"Blue Bird" by Hope Sandoval & the Warm Inventions
Is that the devil in your veins
Or just some kind of symphony
Should I just laugh
and pretend you were never clear
I'll come around your place
And sympathize till your days...gone
Till your days...gone
Is that the devil in your face
Or just a blue bird that's left his place
In your smile that always sets the sun
In your tears that never...let me go
Let me go
Never...let me go
June 22, 2017 Thursday 5:41 PM
Yesterday, I went to Sandwich's classroom to help him clean up and then I went to a final Senior's meeting with Brock and other people (other people being seniors: Adrian, Alexis, Myra, Mike, a kid named Tom, and another kid named Dave).
After I came home, I fell asleep so I missed Timmy' graduation party... and, well, I didn't really wake up until midnight, and then I went back to sleep and didn't get up until almost 2 PM today. It felt much longer than 20 hours of lying in bed, however, because I had a lot of nightmares (like, a LOOOOTTT) and I kept either waking up or being woken up by my parents. My parents kept trying to talk to me, to see if I was all right. Except, they were not expressing concern in the way they asked.
It was more like, *throws metaphorical pillow at me face*, "Wake the fucK up VerONICA" or "this isn't healthy," and "jeez are you depressed again do I need to call the therapist" (I haven't seen Pat in more than two months now) and angry spanish ranting that came down to, "You need to clean your room because your cousins will be here in two days to see you graduate."
When my mom finally got me to come downstairs (trust me, I could've kept sleeping), she fed me some purple noodles (I think she said they were made from this stuff called "forbidden rice"?? anyway it was really good). We got into a fight somehow where she was yelling and then I did a toddler thing AKA I threw my glasses somewhere in the kitchen and was sobbing and stuff. It was very cool.
I went upstairs and curled up for a little longer in bed but the problem with that is I hated myself too much to fall back asleep, so I eventually got back up and sad on the landing right between our first and second floors and I tried talking to my mom. I was saying something about how loud noises have always freaked me out (which they have—for some reason they make my anxiety spike reaaaaalll hard) and so I hated when she started yelling at me for things that I already felt horrible about (in this case, she had been angry at me about college stuff).
Mom started ignoring me and I cried on the staircase, got some tears on the banister, and then I had just had to do something physical to myself or the hate was gonna eat me up on the inside so I started digging my nails into my arm. I swear I did not intend to hurt myself. My primary goal was to peel my attention away from the terrible, hopeless burning sensation in my stomach, and to be honest—hurting yourself works.
I'm looking at my arm now and it turns out I peeled up the skin but it doesn't look too bad. It looks like I just sorta got into a fight with my cat lol.
Later, I started hitting things very hard to get rid of the pain. That works better than the nail stuff anyway because, when I slam my hand into the wall or something, the pain radiates and crawls out from the epicenter all the way to the ends of my fingertips and up my arm to my shoulder. I want to break my hand so I don't have to play that stupid recital on Sunday, but that's dumb because that would mean I wouldn't be able to practice piano period and that is not worth a dumb recital.
Well, Mom kept ignoring me until she left and I lay on the couch feeling sort of catatonic. When she was gone, I played some piano and now I've cooked myself food. I am feeling a little better. I haven't answered any of my texts since yesterday. I don't plan on communicating if I can help it. I just want to crawl into a hole at the moment.
It may sound like I'm being childish. Which, to be fair, is probably true. But at the same time... I don't know, man, you don't understand. You haven't lived in my house and experienced my mom's constant fury. She gets mad when we're hurt, or when we're sad, or when we're experiencing pretty much anything negative. Mad now, remorseful later, is how she does it. That is okay, I am used to it. But she yells loud and you can't get a word in edgewise unless you yell over her, which is what I end up doing because I swear to god if I sit there and just listen I'd implode into a black hole.
It manifests itself as a physical ache in my stomach and I've just gotta, gotta, gotta do something about it, I can't let it sit there and metastasize.
So I yell too.
Besides, she is wrong. I love my mom, but she is wrong. She is angry at me because I am overwhelmed and I don't know how to say it. Usually I am kind of good with my words, but it's hard when you know you have to say it in a specific way lest mom decide to get mad again.
Again, I love my mom, she's the sweetest woman in the world. But god, she is also the angriest.
It hurts more than anything. I already hate myself more than she could ever know. I already think I am the most pathetic, stupid, lazy human being to walk the earth. I already know I'm worthless. So I wish she would stop shouting at me, telling me i have to get something done, telling me I have to wake up, telling me that just because I'm sick doesn't mean I can shirk all responsibilities.
Because I already know and the extra pound of accountability dropped on my shoulders by my beautiful momma makes me want to hurt myself so bad until I've erased all of the memories, all of them.
Please don't tell me I am pathetic or that I need to get over it.
If you have taken one thing from this entry, it is that I am aware of all that. I hate myself, I hate myself, I hate myself.
My head hurts. I am going to go now and maybe bruise myself because, jeez, this burn in my tummy is so persistent. I am sorry to resort to the self-harm thing but it's been years and what else has worked? Sometimes talking it out is a success, but that's only if the people around you are able to be understanding and/or patient.
I think I've tired people out, though. They don't want to have to understand anymore. At some point, empathy does more harm than good, I guess.
So go with the pain, deal with it myself.
Wow, says the tiny part of me that remains rational. How many of your loved ones would become so angry at you if they were to read this entry? How many would say "you could've talked to me."?
To that, I say: my mom has told me time and time again that all I need to do is tell her when I need help and she'll give it.
But I have tried and it doesn't work. Because when I have yet another budding migraine, as I often do, she will sometimes just get pissed off and tell me to do my work anyway since I always have a headache. The same goes for if I'm exhausted. Mom is only sympathetic when she wants to be, and then she asks me why I don't TELL her these things, why I haven't asked her to help me out.
It's because I love momma and I know she's tired too. And because I know she won't keep the promises she makes 'cause she can't control her anger.
I am left to deal with it alone.