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safety and sad
"Jezebel" by Iron & Wine
Who's seen Jezebel?
She was born to be the woman I would know
And hold like a breeze half as tight as both eyes closed
Who's seen Jezebel?
She went walking where the cedars line the road
Her blouse on the ground where the dogs were hungry, roaming
We swear we'll love you more
And wholly, Jezebel
It's we, we that you are for only'
March 2, 2018 Friday 12:00 AM
I am. I am. I want to feel better. Not sure what it is, but it burns.
I had a nightmare last night, that I was, along with other women, kidnapped and stripped naked and my toes were broken one by one. My captor, even after we escaped, was not prosecuted. He taunted us individually without revealing himself, and then he sat across from me at one of those round iron outdoor tables and described to me in horrific detail the exact account of our kidnapping. And I was furious, and I tried beating him to death but he just laughed. Also in the dream, a boy pursued me a bit only for me to find out he was only curious about the whole kidnapping incident. I don't remember being as affected by that. And mid-dream, I was panicking and crying I kept telling myself to just remember Moby and I tried to conjure him in that way, and it worked but it took a lot of focus to keep myself in his bed with him curled around me. I told him, in the dream, I said, "You make me feel safe," which, okay, he does, but—gross.
When I woke up, I didn't have much time to think about it so I didn't until now, but I am somewhat confused. I likely had that dream bit about Moby because I saw him yesterday and I was so happy! I felt like I hadn't seen him in forever because I was used to seeing him like every day for no reason (privileges of being his almost-girlfriend). We didn't talk for a couple days after Friday, and then we had a talk on Sunday where he was all, "I want us to be friends without it being weird," and that conversation inspired a nameless aversion in me so I tried not to think about him. But then on Tuesday I asked Dan From Literature to lunch, and we went on Wednesday and I discovered that I almost hate him, and that is when I missed the safety—the lightheartedness—of Moby, I think. It was an effect of loneliness, I guess.
I don't really hate Dan. I hate some of him—like he started talking about how one argument I made was fallacious, and it frustrated me because, jesus, we were talking about what I would do if I were immortal. This wasn't serious. At least I wasn't serious. I can't tell what the hell he was. Dan is convinced that in order to properly consider a possibility, you must do it realistically. I don't like to do that so much though. I figure, if you're imagining you might as well incorporate whatever you want at a whim, right? It's not like you'll suddenly forget it's not real or true to the world. It's just a thought, a dream. Who cares. And plus, Dan was so quick to jump to conclusions, it frustrated me. I said I thought it would be cool to be a math person, and he asked me what made math better than anything else. I didn't even say math was better than anything else! I just think it would be interesting, to be a math person.
What really makes me mad is that deep down I'd prefer to be a math person over a literature person. That is less a product of prejudice against certain fields and more a product of self-doubt. Because when I imagine myself a "math person," I imagine myself being good at math and that's it. But with literature, I am never good enough because I know too much about it. Realistically, I know that if I were a math person I'd have the same problems, the same frustrations, and then I'd wish I was a chem or bio person or basically anyone who, from my perspective, looks to be better at what they do than I am at what I do.
I'm mad because Dan seemed to know what I meant without knowing anything about me—he knew before I knew (which is rare, and is also my greatest fear). And to me, that means that he might have been basing it off of previous observations. I felt less human, somehow, under his gaze. Afterwards, my whole perception of self was fucked up—some people do that to me. They damage my world, my stabilized Ideas of Who I Am and What I'm Like. After that, I was all of a sudden feeling blind and unsure—what am I like to someone like Dan, who seems to instinctually get at the root of an issue? A person who fucking—knows people? And yet somehow seems apart, almost inhuman in his knowledge.
Am I suddenly silly to them? Dan seemed to have no particular feelings towards me, the way I'd imagine a deity looks at humanity (I know, dramatic comparison, but my emotions are for some reason extremely dramatic haha). He just knew things. I could feel myself getting annoyed as we talked. Later on in the conversation, it got better—but at first, I felt interrogated and I wonder if I deserved it. I did ask some strange questions. I start things off like that, usually, especially when someone scares me. Asking things like: are you uncomfortable? I don't know what I'm hoping for. I guess I'm hoping to catch them off guard, to see a bit of kinship in them, something that will make me relax and realize I am beside another person and I am okay. I did not get that with Dan. He was extremely difficult to converse with. He was so logical, he reminded me of my dad.
I still find him beautiful, but I am more afraid of him now than I was of him before. He has that ability of cutting, unfeeling observation, something I've honed for years (not necessarily on purpose) and he is better at it. He is smarter than me, clearly, with a much greater capacity for logic and a frustrating tendency to assume he's right (and he mostly is). Fuck, he REALLY reminds me of my dad, haha. Yeah, especially with the painful questioning of every aspect of my statements—as if they really need to be questioned. Who knows, maybe they did. Everything, back to my dad, all those feelings of loss and insecurity and self-doubt he inspired with his relentless interrogations, his calm unaffected manner while I steadily, like... fuckin denatured, unfolded, left the room crying and nauseas. And my poor dad would have no idea what the hell happened. In his eyes, all he did was argue my conceptions, and I'd be there with my whole fucking sense of self on the floor. I think I'm just sensitive or something. I kind of hate myself for reacting this way. I wish I was just fine with how my dad challenged me. In the end, it made me the thinker that I am, and I should be grateful for that.
I am deeply unsure now. I was affected by the meeting with Dan much more than I anticipated. I figured either it would be awkward or not, interesting or not, etc. Either way, I thought I'd feel better afterwards, but that was not the case. I asked him if we could do it another time and he said sure, but I have changed my mind—I don't think I want to meet up with him again. I almost don't ever want to see him again. He is an enigma to me, he's gotten under my skin and spread into a bruise. I want to avoid confronting it (even though, yes, right now I am poking at it).
I don't want to think about what this means for my self-worth—don't want to wonder if I'm leaning my self-esteem against unrealistic ideals. Isn't everyone? Why do I have to be better? I can never be better, that's an... impossible goal, and not the constructive kind of impossible goal. I don't want to think about that either.
No wonder I craved Moby after that. Moby, who wears his heart on his sleeve. Moby, who actually laughs, doesn't always intellectualize. Laughs at stupid shit. Does stupid shit. Watches bad movies. Doesn't make fun of me when I'm feeling bad, instead just hugs me, keeping me surrounded in Human which helps take me out of my skull and into my skin.
It's loneliness. It's fear. I want comfort, and I feel that I can find that in Moby. I will not tell him any of this, because I value his friendship and I feel bad enough that I hurt him, and that I thought he was ugly when he cried. When I am around him again, I will remember again that he is my friend, just my friend, and I should not jeopardize that just because some guy Shook me.
I am very tired now. Goodnight.
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