Ad 2:
2018-04-06 17:37:16 (UTC)

moby, you are the fire smokin' in my lungs: a disconnected series of thoughts

"Never Saw It Coming" by Tigers Jaw [ahhh the angst]

I learned a lot about falling in love when I fell out of love
I learned a lot about being a friend when I was alone

April 6, 2018 Friday 5:41 PM

So I broke my own rules within hours of being proud of myself for making them up. I ended up hanging out with Marie and Moby, and I figured it was okay because it didn't hurt to look at him and I didn't feel the electric cloud in my stomach. I think we spent too much time together, though? I mean, I was okay for a bit. Next day, slightly less okay.

Listen, he said these things to me after Marie, Moby, and I parted at around two in the morning Wednesday night (god I was so happy that day).

Moby: Hey. I'm happy we're friends
Me: !!!! I'm happy we're friends too :)
Moby: That's good! Makes me happy, I don't want things to be weird bc you're important to me
Moby: Sorry for being ncie will be mean again in 3 seconds
Me: I don't think things will ever be weird? Just tell me things, ya know? You're important to me too :) you're one of my number [one] favorite people in the whooooooole world
Moby: I know, I just worry sometimes but will continue to talk to you and tell you things!
Me: Okay good :) you can be nice to me sometimes too, I don't miiiiind, that way I can roast u for it laaater

And this was the conversation. I am not surprised that he missed me but I am also surprised. Which is contradictory. But so is the rest of me, shut up.

Anyway, overall, I know I am not over him and I can't imagine being over him until we're away from each other over the summer, but I am okay with that.

I went to Lancelot today. He has started calling Moby "Brent" because he can't remember his real name, and it is amazing. I might call Moby Brent just for fun, as a little inside joke with myself. He will be confused and his eyes will squint but he will be smiling and he'll do that breathy little, "what?" when he doesn't understand what the fuck I've said.

Lancelot is trying to know me. He wants to help me, and to do that he needs to understand why I am constantly experiencing such a rollercoaster of emotion. He thinks it has to do with my "busy" thoughts. He is always saying I am very bright, but I don't know how to shut it off. Last session, he even asked me if I was precocious, but I don't think so. I think my parents would've noticed if I was any smarter than a regular kid.

I hope Lance can help me figure myself out. Sometimes I look in the mirror and I realize I recognize myself from this angle, that angle, the other—and I remember that I sometimes do not recognize myself. And I look at myself deeply and I wonder if I am really seeing what I look like, or if other people see me as someone smiling; the way I remember Marie as looking down at her laptop, leaning back in a chair and talking about a meme. Or how I remember Moby with his head thrown back, eyes crinkled with a flush around them and laughing. Kai smiling sweetly down her nose at me after I've said something she adores, dark eyes aglooow—the precursor to her telling me I am great and that she loves me. Alexis as laughing with her body bent forward and her hands on her stomach, the sound coming off: HAH! and then as she keeps laughing it tapers off into a silent wheeze. Soum looking off into the distance somewhere her eyes really bright and big and brown, light smile on her face, and the question, "What?" when you say something to her and she refocuses on your face. And Liv with her hair bouncing as she bangs her head to music, eyes closed, that smile on her face—not the laughing kind of smile but that "fuck this is a good song" tight smile she has, that presses up into herself. And Caroline with her hair piled into a bun on top of her head, so heavy it leans to the side, looks very structurally unsound and bobs with her movement—and in this image she has her head tipped slightly down, eyes looking directly at me very big and light brown and comically wide the way she makes them when we are joking around.

I wonder what people remember when they look at me. I look at myself in the mirror and I am more concrete than I used to be, more familiar. I see the soft shape of my lips and jaw and nose, arch of my brows and the bright whites of my eyes. But maybe other people see the skin that bends under my eyes when I laugh, or they see the way my hair moves, I don't know. I can recognize myself from I-don't-know-how-many angles now, can see what I look like mid-laugh or when I'm tired and the skin melts off my face. And sometimes I see a picture of me and I can say, "Oh, hi, self," or I see someone who looks like me and am confused. But other times there are photos that don't look like me at all, even though they clearly are.

What I am saying is, sometimes I don't know what I look like, but I am getting better at knowing. I wish I could ask Moby, but I only want to ask because I want to know if I look as charming in his mental image as he does in mine. I should want to ask anyone else, but I kind of don't. Eh. I am okay, I am okay. I am standing outside myself on the perimeter and I am seeing the turbulence but I. Am. Okay. There are people out there, and I will find them, and they will cause me agony and I will be better for it, the way I feel better for it now.

"You were a completely different person before," Lance told me, and I wonder if he's right or if he just, for the first time, witnessed my long-term fluctuating cycles of anxiety. First, I was happy and playful, then I was crying every session, and now I am crawling out of the abyss (but it runs as an undercurrent in me, undercurrent concurrent, I am in it at all times up to the neck or knees, it will return and he will see me in Mourning again, directionless Mourning).

Marie is in Mourning right now too. I worry, I want to help her pull her out of it but I can't because it's nothing material and it just exists around you and suddenly you can't connect, or when you do connect it's not quite right the pieces don't quite fit no one looks you in the eyes like their eyes are yours and yours theirs—maybe someone has looked in your eyes like that, maybe you missed it. But if you missed it, then maybe the reason you can't connect is because there is something distorted about you, something too warm you've denatured and your catalyst can't find you anywhere anymore you're not right not functional. Marie is there right now, in that space, floating in ice somewhere above and below you and it hurts me that I simultaneously understand and Do Not understand.

I told Lance, he's the person I would be if I weren't anxious. He laughed and slapped the couch in joy. He moves his body, his face, his everything a lot, and so do I, and also he is a caring asshole, and so am I: and that is why he laughed, because he gets it in a sidelong way (which is the only way you can really hope for someone to get it anyway) and he knows it is true. The truth is funny.

Marie is like me. I said, promise me to reach out if you need something. She said, sure. You too. We shook hands and I said, "We say this but we both know neither of us are going to reach out if we need it," and Marie burst out laughing and we agreed to try, really try.

Moby, I want to tell you the following, and then I would like to stop writing today because I don't really want to write for you, it just feels like I need to sometimes (while recognizing you will never read this and that none of what I imagine about us is real):

I expect people to be disappointing, so I am automatically disappointed, but you have disappointed me by NOT being disappointing. I mean, you are disappointing, you SHOULD be disappointing, but I am not disappointed by you because. It's you. I guess my point is that you deserve so much good and I am sorry.