Like a portal through time

There’s this room here. Old photos are on the walls, even furniture, all from my childhood. It even has a similar smell, like that house scent of some place lived in where you walk in and you can almost sense the life lived between the walls. Everything is a lie though, painted over in sunflowers and filled with some kind of old regret and sadness. Maybe that’s something I brought with me. I’m not really sure.

I feel depressed here. It’s out in the flatlands, in this geographical blip of a place that’s entirely forgettable other than the cold and snow. You breathe outside and it feels frigid. Hurts almost. And I know it’s not just the cold, or the harsh winds that like to tear through the dying grass and the old, dilapidated houses. It looks like some place the apocalypse had its way with. Now all that’s left behind are husks and broken windows.

They’re both here, my parents. It’s like they never separated and I’m 12 again and we’re playing house. They even act it all out. So eager to please one another. I watch with a vacant expression. I stare out the window and feel my mind wander somewhere without me. I’m just looking. I’m just here, except I’m not. I don’t want to live that life over, but this house is like a fucking time warp that I just walked into, unknowingly. It makes sense now why she hasn’t let go, even after all this time. She’s living in the past every day in this house. It’s even in the kitchen with the bowls from the old house and the occasional knickknack collecting dust on the shelves.

There are even old blankets and photos of me everywhere. But none of him. Like she left him out to make a statement, except everything is his anyway. He’s there, in the movies on the shelves, in the bits of furniture he made. It’s like she didn’t want anyone to see, but I see it plainly, without difficulty. It’s lies, all those things she said, pretending to care. She doesn’t care. She doesn’t believe me. She still loves him. And all I can think of is knowing that I know what his dick looks like just as well as she does, and that every time he brushes past me, my skin crawls and I feel like the bile in my stomach is going to melt all the way down, down to my feet, where it will make a puddle and disintegrate the wooden floor below me. Like the acid blood from Alien. Drip drip drip.

But it’s not that bad, she says. I wouldn’t know what it’s really like. Oh, but wouldn’t I? I just don’t speak it aloud, don’t type it out. Because I can’t. It’s stuck in my throat or in my hands, where my fingers won’t extend to press into the keys. The words died a long time ago. They’re just pictures now, playing in a loop, a slideshow that’s playing on the screen in my mind all this time. I’m tense, but it’s easy to hide. I have made away with secrets for a lifetime.

This place feels like some kind of museum; a monument to something I’m not quite understanding. Maybe it will make more sense tomorrow. Fuck, I don’t know.

The greatest pain

I woke up sick in the middle of the night. There’s something about sickness that brings all your vulnerabilities to the surface. You’re miserable. You don’t want to move or get up at all. You’re trapped in blankets all day with a cold sweat that makes your skin shiny and damp. Makes fabric stick as you toss and turn. And you’re trapped there all day with your thoughts and your doubts and your fears.

I don’t have a television in my room. My bedroom is a sacred place. It’s where I lay and stare at the ceiling and think. There’s no sound but the white-noise whisper of a fan. And that’s just there to make sure that no other noises get in. This is my place, my chamber to intellectually decompress, to lay out all of the pieces of my life that I find distasteful and to ruminate.

Sometimes there’s a fantasy, either relived moment or one imagined; I can watch the pictures go by and sigh as I think of what is and what isn’t. It doesn’t matter here, that’s the real truth. It can be whatever I want it to be. It’s a powerful place, like a memory palace, but much more tangible. I look forward to the times when I lay in the blankets, alone, even when there’s a pain there.

I bring people here sometimes. It feels like a violation. I cleaned the blankets not long ago, but as I was skimming through a book, legs dangling over the side of my bed, a wayward hair tangled around my hand. It was light and blondish. I looked at it there, clinging to my hand. Sometimes doing the laundry can’t wash everything away. It’s a shame, that.

I don’t pine for this one in particular, but there is this dull ache of familiarity. The sensations were familiar but coming from the wrong person. It feels strange having them evoked and called upon that way, by this person who shouldn’t have that power. It felt alien and slippery, like something just out of my grasp. I wanted it yet I didn’t. I was open and yet I wasn’t.

I don’t actually like bringing people here. This is my space and I am stingy. I don’t want to share all the thoughts that I think here, I don’t want to share anything at all. It’s mine, all mine. Go away and don’t return. Take your slow touches with you, because they burn my skin and taunt me with what I don’t have. What I want to have from someone else, but not from you.

That’s the part that slowly kills you.

A perfect ending

I feel like I’ve pushed myself to some kind of unforeseen limit. I went down a rabbit hole a little too far, took some wrong turns, then wound up where I least expected. It’s come full circle, I guess. I wanted some kind of connection, I think. Not necessarily a real one, just something to tide me over until whenever it becomes too much again. It was too much a month ago. Two months ago. Maybe even six months ago.

I get this weird, lingering ache in my chest, a tenseness in my jaw. People touch me and I flinch and shy away. But there’s a longing, a deep awful longing, that never goes away. It stretches out forever, with its spindled, scarred fingers, clawing. Maybe it’s at my heart. My soul. Some deep part of me I’ve never given away to anyone. Can you give away everything and really give nothing away at all? How is that even possible? How fucked do you have to be for that to happen?

Yes, my fire. I think you called it that. Maybe that’s what it is: a fire out in a dark world, and I’m alone, sitting patiently in its flickering light. No one can come for you here, the voices say, no one at all.  I wait, linger. Waiting for the thing I desire to come walking by. Oh, how does it go again? I remembered it on the edge of a dream months ago, just a few words. Then today I stumbled upon it randomly, and it still hurts me somewhere like it did the first time I read it:

Remember me as you pass by,
As you are now, so once was I,
Once I was, wasn’t I? But not now. Not anymore. Everything feels like another slash, another wound, something to hide and cover and conceal because you don’t want to look weak. You don’t want them to know. They can’t know. They can never know.
It all felt like such a travesty. Like a rehearsed play that I had already seen, long before it was set in front of an audience. I knew what he would say, what he would do. Except it was so much worse in person. I don’t empathize very much, but I did then. It was all I could feel through the utter, complete indifference. I felt bad for you. I felt bad for your blown pupils and the way you looked at me. I felt like someone playing a part they weren’t supposed to play.
“I’m the wrong one,” I wanted to say. “I don’t have what you want… They took it all away.”
But it’s a lie. I just didn’t want to give it to you, and they were too weak to take it from me. It’s mine. I’m greedy and I want to keep it. I want that fire out in the dark somewhere, I need it. I need it to live. I’m sorry you don’t understand. You’re not the right one. It’s not that I hate you. It’s not that I don’t like you. I’ve just played this game too many times before. I’m apathetic and bored and you’re decent and I’m not, and that’s really all it boils down to. I’m doing you a favor, I promise.
That doesn’t mean it’s not sad. That doesn’t mean I don’t regret, because even a short time is better than nothing at all, isn’t it? But we had our time and I don’t know that we will have the chance for it again. I needed you to stand in the part for me, because what I really want isn’t coming any time soon, if ever.
I wanted to feel something, and I didn’t. I don’t know, does sadness count? Disappointment? And not even disappointment for you, but for myself. I wanted to scream at my own apathy. My own inability to trust to even the tiniest degree. It ruins even the slightest chances I have at some kind of fulfillment, physical, mental, whatever.
I’m a fucking monster and you should have known when you looked at me. And you kept looking. You stared into my eyes like you saw something there. It’s like you didn’t know it was just a trick of the light. Whatever flickers down there is not for you. You’re a little rabbit wandering down a hole, you don’t see it for its teeth and dripping saliva, you don’t realize you’re in the gaping maw of some hideous thing that is patiently waiting for you to walk all the way in, straight down its throat.
There was this moment where I thought you might say it. You were looking at me and I was under you, and I tensed because I was waiting, waiting for the awful words to come pouring out and to have to answer in some half-hearted way. I’m glad that your phone went off and you looked away. I don’t know what I would have said. Probably nothing. I feel like silence is almost worse, really. I must seem like such a bitch.
But I learned something. And I’ll take that. I can’t feel with any of you. I’m just too far fucking gone. I feel something physically, a little, enough to keep doing it, but no one’s getting in my head or heart or wherever. I bricked it all up and sealed it away. It’s too fucking late. And it doesn’t matter because you’re not meant for me anyway.
The worst part is, I don’t even care. I can stand forever by this fire. Out in the dark. Alone. Til death do us part.
As I am now, so you must be,
Prepare for death and follow me.
But you’ll never be like me. Maybe you should be grateful. Go back to you home, little rabbit. I’ll let you go this time, but only because you were sweet and didn’t mean any harm. You treated me like a person, not just a hole to fuck, and I respect that. Admire it, even.
You fucked me with love. I don’t even know how to feel about that.
Thanks, I think.

A welcome escape

So it’s done then. It’s strange how talking to my therapist was like talking to myself; I appreciate his ability to sit there soundlessly and let me speak. I talked and talked. I feel like I share more with the walls of my room than with any human being. But in that office with a stranger, far away, where the light shines in through the window and I watch the trees sway outside, I feel like I can say whatever flits into my brain, and it feels definite and solid for once. Real. I’m real, and I’m a person, and I’m sitting on that couch staring out the window, like I do every week.

I saw her when I was leaving, and her eyes were wide and red like she had been crying. She denied all of her lies, of course. Told me that her boyfriend and I had a misunderstanding, and that her “normie” friends have never had any issues with him. I’m curious to know if she actually told the therapist anything at all. I read him all the texts, mostly to prove my point, but partially out of spite, because I know that any words I said to her will be twisted into something over time, manipulated and changed to suit whatever new agenda she has. And she wants more than anything for the therapist to believe her, to think she’s a benevolent soul that cares about others before herself. I told him everything that was relevant, although there is more. It’s my parting gift to her.

Her boyfriend said, “it wouldn’t be fair if you lived with us because you’re attractive and [she] and I don’t have sex”. Yeah, that was all me, doing all the misinterpreting, I’m sure. I read it all wrong, obviously.

There’s relief, but the fear of not being believed keeps floating in my head, this heavy feeling on my heart. It’s not new, this feeling. It’s almost as old as I am.

I’m not sad I’ve lost a friend. When I think back on it, she was never really a friend to begin with, just something convenient, that I knew wouldn’t last. I wonder often if it will always be this way, if I will perpetually step through life plucking at threads of attachment that don’t exist to me. People latch on, I grow bored. I move on. I’m in a room of strands that hold nothing and mean nothing, and maybe, if I live long enough, it might stretch on for forever, just me, alone, looking listlessly out a window onto the street, watching all the people walk by.

Quiet

I think i probably spend too much time alone. It’s easier though than having to bother with others. And the truth is, my tolerance has become intolerant. I find myself grinding my teeth every time someone else speaks. They ruin a silence, the gap in conversation where my brain can sort things into some kind of cohesive mess that’s slightly more appealing and understandable.

My friend interrupts me now. Every time I pick up my phone to text, she immediately flings a bunch of questions my direction so I can’t type without long pauses. She’s jealous, I suppose. It’s strange to see. I tire of her attention seeking. She mentioned recently that she hoped we would crash into the bottom of the ravine while we were driving. She said that at least that way we would have more trauma to talk to with our therapist. I’m not sure what to say to that, not even now. And at the time, I said nothing.

She’s slipping further and further into her lies and I watch with lackluster interest. I told our therapist that I was sick of her constant stories with their changes. Every week it’s the same story with altered details, precariously placed in some kind of effort to intrigue me. She has told me she fears getting boring to me. She’s been listening to different music and constantly makes jokes about how “when we’re married” or “when we’re rich”, we’re gonna do _______. I’m not even sure where to go with it. I’ve discouraged her, but it makes little difference.

Then she told me the other day that she wanted me to tell her what I remembered from her doctor’s visit the other day because she “sometimes gets ideas and then thinks of them as part of the memory/story”. In other words, she knowingly lies.

This sudden insight into her own behavior is peculiar; she tends toward ignorance, willful and not. She’s never been particularly self-aware, if anything she has a strong proclivity for bragging and exaggeration. It just so happens that the previous week, I had a conversation with our therapist about her lying, then of course she suddenly says this.

I know for a fact that he (therapist) uses my words for her therapy. She has told me things he’s told her, and I have to stifle a laugh when I realize he’s feeding her my concerns. This should maybe be a warning sign of his untrustworthiness, but somehow I appreciate it. It’s been making my life easier.

I’ve grown tired of company. My current situation is frustrating at times. I find myself away more often than not. I go off by myself for hours and I don’t look back.

sick

I’ve been staying home. I came right back from my appointment in the city 3 hours away because I didn’t want to have to be with other people. I didn’t want to have to put on a face and grimace and deal with it. I’ve been overwhelmed and tired.

I told my therapist about what I did during the week. He asked me if it was a quickie because we were in the car, and if it felt good. Then he questioned if we had been fooling around while driving—all weird, seemingly inappropriate questions. I answered because his sudden interest in my sex life after months of more or less glossing over it and avoiding it, was intriguing. I assume he has some reason for asking those questions, but maybe he’s just a man and he doesn’t. I don’t know. Maybe he wanted to know if it was an impulsive act, or more thought out. Or maybe he was just curious and wanted to know how fucked up girls cope. Or maybe he’s a pervert. Fuck, I don’t know.

I met up again with my ex boyfriend, on a bridge out by a reservoir. He fingered me while I sucked his dick. He bought me a bunch of things, gave me money and I went home. Like a fucking hooker.

My therapist asked me if it was just sex, and I felt almost…insulted? How do you explain something—a feeling—to another person who has never experienced it before? Do you tell them it makes you crazy, this feeling? That without the other person, you suddenly feel like less, like a part of something that got shattered?

Then there you are, broken pieces held together, but it’s not enough to be anything. The good parts are gone, and you’re left alone, holding onto fantasies and daydreams because you’ve finally realized that everything was an illusion. You made this person out to be what you needed them to be, but when you stop and look, you realize that you were avoiding all the things about the relationship that were never going to work. He has parts of what I want, but only parts. The whole is riddled with addiction and anxiety and lies. Nothing will ever be true.

I could cut it all off and turn away. But then, there I am, left with nothing. I gave everything away already, and I guess looking back, there’s none left for me. I can have the fragments or I can have nothing and move along. But what’s life without some fire, without some pain? It already feels like what I get from it isn’t enough. I’m jaded.

I feel cheated. He gets to go home to someone else, and I go home alone, just like I wanted. I don’t know. I don’t want to be with him, but I don’t want to be completely without him. I want to fuck him and touch him, and be held for a few minutes. I want to be able to tell someone the truth about my life, to their face. He serves all those purposes. But is it worth feeling like this? Like everything is dark and hollow and terrible now? I don’t feel desperate or confused anymore, just tired. So tired and worn down. I want away, but I feel stuck in place. I already know how everything will turn out. It’s written in stone, the story told a thousand times. I’ve told the story myself.

Change. I keep asking myself who I want to be, and I think back to all the times I had to cower in fear and hide away. It’s been years, but even now when I think back to it, I flinch in disgust and self loathing. Whatever that was, never again. I can’t afford to go back. Making it out alive seems like some kind of distant, unattainable future, but there it looms. And so does the power to end it at any second. Everything, every problem I have ever had, it can be gone.

I can be done. Sometimes that’s the only comfort you get.

Calculated Mistakes

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I fucked my ex boyfriend in his car on the side of the road. He still has a girlfriend. He still thinks he’s done nothing wrong. Life could be better today. I had an extra session with my therapist since I went full-blown hysterical on Tuesday, and that seemed to pave the way for even more blatant stupidity and poor decision making. Because what do you do when you’re surrounded by chaos and feel overwhelmed?

Make more trouble, of course.