"Powder" by Bedhead
What was once so real
Now doesn't even exist
And now the memories are gone
So just the feelings persist
And when thoughts come back
I sometimes try to resist
The last of your strength fell apart first
In your fist
And I had no idea
I had any ideas
Sometimes I think I've never thought about anything
It was warm when you held me, when you dropped down beside me
But I saw your face turn to powder in a year
And did it do any good
To have anyone tell you
That things weren't as bad they'd actually become
And did it make things worse when your hand was held,
It was the best for everyone but you
November 2, 2017 Thursday 9:22 PM
Hoooooly shit holy shit holy shit.
I am going to puke. Holy shit.
I just came back from my Literature class, where I was workshopped this week. I had to stop on the way back to my dorm—I found a dark corner of the Main Green and I sat on the bench, just trying to still my quaking legs. Ugh, I couldn't breathe. Can't breathe! It all goes in shallow. My head hurts very bad and my stomach is turning much that I can *taste* the bile in the back of my throat.
It's like—fuck, I knew my piece was bad. I've had writers block and I couldn't write anything I felt was all right enough to be seen by human eyes, but then I dug up these two separate paragraphs from somewhere in my document archives and I combined them and I fed off them and made something that I knew was awful, but I had no choice to turn it in, really. It was a bit of an experiment, an attempt to bring a more casual voice to my writing, like my teacher had suggested I do.
It's not that people were mean about my piece—it's that I shouldn't have submitted something so persona;/unfinished in the first place. Those first two paragraphs were not written as a character. I wrote them I-don't-even-remember-when as myself, as a short rant about a subject I thought I'd like to elaborate on in the future. I continued to write the character as a sort of morphed version of me—instead of a girl, it was kind of a guy (although I don't think I ever specify), and I concentrated their neuroticism a bit more because that was the sort of maybe the point? I didn't even know what I was writing. God, I feel so shitty.
I haven't even—ugh. At first, the workshop was like, "Ouch." Multiple people said they really didn't like the main character, which my teacher insisted didn't even matter because characters don't have to be likeable, and this would've been okay except it's kind of based of me and my thought patterns so. And it mattered to me because both the people who said this are very good writers.
Whatever, though, I could recover from that. But what they said next... holy shit. Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit. I don't know anything. I don't know anything about myself.
They said the thought pattern almost seemed disingenuous. Like they were performing. At first, I disagreed, just because—that's how I think. I mean, I can understand someone else thinking more loosely, I guess. Am I really that weird for thinking exactly how I write in this diary? I'm serious, that is how I compose my thoughts and ideas—through an internal monologue like the one I am typing right here.
But, see, then another kid (Dan, the kid I have a crush on, who is a very very good writer), fucking... destroyed me. He said he actually found the character like-able. He said the writing made sense for the situation—because it was like the character was trying to figure things out as if he were talking to an audience. So, in a way, it was a performance, a sort of therapy. And they all said more things, about how this person is trying to find meaning in their existence, trying to consolidate real life with television/movies/books, trying to reach a conclusion only to undercut themselves at the very end of a thought every single time. Very self-deprecating, they said.
I want to die. I feel kind of crushed by all this. They basically described me and my whole existence without even realizing it. And I kept my cool, I guess, for the most part. I was shaking very badly. It's been like at least thirty minutes, and I still want to puke. I still want to die. My sinuses feel highly pressurized all of the sudden.
I'm incapacitated for the rest of this evening, at least, so I know I've got to go straight to bed after this. There's no way I can live consciously with this kind of horrible revelation on my mind.
I am not real. I am not a real person. I've never been a real person. My whole idea of "real" has been a fucking—a fucking joke!!!!!! There is no "real." I've just cultivated myself as this person who is as honest as possible when, in reality, I am just as much a liar as every other fucking person! And I don't hold their lying against them—I even like it. It's very human. But I have never thought of myself as part of this collective, this human collective. I have sort of always struggled to break out against it, always wanted to bypass the very painful parts of existence that are kind of essential to being a person.
And part of how I do that is through writing, is through ordering my thoughts on a page as if that could lead to fucking clarity and not just another jumbled mess of garbage.
Oh my god.... I hate myself. I hate myself so much. And I understand why they didn't like the character, you know? Upon re-read, I realized I had made him so exhausting, so incessantly full of fast-paced, nearly meaningless thought. Which is just like me all the time. I wish I could tear off my skin. I just want to pull it the fuck off!!!!
Ohhhh god. Sorry. I know this seems very melodramatic. I hate myself for even writing every line. Oh god, every sound in the outside world is grating on me—every single movement of my cheerful roommate talking on the phone with her momma—it fucking irks me!!!! I am having a crisis! I don't even want to laugh. Usually, while I'm freaking out, I laugh about something dumb and it kind of helps but I feel so fucking...... blind right now. I have no perspective. I can't laugh at anything. I don't even know when to end this paragraph. What about
Fuck!!!!! Fuck, everything about me is destroyed. And I will recover very quickly, but I don't really want to recover, I just want to stay in a terrible mood and kill myself so I can just tear myself out of this pain. I just. I really don't want to experience any more pain or joy as a person! It's too much! Oh god, it's too much.
Suddenly, everything is just... magnified. I am some kind of singularity. God!!! It's all hideous and stupid and I can't talk anymore, I can't write, I could never fucking write and oh my fucking god!!!!! Oh my god!!!!! I want to throw up!!!!! I feel so terrible, so horribly focused on stupidity, the stupidity of even thinking about life, of thinking about your life as a whole, of of of
I don't know anymore!!!!! My head hurts sooooo so bad and I need to go to sleep, I need to try to sleep and be alone forever and scrape my body off the bone 'cause it's too fucKING close and I hate everything just by association with my brain!!! I hate it I hate it I hate it I hate it!!!!!!!!
Holy shit. I am garbage. I am such... garbage. I am garbage for even thinking I'm garbage, because it's all the more pathetic when you fucking acknowledge your garbage-ness. Oh god. Unreal. I am this entire performance of a person, a fucking nothing, a fucking sliver of string cheese, ohhhhhhhhhh I am worthless. I am just. Worthless. And I am painful. I just hurt. I hurt myself and I hurt others. But mostly I don't hurt anyone, because I am just. nothing.
Oh god. Okay. I am going to sleep. I will be okay. I don't ever want to fucking write again, but I will be okay.