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[Jun. 19th, 2007|10:27 pm] |
This relationship is over. My boyfriend is a jerk, an idiot and a bigot. What a disappointment... years of waiting for a guy to treat me right, only to have the one who acted close to perfect at the beginning turn out to be a total dipshit asshole.
I am done with men. Now I just want to be alone.
What a fucking disillusionment.
FUCK relationships. |
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| (no subject) |
[Jul. 14th, 2006|01:09 am] |
I'm back. I dont remember my last entry but I know its been a while. I didnt look before I signed in and hit the entry button. This, by the way, is an alter ego for someone who has been an avid user of LJ for a substatial amount of time now I guess.
This is the part of me that longs to self destruct. I felt that tonight for the first time in quite a while.
Since the last post, in fact. Tonight, I felt the old familiar pain in my solar plexus. The pain of emotion that is so intense it becomes physical. At this specific moment, its my head.
Which may have to do with the enormous number of beers Ive drunk tonight. I suddenly have the urge to watch Clash Of the Titans.
Not sure where that came from. The beer, most likely.
Its this damned long distance relationship. FUCK LONG DISTANCE RELATIONSHIP SHIT!!!!!!!!!
That is all I have to say about that. I love him, but im not sure how long I will last in this. There are days when Im particularly unhappy such that all I can think of is dumping him. And there are days that Im so infatuated that all I can think is that Im in a fairy tale and Im so in love that if I were anyone else watching us, I would want to puke.
Its disorienting to say the least.
Do I follow the good feelings or the bad?
Which are stronger?
Im not sure. Its especially hard to tell when Im in the thick of one.
I remember a song I want to tell the whole wide work about you. I dont reallly know why I loved it, but I did. It is old. I was a kid.
I dont know.
Fuck. Fuck you. Fuck me. Fuckin A. FUCK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! |
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| (no subject) |
[Oct. 20th, 2005|11:25 am] |
The new bf's friend has managed to hang out with me every night this week, and we have plans for tonight. Instead of it just being him showing up everywhere I go, he actually asked me. And now I have his phone number. And tonight it will be just him and me. And with the cologne that he wears, no girl could expect to behave themselves around him. Besides which, I've been thinking about it, and have decided to propose to P that we implement a "don't ask, don't tell" policy. If he expects to keep me happy while leaving me alone for months on end for God knows how long, it's really his only option.
This is moving swiftly in the direction of us screwing. I want him so badly. And it's so naughty of me.
Maybe he'll give me a spanking. |
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[Oct. 18th, 2005|04:29 pm] |
In a new relationship. While it is awesome, there is already a complication. I love him very much, after only 3 weeks, and I am happier than I've been in years. Distugstingly happy. I want to be with him, and we are both talking openly about our future together. Our friends are asking us when the wedding will be.
The complication is one of his best friends from childhood who happens to be very attractive. And who happens to find me attractive. I want to be with Pat, but I also really want to have sex with him friend. His friend and I flirt. His friend gives me long, deep, lingering looks. Through conversation his friend has given me the impression that he's a very dirty boy. The kind of dirty boy that needs discipline from a tough but firm, and equally as dirty, woman.
I think the sex would be awesome. I can only imagine the kinds of things we would do.
When his friend is around I try to be prettier. I talk dirtier. I get more touchy-feely.
And he responds.
The other night on my couch he had his hands all over me even though Pat was right there. Pat interferred, but didn't make a big deal out of it. He mentioned a threesome in passing. "Who gets the front, who get's the back?"
One thing I really, really want to do is have sex with two men at the same time.
These two men would be perfect.
I've told him this. Mentioned nothing about his friend, but about the desire for this experience. He said it didn't interest him.
I don't know where to go from here.
But I know that my panties get all wet whenever I think about his friend. |
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[Jul. 5th, 2005|07:49 pm] |
It's official, I've ended up just like my mother. I am aimless, a self-victimizer and a substance abuser. I have chosen the path off self-destruction and I am walking the downward spiral of despair.
I am stuck in a loop that pulls me back to repeat the same old things over and over and over again and yet parts of my history are completetly disjointed. One moment I am member of a large family. Next moment thrust into solitude. Then family again. Then solitude. Then something completely unnexpected.
And I hate it. But I can't realistic ever "get away from it". But, still, I try. So, istead of living my life I'm pissing it away on drugs and empty, lonely apartments and inventing excuses for not doing things.
And the worst part is, that no matter how many of these self-confessionals I have about this very disfunctional part of my personality, I still never seem to do anything about it. I want to. I try to. But I always fail.
No matter what I try to say or do, it still ends up that every spare moment I am numbing myself from reality. I am officially a drug addict. I can not stop.
And I do not necessarily want to stop. But I know that continuing to will only make things worse. |
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[May. 29th, 2005|01:23 am] |
I'm back. I'm never really gone. I just hide.
I'm having visions. Very elaborate visions.
I think I might need a doctor. |
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[Mar. 30th, 2005|10:51 pm] |
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GOD HELP US. WE NEED YOU! WE'RE KILLING OURSELVES! |
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| (no subject) |
[Aug. 14th, 2004|01:38 am] |
It's been a while since I've updated this journal. I do so now because many of the feelings that this journal was created to express have returned.
They've only been gone because I've imposed upon myself lately a kind of forced resigned numbness. Nothing will happen to soothe my restless misery, so I will just stop feeling things in general--has been my decision. It's worked, so far. The last couple months have passed in a sort of "I don't give a shit" daze, and feeling nothing, or at least not feeling anything too deeply, though soul-crushing in its own way, is by FAR better than feeling the shit I was before.
But I should have known I couldn't keep it up for too long, no matter how hard I might try. The other night I was laying in bed, for hours and hours without sleep--as usual--and eventually found myself trying not to cry. Trying not to be sad about the unlovability that is reflected back to me from everything I touch, everything I know. I had stopped seeing it for a while, but I couldn't help but see it in that moment. And I don't even remember why. There had to be something that triggered it, and I knew, I mean I had simply read enough psychology crap to know that anything suppressed will find someway or another, however sideways or backwards, to stick its little head up out of the water. I just didn't have any other choice, besides doing something that would kill my father. Which is the last thing I want.
But eventually I fell asleep (thank you sleeping pills), and the nxt morning I just tried to forget about it.
Then tonight I saw Garden State and saw played out on the big screen in the most sweetest way, what I could only imagine as my so far unattainable salvation. I cried during the strangest moments, and some that were just plain sweet. And at the end I had a hell of a time holding back the flood of emotions that suddenly threatened to show ME who's boss, rather than vise versa. I could have had a major, major breakdown. I was right on the edge.
But, somehow I damned the flood, probably because I was in public and also because I was there with a friend and didn't want to subject her to my neurosis, which I don't know if she could understand (she has for herself the very happiness that I seek) much less tolerate.
I haven't thought about that until just now. Purposely.
And now, tonight, I have a mostly full bottle of sleeping pills sitting beside me. There are at least a hundred left in there, as it was one of those silly bulk-volume bottles from walmart. And though I haven't had it for long I've still probably used much more than I should have thanks to my merciless insomnia. But there's still quite a few left.
I almost, *almost* just took much more than I should have but a voice in my head told me I'd regret it.
Either I'd end up with kidney damage, jaundice, a stomach pump and terrified family members...or..... well. I guess I thought, THINK, that'd pretty much be the only option. I've overdosed on sleeping pills many times and they've never killed me before. Only made me sleep for a whole day or two. And I've never taken as many as hundred, but with luck--not to mention my tolerance--I just plain doubt they'd do the whole trick.
And anything else would be too dramatic. So, I guess I'll just take this as some stupid, pointless kind of sign and continue to plod on. Trudging through the lonely, hopeless crap field that is my life.
God hates me. God truely, truely hates me. |
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| You're upsetting the buffalo |
[May. 1st, 2004|11:13 pm] |
Ah the appeal of going mad. Teetering on the edge of sanity. I am of the opinion that if you ask whether or not you're crazy, or even wonder, then you most definitely are not. Part of being crazy is not knowing it.
I just watched Taxi Driver and found myself wanting to fuck Travis Bickles brains out. He could maybe hold one of those guns to my head while we screwed. Put his hands around my throat. Show me some of that rage that was so obviously there.
I have that rage. Sometimes it bubbles to the surface of my consciousness and shows itself in my eyes, so the people who look at me say, and in the things I say. Somethings I think and then suddenly I realize that not only did I think it, I also just said it. And then comes the awkward task of soothing the disturbed psyches of those who were present. Boyfriends, friends. I've chased some away that way. But it's been a while. You live, you learn. You push it down far enough that there's no chance of it coming up before you're able to stop it.
It started early. Around thirteen, while I was struggling with my feelings for my mother, who was also teetering on the edge. I had been raising my baby sister, Gloria, for two years by then. My mom was drunk all the time. Every night she'd drink herself into a stupor and every other night pass out in some random part of the house. Quite often in front of the bathroom door because Gloria's dresser was right by it, and that's often where she hid all her liquor bottles. We'd step over her snoring body which was flailed about in unflattering positions. At first I felt bad, tried to move her or at lest make her more dignified. But you can't force dignity on someone.
We'd been trying to get her to stop for a while. My stepdad would come to me before they went out to go bowling every Wednesday, tell me to search the house for the most recent stash and dump it. Once or twice he told me to replace the liquor with soapy water, which I did. Though I'd usually dump a good fifty to sixty bucks worth of cheap liquor down the drain per week, she never said a word about it. And she still managed to be drunk every night.
After a while I learned that the liquor was usually hidden somewhere near the places she passed out. She was on so much medication already that after sneaking a heavy swig or two straight from the vodka bottle she'd be knocked on her ass before she could get very far. We'd wait until she started snoring, which could be heard from any room on the top floor of the house, and then scour the area around her. We always found it. It was always dumped. And occasionally there'd be a day or two afterward where she'd only be wasted, but not unconscious. Eventually there wasn't a moment in the day that she wasn't intoxicated, regardless of the day. Christmas with the family, birthdays, thanksgiving, in public, in private.
Quite often I would stay home from school in order to take care of Gloria, who I still remember as the cutest baby in the whole world. Every year my absences from school would reach the absolute limit, until threats of being held back started. But I managed to get Bs & Cs anyway, so I was never actually held back.
During the day, though, she wasn't so bad as at night. Not that she wasn't drunk, because she definitely was, but during the day she was a nice drunk. At night she was mostly a whiny, sad, crying drunk. But during the say my stepsisters would be at school, my stepdad at work and it was just me, mom & Gloria so occasionally she'd decide to treat us. There was this one time when she decided to order us a pizza, but she told me not to tell the others. She said she had a secret stash of money that my stepdad didn't know about. And I had to stay in the living room while she went into her room to get it, so I wouldn't know where her stash was. Her eyes were so glazed it was like she wasn't even looking at me when she said it. Her words were sturring and it took forever to get a sentence out. I decided to follow her into her room anyway thinking I could maybe get a glimpse of her stash, which was probably how she managed to stay drunk even though we were dumping so much liquor all the time. I surprised myself by being even bolder than I had intended and I just walked in and stood right by her, thinking she'd just shoo me. But she didn't. I was literally three feet from her and she went to the bottom right drawer of her dresser, pulled the drawer out completely, turned (facing me), set it on the bed and went into the pocket of an old pair of black jeans under everything else, jeans that she never wore anymore. Pulled out a wad of twenties, removed two, put back the jeans and the drawer and then got up and walked right passed me out of the room. She hadn't seen me at all, even though I was right in front of her the whole time. I left, stunned, and she just turned to me, showed me the twenties and said, "See, I told you. I keep these for special occasions."
The next time my stepdad came to me really concerned again, I told him about the stash. Occasionally during house raids after that I'd check the jeans. They were always empty from that day forward. Again, Mom never said a word about it.
My mom had one of her legs amputated when I was five and continued to have problems with it for the rest of her life. The prosthetics would give her blisters on her stump, which is what we all openly called it, which would get infected and bleed and ooz pusses of all colors, because she absolutely had to walk on them, or at least she felt like she did. Either she was trying to hold down a job (never for long) or she would try to clean the house. And she had a hard time sitting still up until the point that she had no choice but to sit. Or lay. Or sprawl, or whatever.
When other members of the family started talking to her about her drinking, she always insisted it was because she couldn't handle the pain her leg caused. And then during the evenings when she was a whiny drunk, she'd allude that she thought I was the reason people were talking to her about it. She didn't have a problem with drinking, she had a problem with leg pain, she'd say. She couldn't take it and if anyone else had to deal with it, they wouldn't be able to either. Our wanting her not to drink meant that we wanted her in pain.
When people really started getting serious about their concerns, she went from being a whiny drunk to a mean drunk. Now it wasn't just that I was telling all these people about her problem, but I was turning the family against her. They were all trying to hurt her by taking away things that alleviated her pain and that was my fault. If I would just shut my mouth, it wouldn't be a problem for anybody.
But it became a problem when my mom would pass out in the dining room, wake up in the middle of the night so intoxicated that she didn't know where she was and would leave the house and wander around the neighborhood until my stepdad discovered she was missing and tracked her down. On one of these occasions, she had apparently just used the bathroom and got distracted afterward. She was found in our garden (dead garden) with just a shirt on--and a very short one at that-- and nothing else. Our garden was in the front yard so explanations were required to the neighbors. Being a rather impoverished neighborhood, most of them had thier own battles with narcotics, and so had dealt with similar things like that on their own, and occasionally we dealt with things like that of theirs, so they didn't pry too much. I didn't learn about it until a couple months after it happened which is good, because I probably would never have looked my neighbors in the eye again if I had known they seen my mother passed out in the lawn with no pants or underwear on. Pussy just hanging out. For everyone to see.
When I was eleven and Gloria was obout eight months old, I went to a bowling alley on the far side of Omaha with them. It was just the four of us since my stepsisters were with their mom for the weekend, which I envied. My Mom seemed relatively clear headed when we left that night, but within minutes of arriving at the alley she was so drunk she was ranting and making a scene and couldn't walk a straight line to save her life. My stepdad and she got into a fight only like ten minutes after he started his first game and she stormed off. I was secretly happy because I hadn't wanted to be there in the first place. While he ws up bowling his turn she told me to grab Gloria and dragged us out to the parking lot. She gave me the keys to the van and got in the passenger seat and put on the seatbelt. Her head was bobbing, just like the popular bobble head dolls people put in their cars that I now HATE. I strapped Gloria into her car seat as securely as I possibly could, and then got into the drivers seat. I just sat there for a minute before doing anything, nervous as hell. She wanted me to drive us home. But I didn't know how to drive, plus I didn't even know the way home. I was fucking eleven years old. We had driven pretty far to get to this place, so I knew it'd be a complicated route back and, being just a child, I knew I couldn't do it. I started the van, but then I just sort of sat there and looked at the steering wheel. All the lights and levers. I didn't know what they meant or what they were for. I could reach the pedals on the floor, but not comfortably. I thought about just doing it, just pretending it was a go-cart or something, but I was scared to death. Even if I could drive, I didn't know where to go. And I didn't want to be responsible for a wreck. I didn't want to hurt my precious baby sister, who was the only reason I hadn't already ditched the family to go live with my Dad. Eventually Mom got tired of waiting for me and kicked me out of the drivers seat. So I went around to the back seat, knowing she was too drunk to drive and the back might be safer than the front if there was an accident, but I knew it was wrong, but was even more afraid of saying anything. My stepdad had always been extremely strict about talking out of our place, "children were to be seen, not heard" he said, which infuriated me to no end but rarely was I ever as scared as when he got really angry, which was whenever we talked back, spoke out of place or questioned their, specifically his authority.
But I backed out. And as incredibly drunk as she was, Mom drove us home. I sat in the backseat with my seat belt as tight as I could get it, held Glorias hand and kept my eyes closed the whole time. If there were any close calls, I didn't see them. And mercifully, nothing happened. Soon enough we were home and I put Gloria to bed. My mom and stepdad got into one of the biggest fights ever that night after he got home. I just went downstairs to our room, put on my headphones as usual and/or read a book to escape it. While the floor banged and bumped above me. Not only were they fighting, they were violently wrestling. Mom had gotten physical and Taco had to fight back. He was staddling her and pinning her arms down as she hit him and the whole house was shaking with her effort. But it was a commong enough occurance that I had many escape routes. I blocked it all out with the songs of my favorite bands. With the sleeping pills I had stolen from my mother earlier that evening, after I had gotten home from school. The next day there were a lot of things broken in the house.
Three years later we finally had an intervention. She knew it was coming and just before, on yet another trip to that same bowling alley, she threw herself out of the van while on the interstate. She rolled into a field and ended up in some random neighborhood where she yelled and banged on people's doors until someone called the cops on her. She ended up in the hospital with a broken arm. It was actually a suicide attempt. She refused to see me at the hospital. When she came home she told me it was my fault she tried to kill herself because I had turned the whole family against her by telling them lies about her drinking and drugging. But I really had said nothing to anyone. They had seen it all to themselves, while I was just as shnned as she was. But, she insisted that it happened because of me, that I knew it was just for her pain, not because she was seriously an addict. And if her leg was better she wouldn't need it, any of it. At all. But I was telling everyone that she was just an addict. She was abusive and insane and we should take her salvation away from her so that she could go back to being in pain all the time. I didn't visit her at the hospital, but she couldn't avoid being released back home.
And she said barely anything to me, for quite a while.
And eventually, things went back to their same shitty ways, as though nothing had ever happened.
She went to AA for a month, though never seeming completely clearheaded in the meantime (from abusing her prescription pain killers) and slowly the drunkeness started coming back.
At four years old Gloria was used to Mom. We had explained her problems, the liquor, how bad and not-normal it all was and we all had multitudes of instructions for handling situations with my mom. Generally it involved going to the neighbors house. But as much as I tried to protect he from it, Gloria could always spot when mom was drunk and when she was sober.
Underneath it all, silentely, I was waiting for a chance to leave. My Dad lived in Rapid City and would take me in in a heartbeat. I finally started to feel that Gloria might be okay if I wasn't around, plus I had been getting in deep myself. I started stealing my moms drugs and taking them myself, to escape her, and life in generl in that horrible house. I took swigs off her vodka and got drunk in secret. I sat int he corners of the house and laughed at my own imagination until I sobered up. I started hanging out with the "wrong crowd", bringing drugs to school and taking them during the day. Then I started experimenting with this weird attraction boys seemed to have to me. Within two years I recognized this was the very path that was going to have me ending up the way I had promised myself I would never end up, which was the same as my mother. So, realizing the obvious way out, I told my Mom I was going to go live with my Dad. I continued to have problems there, but my life is inexorably divided between the time before that moment, and the time after. As it changed my life in just the way I expected it to.
Still, issues from all the years before then lingered and while my family life was infinitely healthier (though I never told my dad of the way it was at my Mom's, even though he asked--and he still has no idea to this day), I was suddenly faced with dealing with my own problems for a change, not my mothers. My dad gave me freedom and privacy and the opportunities to explore myself in ways that I'd never done in such a strict and stifled environment as my mothers. With distance came perspective, and I naturally got really resentful and bitter. I scowled and wore dark makeup and listened to music about self-destruction and suddenly felt this raging angst that permeated ever facet of my mind. I became obsessed with Nine Inch Nails, serial killers, suicide and music. Thinking that death was the only way, or something. I guess. While both of my stepsisters were on the honor roll every year and got lots of acedemic awards, I never got anything like that. Once my stepdad made a joke that I should be given the "Ghost Award" because I didn't stand out anywhere, in any one thing. This offended me especially because I had thought I stood out more than anyone. I was the smartest, the most mature and the most talented. Yet as far as academics, Sally and Crystal (my other stepsister had the same name as me) were constantly getting things from the school and our parents, because of grades, and I sat by quietly while they were praised. Despite the fact that I was what was holding the whole fucking family together. And what he didn't seem to remember was that at twelve, I had been awarded a full scholarship to an art school in Pittsburg for a simple sketch I had done of a profile of a girl. And I had four paintings placed in two different local museums. Once I had a substitute art teacher who was so impressed with one of my paintings, she asked me if she could keep it. She said she was going to remember my name in case it started popping up in the art world. Another teacher said something very similar except this was a writing teacher. My sixth grade teacher told me the exact same thing about my writing. So did my eight grade teacher. And my seventh grade? SHe she said that not about my writing but my acting. In the school play. They were all convinced I was going to grow up as this great writer, or actor or whatever and said they'd be looking for my name in a couple to several years. I remembered that. But no one else did. So I delved into that instead of self-destructing. And I continue to. Though it definitely left it's mark, some insecurity exists to the extent that to this day I'm still surprised when people say they recognize me from somewhere. Anywhere. I always think that I'm just blending into the walls, like a ghost. Completely uninteresting and remarkable. And I still think that. It's like my default mindset. While I know it's not true, and that I'm attractive and stuff, it takes an effort for me to recognize that.
May 10th 1997 I was getting ready for school when our phone rang. Usually when our phone rang in the morning, it was my stepmom calling to talk to her daughter, my other stepsister. Courtney. But this morning, I knew immediately that it was diiferent. My mom had died, and I knew this before Courtney even came to my room to tell my that the phone was for me. Finally. She had overdosed.
My stepdad came on the phone, called me sweetheart and asked me if I was sitting down. Duh. He didn't have to say anything, but he did and I had to force myself to cry. Really, I wasn't surprised and I just sort of felt dead to it. I could have not cried. But I did, because that's what people are supposed to do and when you're only seventeen, in general, most people are still doing the things that they're supposed to do.
Yep, the end I was expecting from they very beginning had come. And I had only gone back to visit her once since I left at fourteen. I abandonded her, and a part of me knew when I left that I would never reconcile with her while she was alive. Because it wouldn't be long. I never really wanted to go back, and still don't, even to visit. But yet on some important level it still came as shock when he said the word. She was dead.
And none of us know if it was on purpose or an accident. She ahd attempted suicide so many times at that point, that it was a totally plausible possibility.
It didn't affect me much. Which is when I realized that the only way I got through it all to begin with is because I am a remarkably self-absorbed girl. So much so that I don't even adapt my self image to the things the people around me see. Life talent, despite all those immense compliments. Me? A great aritst or musician or whatever? Yeah right. Whatever.
But while I let none of the good stuff in, it had insulated me from my mothers insults. That I was disgusting and awkward, and overall unlovable. If this information-directly from my mother-was untrustworthy, then everything ever told to me was.
If I ever write an autobiography, which I probably won't unless I honestly, seriously do something really spectacular with my life, I think that will be the title.
But, the clock is ticking. I'm 23 (24 as of last editing) now and have yet to put my name out there for either of those teachers to find. Which is creating neurosis all its own, the very thing that kept me from it in the first place.
Oh the deadly cycles of life.
And now, however many years later, they continue to throw me for a loop and keep me so totally off balance that I never seem to accomplish anything.
And so my mother has created me, a thing exactly as she.
A perpetual victim of the bad fortunes of life. |
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| (no subject) |
[Mar. 11th, 2004|03:44 pm] |
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The pen through the temple thing? It almost just happened. |
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[Mar. 10th, 2004|03:58 pm] |
I hurt. I want to die.
Will this ever stop? |
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[Mar. 1st, 2004|02:51 pm] |
So, for this arbitrary delegation of time's bitching session I will be complaining about how my life is losing its meaning. It had some, at one point. Art, love, and satisfying my curiosity about the world and other peoples lives were enough. But, such things are inconstant and flighty and have fled me.
I have no love and see every reason to just officially resign to complete future lovelessness, my reaching out to love others wields returns that basically equate punishment, my family exists only via the occasional email and my curiosity about the world and other people seems lately to lead me not to distraction or possibility, but to back to facing this damn, gigantic gulf of emptiness within myself. Art…well. I'm forgetting its usefulness. If there's little in me, there's little coming out of me. I haven't written a song in about a month or so. That's pretty long compared to usual. I just feel empty.
WHYWHYWHY do I have to continue plodding along day after stupid day? WHAT IS THE FUCKING POINT!? |
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[Feb. 17th, 2004|03:16 pm] |
For quite a while now the prospect of Love has been absent completely, but lately it's re-emerged. Not as anything I'd welcome, however. Instead it's like a gnat flitting about my head that I want desperately to smack, but I know I'll probably just end up hitting myself instead of it.
High school friend and cousin to my ex-boyfriend told me that he loved me. That he didn't know why he ever gave me to his cousin; he should have just kept me for himself (he introduced us a long and serious relationship followed, but I left the cousin to move across the country by myself to pursue a music career). He said that he could see himself marrying me. So many things that I've been longing desperately to hear, but from the completely wrong person. He's mentally ill and according to his psychiatrist should be locked up, is only 23 and has already been married and divorced to a woman who left him to become a very butch lesbian (I don't know how that's relevant, but it seems to be), and moves to a different part of the country every 6 months with a new "get rich quick" plan that he abandons before it even gets off the ground.
Yeah. That's really the kind of lover I want.
There's also the issue of the fact that I was so serious with his cousin (whom he is close enough to that they practically be lovers themselves) and that, while I might have been attracted to him when we first met years and years ago, the last decade of surpressing that for various reasons has conditioned me such that I feel weird even thinking of him in that way.
No thanks.
Then, as if to mock me, I hung out with Jason again the other night and he basically has the same problems, yet I still find him completely electrifying. I noticed for the first time (since we were sitting side by side on the couch in front of the fire place) that he has a smattering of grey hairs at his temple. I don't know why, but in the last year or so I've come to find that incredibly sexy on men. He got me high and four of us sat around in front of the fireplace, since their house doesn't have heat, and talked about Canadians. He stayed for a much shorter time than I was hoping. I thanked him for the drugs and he gave me this intense look and said "Oh, don't worry. Whenever I have them, you have them."
It wasn't that he was ackowledging that we both enjoy it, he was ackowledging that we both need it. It was one of the single most reassuring, comforting things I've heard said to me in a long time. And after realizing that, I know I should be disturbed. But I'm not. I don't want to be a drug addict, but I think that if I were ever going to be one, I would be by now. That's a dangerous assumption to make, but there's always something that stops me before I get in too deep. Always. I know exactly what road it will lead me down, because I've watched so many others go down it and I definitely test my limits, but underneath it all I am really afraid of going too far. The other night I was meditating and I came out of it thinking that I needed to trust myself more. It was actually more like someone else was saying that to me, more than my figuring it out myself. I have the distinct feeling that this is an area where I need to apply that. But, it was probably just that he was recognizing our shared neurosis that was the most comforting.
I was careful with the eye-contact as he was leaving (I have a tendancy to stare when I'm crushing on someone), but we still locked eyes more than just normal acquainances do. This is where I could phsyically feel his gaze, like a shock to my nervous system. He's so intense.
I still haven't found out if Penny is his girlfriend. All the evidence for it is circumstantial, but there's enough of it that it seems more likely than not.
I wish I could find a way to see him more than once every other week or so. But I only know him through Tommy, who is hard to get a hold of.
But even so, how much trouble could I get myself into pursuing a drug-addict who last mentioned that he just barely escaped going to prison? I want to be completely sure my interest is genuine, and not just because he scares me and I find that exciting, before I put myself on the line for that. |
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[Feb. 2nd, 2004|02:03 pm] |
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I did the right thing I did the right thing I did the right thing I did the right thing I did the right thing |
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[Jan. 30th, 2004|04:14 pm] |
Last night, during literally one of the best nights of sex I've ever experienced (second only to a less orgasmic experience with someone I loved deeply and who openly loved me back), I cried. All I could think was "I wish this were real." It was so tender and sweet and passionate and I'm not even sure what I mean by "real", but I know that something felt like it was lacking just by merit of us not being committed to each other in whatever way. But you CAN feel those things deeply and genuinely without being a "relationship" with that person. I KNOW you can, because we did, and do.
He does seriously care about me. He brought me chicken soup when I was sick. Emails me when I post depressed stuff on my journal just to talk or whatever. Is incredibly supportive. And last night he pulled me aside during dinner to tell me I was one of the most "Stunningly beautiful women I've ever seen". He gazed longingly. During the course of the evening, when it was just the two of us, I was also referred to as "a perfect little goddess", "one smart cookie" and countless variations of the beautiful thing. I was told about how he fantasizes about me, how he believes I have "the intelligence, talent and beauty to do anything in the world that you want". When he told me that he "longs" for me, I could feel his longing in his voice. See it in his face. He repeated it twice, like he couldn't even hold it in. My heart sort of spasmed during that moment. I guess this is the product of my distancing myself back in November, to break things off completely. Absense makes the heart grow fonder and all that. Though I've no doubt that he means every word of the stuff he says to me. He's still just not interested in having a girlfriend. No time for it or something. I don't fault him for that. Or even resent him. I'm not even quite sure I'd want him, specifically, as a boyfriend.
But why does it have to hurt? Why can't I just enjoy our nights together? I guess it just boils down to my wanting so much more than just the occasional night of flattery and bodily worship. |
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[Jan. 20th, 2004|01:26 pm] |
I'm very emotional today. I hate these days. I wish I could control it. I prefer feeling nothing to being on a rollercoaster that I can't get off of, thanks. Maybe I'm PMSing early or something.
Pachabel's Canon came on and it made me cry. It always does, but it's different today.
I get my horoscope emailed to me, daily and weekly, and all the last two weeks it keeps talking about how my love life should be extra great and fiery and if I'm not already attached, I'll most certainly be meeting that "special someone" and I tell you if these fucking emails were actual physical objects I would be punching and screaming and ripping them into the tiniest pieces that I possibly could. I'm not meeting anybody special and it's not because I'm not trying. I'm meeting lots of people, people who are ALL decidedly NONspecial, who, in addition to NOT alleviating my desire for love and passion, are making me just feel like a jerk for being so damn picky.
But you know what would happen if I tried to suck it up and give a nonspecial person a chance? What ALWAYS happens. I would still not feel it, because I never have in these situations, and eventually I'd break their heart, or blow them off because I feel too weird about the whole thing and I feel bad about leading them on and I don't know how to deal with that. Then I'd not only be a lonely, pathetic single girl, I'd be a lonely, pathetic single bitch. Like I was in high school when I was wanting a boyfriend so I was dating people who didn't exactly do it for me because I thought they deserved a chance. Then I'd say it wasn't working and they'd hate me. And they'd share that hatred with mutual friends who never looked at me the same again. I gained a reputation for hurting people that is one of the things that drove me out of that stupid town.
Once I had this friend who had a psychic friend that I talked to. Mainly just because I'd never been to a psychic before and I wanted that experience.
She told me that I was a musician and one of my main concerns was whether or not I'd have a successful career in music. She said yes, I would, but it'd take me a couple years (this was a couple years ago, but I'm really working on it). She even told me what to do with all that money once I got it.
Then she told me my mother was dead, and so is a younger brother (correct) and that they are together now, but my younger brother was planning on reincarnating as my son. I made sure to verify that this wasn't near future, but distant. Thankfully, she confirmed.
Of course, I was somewhat blown away.
Then she told me about my future husband. She was describing my ex-boyfriend whom I had not yet met then. She described him to a fucking T, and when I did finally meet him, I knew immediately he was who she was talking about. I actually had a physical reaction the first time I laid eyes on him.
But, instead of marrying me, he made a point to let me know that whole time that he didn't love me, and he didn't see us being together very long.
I knew the whole time it was a dead-end relationship, but I just kept taking him back for four years despite the fact that he'd want me, then would get cold and distant and then dump me and not speak to me for about six months. Then he'd crawl back, apologize, beg me to take him back and things would be great for maybe a whole year, then he'd dump me again and not speak to me. Then he'd come back, then leave, drop off the planet, then come back, then leave, etc. I lost track of how many times we broke up and then got back together. More than seven.
I kept taking him back because of this gut reaction I had, this love at first sight thing that I felt that was sooo rare, and what the "psychic" had said. I actually went back to her a couple years into it to ask why the hell that kept happening and she told me that it was all going to work out with us. He was still the one, and we'd be married by the time I was 23. I also was scared to death of being alone. I was scared of EXACTLY what I'm going through right now, and have been going through for the last year and half since the last, and final, break up. I knew this is what was waiting for me afterward. Most meaning completely ripped from my life, clinging to the few other things that also meant something to me, but would never completely satisfy this need to get out of myself the way being able to focus on, love and give to another person does. There's be depression. Suicidal tendencies. Those nights when I have to call my friends and struggle to stop my crying at least enough so that they can understand that I need them to come take all the sharp objects out of my apartment for a while. I knew it was waiting for me and I used him to hide from it because love is the ONLY THING that works, the only thing that keeps those thoughts away. And I was right that it was waiting. I've had many nights like that since.
She fucking lied. Everything else was right, amazingly right, except the most important thing. Naturally I will never believe a "psychic" again when it comes to these things. So now I have the scars of four years of unrequited love plus the constant, desperate desire to kick (kill) myself for being so fucking stupid about it. I chose to listen to this woman, this complete stranger, instead of listening to what he said, in no uncertain terms, because I wanted so badly to believe that she was right. I knew it wasn't going to happen, but I didn't want to believe it.
Like with most of my problems, it was all my fucking fault.
There's an important lesson in there that I learned, but I still can't help but be bitter. I can't help but think that this "lesson" could possibly be worth all this pain and agony.
If there were someone around here that felt right, I'd fucking pounce. But there's no one. I've met almost all my friends friends, the bar scene is full of people that I can't stand, 85% of the men in my neighborhood are gay (seriously, it's like the next San Francisco), the people I work with are all older and married and I've pretty much lost all hope at this point, at the ridiculously, laughably young age of 23.
And you know what, this is not a self-esteem issue. I'm fucking worth a good guy! That's part of what pisses me off so much.
But these fucking horoscope emails are like a mockery. Like having someone just laugh in my face.
I'm unsubscribing, ASAP. |
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[Jan. 16th, 2004|11:09 am] |
God, most people just really get on my nerves.
The latest journal entry by that guy that likes me really, especially does. All of his do, any more! I don't know why I can't just ignore it or blow it off like with most things, but it's just the WAY he writes and I hate reading it! Most of the time I'm just rolling my eyes while I'm reading, but I feel like I have to continue because, well, we're friends. When I ask a question that would have been answered if I had just read his journal, he makes a point of mentioning that. He's fine enough in real life, but he obviously thinks he's just chock full of talent, which he flaunts at every opportunity but, well, I just disagree.
Sometimes it's like the way he writes is more important than what he writes, which is all well and good in conversation since usually that's the case with talking anyway, but in writing that just doesn't work. I'm sorry, but you do have to know the MEANING of the words you're using, instead of just throwing things in that don't add to the message--or even make any sense for that matter--just because it sounds good.
I remember back when I first added him, the entries were more natural. There were errors. It was more conversational. That's when I actually liked him! Every stupid entry wasn't trying to be a masterpiece of uber-eloquent prose, which, really is just unnecessary for day to day journal writing.
I think maybe it bothers me so much because occasionally I get the impression that it's all aimed at trying to impress me. Personally, I prefer people who don't bother trying to prove themselves to others. The word that comes to mind is snivelly, if that's even a word. Brown-nosey.
It's really ridiculous that it bothers me this much! I've been trying not to let it for the last six months or so now, but I've just supressed it. And it's stewed.
Yeah, so there's my rant about that. |
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[Jan. 15th, 2004|04:23 pm] |
The guy that I've suddenly, involuntarily developed a crush on (my first real life, non-celebrity crush in a couple years now --slim pickins' in these parts) is actually a rather unattractive guy. Slightly overweight with a protruding belly and kinda bad teeth. And, I think, a girlfriend. That, or he's just really close to his roommate (she's not the only one though, there's a third and they've never acted coupley together). But he's fucking brilliant! All day things that he said in passing last night have been popping into my head and I'm just in awe. We have many, very dorky things in common which is incredibly comforting--mainly obsession with media. Conversations last night consisted of us breaking down songs, movies, tv shows, the way I usually do in my other journal simply because they are things I think about most of the time, yet have no one to discuss it with. Just that stupid conversation felt in a sense like a homecoming.
But, in analyzing this strange, unexpected crush, I think I've pinpointed the reason for it; my own ulterior motives. They can run, but they can't hide. For long.
It's the age old tale of one soul deep in peril and another on the same road who thinks they can rescue themselves by rescuing the other.
I want to think that light can reach down into even the deepest cracks within a person. I feel, somehow, that by understanding a persons shadow self and their apparent craziness, and just letting them be crazy when they need to be crazy and yet loving them anyway, you can do that. Bring light, or hope to the darkest places. Which is what I've been wanting, almost dying for, myself. Since such places exist in abundance within me (and I fully realize how stupid it is that I talk about it like this all the time) I think I can provide that to another person, and he is a perfect candidate for these "services" that I apparently think I can provide. And I will provide them in the hopes that the targeted will return the favor of also understanding my occasional craziness.
He's been in rehab for drug addiction. Gets ridiculously into movies, music, PC games, comics books just like myself. Escapism. Plus, bad, self-destructive thoughts. Generalized though rather intense cynicism and bitterness expressed through very dark humor. Generalized though intense feelings of desperation. Unflinching awareness of the terrible things people are capable of doing to each other and of his own capacity for those things. Doesn't fear evil. Etc.
Did I mention that he's not all that attractive? He's not, but intriguing all the same. He reminds me of Beetlejuice.
It's probably all just for the "proof" that if I can bring hope to someone whose disturbances go deeper than my own, then surely I'm not a lost cause either.
Maybe it's not all that bad of a thing, but even so, I won't be doing any pursuing. Especially with the uncertainty of the girlfriend thing.
Now if I could just get him out of my head... |
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[Jan. 13th, 2004|09:26 am] |
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Ah, yes. This feeling right here. This feeling of being a hollow, empty, aching shell of a person without a purpose. THIS is exactly why I do drugs. |
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[Jan. 12th, 2004|04:55 pm] |
Have an interesting dilemma. I almost wrote diorama there for a sec. A guy on my other journal's friend list and I have met a few times just because we seem have to have a lot in common, live near each other and figured why the hell not. He's nice enough. But I don't find him attractive.
Anyway, we hung out this weekend and it's clear he likes me. Doing little things like touching my back and standing really close. In the movie theatre I sort of had my arms crossed, making myself as small as possible, yet somehow he was still all up in my space. Elbows nudging me and stuff. Walking down the street he kept bumping into me, something I hate, and on the escalator up to the movie he stood on the same step, really close.
I like touching as long as one isn't thinking it's one kind of touching, while I'm thinking it’s another kind. I don't have many physical boundaries if I know you and trust you and we have an understanding, but when I do decide that certain spatial rules need to be respected, I can't help but practically be a Nazi about it. Annoying, I know. I was just trying so hard not to encourage him. Because that always happens. People always get the wrong idea about what kind of interest I have. And he's on the stupid friends list of my other journal so I can't write in there about it. And if I don't have any special friend groups without a mutual friend on it, since in the last two years or so he's added my friends as his friends during the big, weird group conversations that happen every so often in that journal.
Anyhow, I do like him, I just find myself annoyed by him enough that I know I could never be romantically involved with him.
This is why I stay so cooped up inside myself, in general. I'm lonely as hell, yet whenever I put my neck out to try to make friends I inevitably attract someone that wants something from me that I don’t want to give to them, and who makes me uncomfortable in their pursuit. And then whines and puts entries in their livejournal about me that I don't know how to respond to. (Okay, so, that part doesn't ALWAYS happen, but the rest does.)
Thank goodness I've got this one so I can get that out of my system though. |
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seatopian's journal