Kalamity K

The Daily Chaos of Kalamity K
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2005-03-28 23:58:46 (UTC)

Food for Thought - A Long, Drawn-Out, Confusing Story...

I've got this long, drawn-out, confusing story on the go.
90k words - never was into word count until someone got
me onto it. THANKS, BUDDY. But anyway. It's a lot of
words, I'll grant you that. To steal a line a sportwriter
wrote about Miguel Batista of the Jays and ex- of the AZ
Diamondbacks, He never said something in a word that he
could say in a thousand, or some such... It's how I feel
about this thing.

There are some parts that suck. Really suck.

There are some parts that are okay.

There are some parts that are good.

There are a few parts that are brilliant.

Yeah. Stop the fucking presses. I gave myself a bit of
credit. Shit.

There are parts that I love and there parts that I love to
hate.

But there remains a question in my mind - not that I
started this thing for this purpose (indeed, it was meant
to be a 4 to 8 page snapshot of a young girl's life,
nothing more, nothing less, you walk in on a moment and
you walk out of a moment and take from it what you will,
that is all) - but who the hell is going to want to read
this?

And if ever it comes to that point - there is no way I
could show my parents.

We've been through enough. I've put them through enough.
It's bad enough that my mother knows about my cutting, and
so does my father, and my bloody cousin in MI and probably
now the whole goddamn family, and my aunt up here outside
the city - it's fucking bad enough they all probably know
(and truth be told it makes me feel sick that something so
personal could be broadcast news)...

It's also bad enough that my mother stumbled across some
of my papers a while back when I moved out, over a year
and a half ago or thereabouts, now, that were e-mails in
which I ostensibly talked about being raped at a party as
a 13 year old...it didn't happen. I wasn't talking about
me. Hell, I never touched a guy until I was way too old.
I don't know how she could have read that and thought it
happened to me. First of all, I was livid that she read
it, which she took to mean it was all true. She can't
understand if it wasn't true why I would be mad. BECAUSE
YOU DON'T READ SOMEONE ELSE'S SHIT, MOM, THAT'S WHY. But
that's her shtick. Whatever. You read the headline that
says it's mine and your eyes stop. PERIOD. It's
unforgivable in my eyes. Absolutely unforgivable.
Harsh? Maybe. I don't care. It's unforgivable. Just
like reading my diary, online or not, is unforgivable if
you don't have my permission. (I grant you, this one gets
trickier, but work with me on the premise here that the
only reason I can write in here what I write is b/c it's
meant to be more or less anonymous...with the added
advantage of occasion feedback from other anonymi who
verify that I have not, in fact, lost my fucking mind...
If I thought my nearest and dearest were reading, I'd
never have started this...Russian Roulette, perhaps?
Maybe. Whatever. I don't care. Unforgivable.) Second
of all, when the fuck did I ever go to a party when I was
a teenager? Maybe twice. I was too busy with other
shit. Much too busy with things I actually enjoyed, like
school and sports and music. Guys were a waste of time
and I'm glad for it - to a certain extent - though part of
me wonders if maybe I hadn't held myself out to be so much
superior to all the other girls who were running around
chasing boys then, maybe I wouldn't have gotten myself
into my current jam with my boyfriend b/c I'd have more
experience to draw upon...but whatever...WHATEVER... But
despite this shit, she thinks the e-mail was about me (it
may have been written in a first-person perspective, but I
don't know, b/c I didn't see it, b/c she conveniently
waited a few months until she told me...[-growls in abject
angry...correct use of abject?...not sure...-]

As if those aren't bad enough - statistics say that over
50% of people (or women, not sure) who cut themselves have
been victims of sexual abuse.

Ergo, it must have happened to me.

Ergo, the reason my mother was so willing to believe it
happened to me.

Ergo, I must be lying.

Ergo, the root of all my problems.

Ergo, ergo, ergo.

And then...the story. Basic premise - two generations of
musicians, both insanely brilliant, a mother and a
daughter. You'll never guess, the daughter is raped on
her 12th birthday. I can't even say by whom - it'll send
everyone screaming that I could write something like
that. Spends the next 3 years of her life being abused
like clockwork, finally gets out of it, then two years
later has a full-fleged breakdown and a few years after
that reinvents herself and reappears on the music scene.
Can't say much more than that b/c I don't want to give
away anything to those (there is one!) who have read it
and may be reading this.

I spend all this time denying what "happened" to me to my
family, and here, my potential first novel - OH HORRORS OF
HORRORS, I USED THE N WORD!!! - and this is what it is.

Ergo - I must be lying.

You can see how it will play out, can't you?

Our daughter is brilliant but disturbed. She's breaking
our hearts. We can't do anything else for her.

When in reality you've never met someone who should be
more properly adjusted than me. Nothing bad has ever
happened to me (save for all the bad that did, and that,
my friends, was NOTHING), yet I'm crumbling like my life
has been a mess.

It's amazing, the power of one's brain, to deny that one
can have any problems. It's truly amazing to me, the
power that thoughts can wield on a person.

I cut my arms. Sometimes my chest. Sometimes my
stomach. Occasionally my leg (only the right one, go
figure, and I've never cut my right arm).

I'm desperately unhappy. It goes past unhappiness. It
goes past being miserable - miserable still connotes some
sort of control. It goes past it all and resides in the
place in one's heart and soul that one cannot control, but
a place that controls everything else.

There is a disconnect of major proportions between my mind
and my heart/emotions. I can sit in a counselor's office
all day and banter until the cows come home. There's a
reason I've bounced around through at least 9 different
ones. One was a jerk and a dinosaur. One wouldn't help
me. One I freaked out so badly when I showed her a paper
journal I kept that had my blood all over it that I didn't
go back (or I moved away, but that was essentially the end
of it). A colleague of hers I didn't like. She wanted me
to draw on a pillow and yell at it when I was upset. Uhm,
no. One I saw for two years, a psychiatrist, at
university, and I frustrated her so badly she looked at me
one day and said, Is this really what you want to do?
(She was there to get me through school and not much else
and despite all this preparation, I had a set of exams
that I thought literally would show me to have failed the
entire term, she was so frustrated, she had to ask me
that). The first one I saw, I really liked, and she was a
student-psychologist. I never cried with her, but I told
her things. I cried on my way home from seeing her. The
other one I liked, he was also a student-psychologist, and
he had me nailed - he really did, I really liked him - but
I moved away just as we were sort of getting somewhere.
Then a couple of other people later, I ended up where I am
now. I refuse to cry during my "sessions". I could cry
for 20 hours a day, but I will not cry in a
fucking "session". I've come close a few times. I think
a couple of times I have had a couple of tears escape, but
nothing I couldn't reign in eventually. I came close to
crying the other day, Saturday, when M asked me to talk
about YWSBN. I couldn't do it. I could barely speak.
But I didn't cry, though there were tears in my eyes.
They did not fall. I won't let it. I can't let it.

It's a problem, you see, a big problem. I could sit in
their offices and banter all day long. I don't put much
stock in myself as a talent or a brain or a goodlooking
body or a this or a that, but on the flip side, I think
I'm smarter than half these people. I've played with half
them. They think we are doing good work and really it's a
bloody dog and pony show, with me leading the thing. I
will argue their techniques and debate the merits of a
philosophy and they all know that I get it, but there's
only been a couple that have really seen the disconnect
between my brain and my emotions. Peter, the 7th or so in
the long line, really had me nailed. He said to me one
day, I know you understand on a rational level, K2, but
you need to let us get inside and make you feel it. Or
something to that effect. He knew what he was doing - and
it was working - and then I moved away. [-sigh-] I mean,
I didn't have a choice but to move...but still. M, I
think he knows it, too, though he is very zen. Very very
fucking zen. We joke that I call him Dr. Zen. He's
right. But I can't let go of it. But I'm not sure why.
It's like I enjoy making my life difficult - b/c without
it I would have to face the fact that I really have become
a great big nothing in the world. Maybe not to people -
to certain people, I may well be the world, or close to
it. But to the world, I am nothing. It's painful,
especially for a girl with SO MUCH GODDAMN POTENTIAL. But
you see, I'm not crying over this, b/c it's my brain
talking and not my heart. If it were my heart talking,
I'd have been sobbing an hour ago. K, she got it, too. I
really liked her. When I moved back here I was hoping I
could see her, but she's too far on the outskirts of the
city...but M is okay, for now, though there are times I
think he wants to fire me. He plays ball, mostly. Some
of them wouldn't play ball with me, wouldn't banter,
wouldn't laugh at my jokes, and I couldn't stand that.
Peter once told me to stop making a joke about everything,
though he usually laughed at them. K laughed at my jokes,
too. M, he does, too. They appreciated my sense of
humour. I had to tell Peter, you know, humour isn't
always a way of deflecting a painful emotion, mate.
Sometimes a joke is just a joke... [-winks-] Freud would
have loved me.

But I've digressed. I cut my arms. My soul is restless.
Thoughts of darker proportions than necessary fill my head
daily. I live in a strange dark reality where nothing is
as it should be. It may sound dramatic - it isn't. It's
just how things are. These are not the actions of a
rational woman. These are not the thoughts of one who is
safely hinged in reality.

Or if they are, god help the rest of the safely hinged
because it's no where I'd want my friends and loved ones
to live.

My father used to say I must be brilliant b/c I was such
an air head. Wasn't a big fan of that, but whatever. He
might have been on to something. I'd like to think I was
something that good. Brilliant at something. Brilliant
in the true sense of the word brilliant, not brilliant as
in "capital!" and "she's bril, that one..."... though I
love that, would love to be that, too. All the brilliant
people you can think of (I can think of) had something
slightly off-centre about their personality. Eintein, a
total airhead, had to paint his front door bright red so
he wouldn't wander into the neighbours' houses. Silvia
Plath stuck her head in an oven or some such. Virginia
Woolf, also suicide. Sports heros, brilliant in their own
way in terms of talent, sometimes have something a bit
off. Musicians - don't get me started! So many of my
heros in the jazz world destroyed themselves b/c they
couldn't handle their genius, or so it seems to this mind.

I could go on and on and on. I feel like a misfit in
ithis world. Something's not right. Something's off
kilter. I have so much to offer, so fucking much to
offer, save I don't fit into any of the preconceived
molds. Truth me told, I'd be a shit lawyer. I might be
intelligent enough for it, I might be technically good at
it or I might be emotionally good at it, but I don't
really think the overall package would be that great. I'm
lazy and unmotivated and too easily angered and not street-
smart enough and not savvy and sage enough and all of this
bullshit. I can't be a secretary. Taking orders from
people makes me want to go fucking postal. God. I'm
creative, but not sure I'm creative enough to do something
creative like ads or marketing or some such. My original
ideas, while apparently awesome when they are formed, take
a long time in coming. I'm a plodder. I don't think fast
enough on my feet (see the problem with being a lawyer) -
though my friends say I think fast on my feet, indeed. It
makes no sense to me. I could go on and on and on...but
I'm rapidly boring myself with the mundane details of my
little life and my little trials and my little
tribulations. God, please, spare me and anyone reading
this the undeniable pain of reading words that are more
useless than even I can imagine.

When it comes right down to it, the only thing I am
marginally good at is words. My sports are gone. My
music is non-existent. All I have is what is in my head.
And that, what the hell do I do with that?

Apparently, try to write a novel (there's that N word
again). And there, my friends, we are come full circle to
the novel that was never meant to be but that has taken on
a life of its own, the one that my parents will read,
perhaps, and become more convinced than ever that their
daughter is a misfit and a loner and a disturbed psychotic
headcase - which would probably explain the lying about
how none of it happened anyway to her. [-sighsgrowlssighs-
]

And my question, dear readers, is this. While I didn't
set out to write a novel...and it's not even done, so I
shouldn't even be daring to write about it in here or
speak to anyone about it - damn the superstitions!!!...

While I didn't set out to write a novel or anything of
length, and while I've never written my stories for an
audience (nor, for that matter have I ever finished a
story save Meeting in a Mall, which I can't find now...) -
the thought has now crossed my mind -

Who the hell would want to read this kind of story anyway?

YWSBN says it's art and I believe him. In fact, he says
it's brilliant art. He says that without the particular
plot I've chosen no one would really care about my little
pianist and what happens to her, and from a technical
writing standpoint, he is 100% correct. There is no story
without conflict - and there are three kinds of conflict -
man v. man, man v. nature, man v. self or so the
traditional thinking goes - and yes, this story definitely
has conflict...

But even still...

Who the hell would want to read what I have to say,
especially given the somewhat egregious and disturbing
subject matter?

More to the point, why am I writing this?

More to the point still, how on earth could I ever show my
parents?

I couldn't.

And so the fate is sealed, and that makes me sickest of
all. The one thing I'm good at...will probably forever
stay underwraps.

[-sighs-]

Gotta get back to my goddamn symphony minutes. I hear my
sick boyfriend stirring and moaning. He sounds how I
feel. Terrible.

K2


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