my mess of hair. Which, by the way, went wrong. I bought a different dye (rather, my mom did), simply because it was on sale. It was only when I was opening the package that I realized it might have been a mistake. It says “Now done in ten minutes!” and I groan. My roots are a blondish red now; I’ve lost a lot of the brown I used to have a few years ago, though it is still very auburn, and dye just does not take well. I usually follow the “for a lot of grey” directions, i.e. leaving it on for 10 minutes longer, which generally manages to smother out all traces of my wretched, accursed red hair. Anyway, I apply it, and am disturbed by the fact that it doesn’t seem to be taking while I do the rest of my hair.

My mom comes in, even though she is sick (she just can’t stand to not help; it’s ingrained in her, it seems), and helps me get as much of the red as possible, though we still can’t tell what’s been dyed and what hasn’t. Between her terrible vision and my shitty mirror, we finally relent and assume that it’s going to take. The front does; it turns black. But traces of red are everywhere. I wait out the time, then go to the mirror to check, irritated when I see that the back still hasn’t taken. So I think I waited…20 minutes? The maximum was supposed to be 15…but I digress.

I wash it out, hop out of the shower and get dressed. My hair is toweled; I don’t bother to look at it. And as I’m sitting down to watch some other mundane video, my mom comes into my room again, murmuring, “Something’s wrong”. She’s shaking, can’t stop shaking, in fact. Says she feels freezing, and each shiver sends her into terrible spasms, which for an incomplete quadriplegic, are sheer torture. This is strange, because she is constantly complaining that the house is too hot; that combined with constant hot flashes means she sleeps with a fan on in the dead of winter. So I know that, indeed, something is off.

I make her lay down. She had been fluttering around the kitchen like she always does, obsessive compulsive about keeping it all clean and making sure that when my dad comes home dinner is waiting. But I convince her to come into my room, and set her up in my bed. I’m just the opposite; my heater runs constantly, so my room is a nice, balmy 80 degrees, much better alternative to the icy living-room. I’m not thrilled about her being in my bed; I have a very strong sense of smell and I can always tell when someone has been laying in my blankets. But I decide that if I don’t do something, dad will likely have a nice long talk with me later. Rather not.

My apathy was at its highest peak today. I didn’t feel anything the whole time. I just blinked, stared, getting annoyed by her whimpering. So I left her there and made her hot tea, then gave her a valium. She kept shivering and spasming, and had also developed a high fever. I snorted and walked over to the computer to continue with the waste of a movie. My tiredness was starting to set in, and I began to regret allowing her the bed I could be sleeping in. Yes, this is what the sadistic, apathetic monster thinks about. She also wonders briefly if the color came out right in her hair.

I decided to tend to it, since it was probably dried. I hear her whining even from the bathroom, but I pointedly ignore it. There was a tiny pang of guilt, but it died out as quickly as it came. I know she was in a lot of pain. But I kept thinking to myself that what is life but pain? What do I do everyday by getting up, but endure more of it? Emotions are covered over, buried deep down where they can’t come within miles of me. I start brushing my hair, and finally look up into the mirror. Great. Just fucking brilliant. I want to rip my hair out, but decide against it, instead just brushing rougher and scowling at how useless it all is.

My roots are dark red from the middle of my head to the back. The front came out just fine, since it was on the longest. So now I have black hair with darker red roots for pretty much half of my hair. What a waste of a bottle of dye. I knew that shit was doomed to fail. Thankfully, my apathy extends even toward myself and I just shrug after a moment after I accept reality. Oh well. Yes, I dyed it just in case I do happen to get an interview, and of course, the one time when I need it to look decent, it looks like a five year old dyed my hair for me. But that’s life.

My mom was unwell even after the Valium took effect. But she decided she needed to go to the restroom, and ended up, with much struggling, going back into the living-room. As I’m about to descend into sleepland, after making sure she’s still alive and breathing, I heard her steps in the kitchen. I wanted to growl. My eyes were bloodshot, and I hadn’t slept at all, but I dragged myself out of bed to go reprimand her.

Guess what she’s was doing? Defrosting the meat for dad’s dinner. Sometimes her ignorance is fucking astounding. She asks me why she is sick sometimes, or why she hurts in whatever place, and I ALWAYS know the answer. Because she won’t stop doing things. She won’t sit down and rest like I tell her over and over and over. She has too much faith in me as well. She always expects me to know what’s wrong, to know what’s best. I don’t, I’m not a doctor, and I only know bits and pieces about the human body. I can only guess. But what I do know for certain, is that in her state, overexertion can cause a hell of a lot of problems. She just doesn’t get it, clearly, since she repeatedly gets her neck inflammed terribly from working far too hard.

I don’t hate her. I really don’t. I did, once, when it all happened. I hated her more than I hated myself, and I wished the worst on her because she took what little I had away from me in one single go. I haven’t trusted her, or anyone else since, and I know now that I am likely completely incapable now. But I grew out of it, the hate. I know that she cares more than anyone else does, so I’ll be loyal to her, even if I can’t love her or be sympathetic. But I’ll stand there, be there in that small way, at least, since she usually does it for me.

We’re so different. I wonder sometimes how we can even be related. I know that if we weren’t family, we would never have any reason to be friends. I’m cold where she’s loving, she’s faithful where I’m skeptical and critical, I’m hateful where she’s forgiving. I try, I really do, which is why I no longer berate myself for not being a caring sort of person. My loyalty gives me the illusion of being caring, and so long as people assume that it’s love, it doesn’t matter, I can get away with it without being noticed. I’ve told her I don’t love her, because even as much as I want to lie and pretend that I’m all right in the head, the last thing I want to do is lie about something that important. I’ve told her. But I know she doesn’t believe me. She thinks underneath the moody exterior there is something whole and heroic beneath, but I’ve always been a villain, and with each day, that tiny bit of light that used to be there gets drowned out. I can’t remember the last time I did something that didn’t have fully acknowledged selfish implications. If I do something, I do it for me.      

I slept, eventually, after yelling at her to “lay the fuck down”. Dad is home, taking care of it. Off my shoulders now, not that it was ever there to begin with. Though I guess this entry is proof enough that it at least concerned me somewhat, maybe. I can only guess as to whether or not it is actually emotion or conditioning. Like crying at a funeral. I only ever did it because I knew it would look awkward if I didn’t. Girls are supposed to be emotional, supposed to cry, according to distorted societal ideals. I can’t be an emotionless, blank-staring monster. It would be suspicious. I have it ingrained in me to feel bad for doing something deranged, even though I know in my head that there is no such thing as right or wrong. 

I’m still tired, and this entry is far too long.

Nice or sinister? With some people, their smiles are difficult to read.

Yesterday I went to a city a few hours from here. They have a huge mall, something that is fairly non-existent in the area I live in, so I thought there was a good possibility I might find something interesting. Like I said some posts ago, I’ve been searching for boots. It was also just an excuse to get out, and my mom loves to go driving to new places, so it worked out.

I never did find my boots, though I got more useless clothes as a buffer for my depression. No, it doesn’t work, except for the first five minutes. Afterward, meaning today, I regretted some of my purchases. I actually would throw some of them in the trash in frustration, but then it really would be useless, now wouldn’t it? Doesn’t that sound like something a spoiled little child would do? Throw things away in a fit of rage? Hm. For some reason that still does nothing to quell the thoughts. I buy things on impulse; I hate it when I do that. I already took the tags off; no taking it back. It’s too far away anyway.

We stopped at a surplus store on the way home. I walk in the door, wearing my old pair of boots. They’re ready to fall apart, but I don’t care. I immediately get cornered by some man I don’t recognize, and find him asking me too many questions for me to really recall. He gives some sort of comment on my boots, about liking them, etc. After I give an automated answer, I give him a sideways glance and stalk away, realizing that he’s not some random person, he works at the store. Maybe it’s okay then? I still thought he was a little overbearing, but given that I was in the perfume section at Macy’s only an hour earlier, with saleswomen circling me like vultures, I figure, hey, maybe he’s just nice and shrug it off.

I’m alone all of…a minute? If that. He’s back again. I’m examining a tactical vest and he’s saying, “Oh, you’re that kind of girl.” I mutter something about “just looking”, and he laughs. He tries to start yet another conversation, but I manage to get away after a few murmured answers. Now I’m starting to think something’s weird. There are other people in the store, so I’m hoping he’ll go bother them, as there is a huge boot section I need to investigate further.

Now if he was not around 50 years old, this wouldn’t have been as strange. I wander into the boots, glance around and realize there are no knee highs to be found. When I see used army and navy uniforms I make a beeline for the back of the store, and immediately start trying things on. Naturally everything is all out of order, so I have to sort through an entire rack to find my size. I see my mom moving through the displays, and end up showing her the things I’m looking at. Then he’s back again. Internally I groan. I know that I can’t tell him off, because I’m deeply considering buying something and I don’t want anything fucked up on account of my being a cold bitch.

He says something like “so that’s where you went”, as though he’s been looking for me. Now I’m getting not only uncomfortable, but more than a little irritated. I haven’t been without his presence for even five minutes. I release the jacket I’m about to try on when he says something about it looking good on me. I’m not at all in the mood to be examined. I grind my teeth at this point and my mom is not saying anything either, though we exchange a “what is with him?” glance.

This is when it gets into a conversation. He’s asking a bunch of questions again, and I just let my mom answer. Somehow we get on the topics of boots for a second time, and mom ends up telling him that was the reason we came to town. This is where it goes from mildly irritating to screaming in frustration. He keeps talking about how they don’t have any knee high boots but they might be able to order some. In order to get the the right sizing I’d have to try some on.

I confess, my social anxiety makes me want to curl up in a corner and die. I can’t stand trying things on in front of people, shoes or otherwise. It just makes me very uncomfortable, same thing with eating. I can’t eat in front of strangers. I pick at food, then wind up eating nothing. Strange, I know, but I’ve been that way since I was a child.

Thankfully he runs off to do whatever, and I stomp over to the jackets, hoping he’ll forget, though I know it will never happen. I never did find one of those jackets in my size, as I didn’t get all that much time to look.

Back he is again. I only tolerate all of it because I’m hopeful that there might actually be boots that I want in that stupid magazine. All of them are steel toed and lined for cold weather. The fact that they all seem to run upwards of $300 puts me off though. He comes back with a 7.5 when I told him an 8 or a 9 (they’re men’s shoes, so the sizing was all off for me), but I grudgingly try it on anyway, and barely manage to get my foot in. My toes are all smashed into themselves, so he goes and gets yet another. My mom is with me the entire time, like a protective bear—it makes me want to smile. 

I try on the new ones, and he just HAS to say something about my socks. The bottom part is covered in rainbow stars (don’t laugh…), which is fortunately all he can see. In actuality they are knee high with GIR from Invader Zim all over them. Another compliment comes that makes me want to throw the heavy shoe at him, but I smile benignly. What can you do? This time it was something about how I have style or some such bullshit. I was dressed like a preteen, wearing purple pants, combat boots, and a shirt with GIR and neon stripes on it. I had to change in the car from my “adult” clothes because it was so stiflingly hot, and because we had nowhere to go, I didn’t give a shit if I looked like crap. Now I know he’s just after something and I’m completely suspicious.

It gets weirder. I have to get wide shoes because I’m flat footed, and when I mutter it (becuase all of the shoes are narrow as fuck), he automatically pipes up that he is too. Oh yay. He lifts his hand up for a high five and I consider ignoring it. I’m too old for it, far too old. I went to college, I’m not 12. Then the more malicious, clever side tells me “could mean a discount if you treat him nice”. That’s all the encouragement I need, so I humor him.

The second shoe doesn’t fit either, so he steals my boot and tries to look for a difference. I’m kind of miffed because I hate people touching my things. My boots are sacred, more so than just about anything. I keep them impeccably clean, even in my messy room and from the sloppy, muddy roads.

Finally we go to the register to see this magazine, and he leaves us alone for a moment, not before introducing himself a SECOND time, and shaking my hand. This is the second time I’ve heard his name, and I still for the life of me, can’t remember what it was. I’m too busy trying to gauge the smile—what does it mean? The humanist wants to assume that he’s just one of those annoying, overly nice people that you sometimes want to club, but tolerate, due to the fact that you know only a jackass would crush such a optimistic moron with cruelty. But he’s touched me a couple of times, laying a hand on my arm, etc., so it’s boiled down to something being quite wrong. Too many red flags. He asks me my name, and I give it, then turn away. I guess I had a high tolerance for bullshit that day. Or maybe I just really wanted boots.

Of course, he isn’t gone forever. He comes back after we talk to the guy at the register about the shoes. They do have one type of knee highs that they’re going to check up on. There’s no hope though; there was no price. I’m sure they aren’t even going to be a whopping $300, but more in the $500-600 range. Still, we leave our number (something I later regret, though nothing has come of it…yet). Mom has already said we are in a hurry (we are both looking to get away from the place, though there are about a hundred unique things there that I’d love to buy), so we finally depart rather quickly.

We laugh about it in the car, discomfort gone. Yes…it was a little weird. I’m writing this all down so that I don’t relapse into thinking I’m crazy later. I keep doubting things that have happened; my memory has been completely shot lately.

About the boots, not that anyone would care, but if I come back and read this later I might want to know. I bid on some on ebay, but eventually gave up when they went to high. I’ve decided I want New Rocks, either the 161 or the 272. I was going to buy another pair of Demonias, but I’m finally facing up to the fact that I want what I want, and if I buy the ones I’ve been looking at from them, I’m merely settling (I already got the Reapers; they can’t make anything more impressive). Now I’m going to have to save up a good, solid $300 to cover them…. That $2oo more than I wanted to spend. Oh well. I guess I can save for it. At least that way I have something to look forward to when nothing else seems to get me interested.

I also might get a job in a few months where my dad works. They might be hiring soon, and they usually take employees’ kids no questions asked when they are short on staff (they always are during spring and summer). Might get me work for 6 months at least, so I can help my parents out with the bills—and of course, buy insanely expensive boots from Spain because I’m materialistic and don’t give a fuck about it. I guess I’m Jack today.

There’s nothing to do anymore but what brings a little bit of pleasure. There isn’t anything else. It’s all useless now, and I don’t want any of it.

Those who mock.

I’m just going to go mad. Get it all off my chest.

You what annoys me? People who mock you,  yet are too cowardly to do it directly to your face. It’s like those school bullies who aren’t brave enough to actually assert their alpha status, so they lurk in corners with ten friends at their elbows, whispering things as people walk by. In fact, I have more respect for the assholes who get in your face about it, than the ones who giggle behind their hands and scamper away.

I had sort of an eventful day, an eventful few days, to be specific. Everyone seems to have a problem with something I’m doing lately, and it’s quite irritating. How it is anyone’s business is beyond me. That’s just it; it’s none of their fucking business, yet they seem to think they can make it their business.

I like my godparents, but my godmother has her moments. She tends to be very insecure, particularly when it comes to aesthetics (i.e. weight). When people come to your house it should be to have fun, not to hear twenty comments about how you look.

I always expect comments from them; it comes with the territory. Everyone always says something about my hair, and quite frankly I’m fucking sick of it. Yes, it’s black. No, it doesn’t match my skin tone, I know this, so there is no need to continually point it out. No, I’m not going to change it/cut it just because you don’t like how long it’s getting or that it’s black. It’s been this way for nearly five years now. Do you honestly think hearing it from every damned relative/acquaintance is going to change my mind? If you do, you know nothing about me.

This time it was weight. It was this way last time they came over as well. Endless comments, not all good. What I hate though, is that I left the room for a few minutes, and my godmother said a bunch of things to my mother about me (my mom told me later of course, and defended me, as always). I honestly hate to say this, but I know she’s jealous of me, my godmother I mean. She’s been getting more and more defensive about all of it, and more or less told my mom that I lost the weight too fast, and that it was unhealthy. (It’s been 6 months, and I’ve lost about 50 pounds, actually a quite healthy time span, even if the dieting wasn’t always…perfect.) She kept arguing with my mom about it, as though she knew what she was talking about. My godmother only saw me about two or three times during the period I lost weight, so of course it seemed drastic to her. You would figure she’d understand that part.

She’s done this before, the exact opposite though, with my mom when she was younger. She basically called her fat (way more than just once, I might add) in a sissy, cowardly way, so in no way is this all unfounded. It’s happened before, and my mom is not the type to defend herself. She lets things stew and stew, and she never, ever retaliated. Needless to say, there’s always a bit of tension there on my mom’s side at least.

It’s not concern either, it’s that hidden biting kind of comment that makes me pissed. My godmother has to keep chiming in that she’s smaller than me, and so on and so forth, and really, I couldn’t give any less of a fuck; this isn’t a fucking competition. Who cares what size she is or what her measurements are. Yes, she just had to offer up her waist measurement when my dad was asking me about corset sizes, because she didn’t want to sound like she was outdone. You can’t see it, but I’m rolling my eyes. She’s just mad that we’re the same size and I only keep shrinking. Yeah, well, try hating yourself beyond all belief and you’ll get skinny too. It’s a beautiful recipe for disaster.

I hate it. I don’t want to sit there constantly getting blindsided by comments. No, I’m not getting too thin, in fact, I’m a very healthy weight right now. If I continue to lose weight, it’s none of your fucking concern, it’s mine. I don’t care how much you weigh, or if you’re skinnier than me, all I care about is me, and what’s best for ME. And if you’re so unhappy just lose weight, Jesus Christ, stop fucking griping like a child about it and having kittens because for once I don’t feel like I have to cover myself in three layers of clothes to feel comfortable. Be HAPPY for me. Be GLAD that I am feeling a little better and not eating myself to death like I was. I’m not really happier, that’s a blatant lie. I’m just more distracted. But you get the point.

Anyway, yes, I’m bitching. But I fucking swear, they were here TWO days and it NEVER ended. I almost went nuts. One thing after another. My godfather is always joking about it, but it still gets to me because it’s paired with everything else being said. I went to their house and all they did was offer me food, as though to see if I would ignore it or eat it. I’m not a fucking specimen to be studied. It just made me furious, and I am TRYING to be civil with them. If it was anyone else I’d be in their fucking face screaming at them to back the fuck off, but as it is…they are always great to me otherwise and they don’t deserve that. So I’ll bite my tongue…for now. If it gets worse, however, I won’t promise anything.

Then of course there were some instances at the store with strangers that I’m not going to mention. It all just added up to a boiling fury that needed to be unleashed. I just want to be left alone, ignored like I always am. It’s so much better, less complicated. When you’re fat no one looks at you twice; it’s great. It’s evil the way the world works, but I don’t control it, I only live in it. If people want to be nothing but narcissists, that is their prerogative…and stupidity. Suddenly I’m interesting because I’m more suited toward an ideal; it just proves, yet again, how people can be so easily swayed. And they don’t see it, that is the hilarious part.

The inevitable.

My lack of feeling is, at times, something that frightens me. If you can’t care about the ones who care for you, then what are you? I do not believe in being perfect, or being a so-called ‘good person’ in accordance with what society teaches us, but I do however, hold to my personal beliefs of repaying debt whenever possible.

When I talk about debt, to me it is an equivalent to money: it builds up over time. Someday you have to either pay it off, or shrug it off. You can ignore it, but when it is a very personal type of payment, it tends to have consequences on one’s mental health. Really, you feel like an utter asshole for acting as though the help was irrelevant when it came from someone who genuinely looked out for your well being with little to be gained for it.

I woke up this morning to a tapping. I’m laying flat on my stomach with my head buried in a pillow, blinking irritably, thinking to myself, “it’s not dad’s day off, so who the fuck is making all that noise outside?”. Then the dog starts barking insanely, and I roll over, thinking that it will all go away if I just ignore it. That works, for a few seconds. But the damned tapping continues, and I literally fling the blankets off of me, and stumble over the fan to the window. It’s so bright from the snow that I can’t see that well, but I do figure out that the car is parked by the deck, not its usual parking spot.

I decide to investigate. When I open the door, there’s my mom, out on the snow where she fell. There’s a clean patch in the snow where she slipped, revealing the long stretch of ice underneath. She’s stuck, can’t get up. Turns out she hit her head on the ice as well, and her legs aren’t working too effectively. The car doors are all open, so I can tell she just got back from the grocery store. Needless to say, someone who has broken their neck should NOT be falling down, or even worse, hitting their head. But with some effort one both of our parts, she manages to get to her feet without either of us falling.

This has never happened before, falling. But it just makes me realize how helpless she really is. I forget at times, I get too self absorbed, and she doesn’t whine about it constantly like most people would. In fact, if anything, she overdoes everything. Works too much, tries to accomplish too much, so I am constantly telling her to slow the fuck down and take it easy. I don’t know where this laid back nature has come from; I never had it before, but in all honesty, I think being around people who are the “go, go, go” type, has really changed my own perspectives. It gets done when it gets done, that’s my philosophy.

Anyway, I know she’s going to swell up tomorrow. I’m just hoping she didn’t mess anything up from before. But at the same time, there is no worry, it’s just…thought. There isn’t a feeling attached to it. And sometimes, I desperately wish there was. She’s done a lot for me, even if she hasn’t been perfect. She doesn’t deserve pure apathy. Unfortunately, a vague loyalty is all I can offer anyone right now. I can’t decide anymore if that to me personally, is a good thing or a bad thing. I know I should care, because that’s what I’ve been taught, but is that the way it really is? In reality I don’t have to care, I don’t even have to think about it, but obviously I wouldn’t be talking about it if it wasn’t bothering me.

I guess it doesn’t matter; I can’t force it. And sometimes it’s better not being drawn into something. I know she’s not going to live long, I think that is why that there are times where I know that someday I will feel guilt for not having the proper emotions about it all. And it’s not just for me, it’s for her. I know she worries about me, and realistically it should be reciprocated…but…it isn’t. The more animal I become, the more things keep falling away from me. What mattered once, matters no longer. And I just can’t be sad about that, for whatever reason.