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2018-06-06 00:41:02 (UTC)

do you know what she meant

"Sarah" by (Sandy) Alex G

Sarah runs
To feel the burning in her lungs
And clear her head
Do you know what Sarah meant
When she said
Be my guest
And keep the pace
To save your face
You’ll never make
The place
Why do you even run the race?
I can't be
What you need
I am stuck in a dream
I am stuck in a dream
Don’t you know
She’s been here all along
In a dream?
She belongs in a dream
Every day
Ill make promises that play
On Sarah's heart
So I can watch her fall apart
Cause I know
When I break her down
We’ll spit on all the happy clowns
That live around this sunny town
She loves me like a dog
And when we mess around
I'll let her know the truth I found
In my own hopeless hate
And every time I wake
I second guess the game I played
Did I make a mistake?

June 6, 2018 Wednesday 12:43 AM

This is me, in the bedroom, cross-legged and sleepy and barefoot and wondering if I have to pee. As is the norm: I am both fine and not-fine. I feel extremely okay—extremely, extremely okay. So domestic. I get up in the mornings, I pour myself coffee, I pack my lunch, I leave my shared apartment and lock the door behind me; I walk to work, I inhale boxes of century-old sheet music, some of it crumbles in my hands, most of it holds up as if it were from the 90s, none of it feels very old at all. I see handwriting in the margins on little ditties—all of these vocal and accompaniments, by the way—I wonder if the writing is recent or if whoever wrote it is dead now. Oldest one I held was 1867, but I am hoping for older.

I put all their useful information into a spreadsheet and I do this for hours at a time. I stop sometime past noon to get out of that dusty room, to eat something, to nurse my headache (I always have a headache). Then I get back to work. I pee once, I tell myself I am going to take another break, I never end up taking that break—I keep going.

The work is lonely, the work is extremely sedentary, the work is repetitive. I like it. But I guess I'd like any work. I just like it when my brain has something to do. I found myself dwelling and promised I'd write an entry tonight to get my thoughts out, but by now I can't remember what any of those thoughts I had earlier had been about. I know I saw ghosts. That's all.

I wonder what Liv is up to right now. She graduates New Visions tomorrow and I want to say congratulations, good job, yay friend, whatever. But I think she wanted "space" or whatever and I am going to respect it out of respect for myself. I am still positive she is being dumb in how she decided to approach our "best friend breakup," as I've started calling it in my head—but Liv was not wrong in her hunches that we were growing apart. I don't know that growing apart necessitates such an explicit end to our communication, though. But Liv is like that. She is dramatic. I hope people go to her graduation tomorrow. If given the choice, I would hate to go, but I'd do it for her because that kind of shit means a lot to her.

But I'm not going to do that, because I am putting myself before her. It's not selfish—it's normal, and it's fine. I don't want to let her ghost make me feel guilty. I've been anxious enough lately. I keep letting my thoughts spiral out of control. This morning, a girl rung our doorbell in search of her coworker, whom(?whatever) she was supposed to pick up. After chatting for a bit, I let her in so she could knock on the doors of the other two apartments.

Then I felt really worried that the other tenants would be upset that I had done that. I was convinced I'd come home to a scolding—or worse, an uncomfortably polite request to stop letting strangers into the house. I kept thinking to myself, What if she was a murderer? Did I really think a few minutes of friendly banter was enough to judge whether someone was a sociopath? Why did I trust my own judgement so deeply? But then I reminded myself that those kinds of interactions are a cursory screening for the obvious crazy. They are not meant to rule out craziness in general—just a certain kind. Still, I should've knocked on their doors myself and had her wait outside, but this didn't occur to me until I was walking to work.

This is one of the many things I have been considering compulsively in my mind.

So yes: I am fine. I am very, very fine. I am flat skin with something roiling underneath.

Today, I told Lancelot about the fight I had with my dad, and I ended up getting way more worked up than I expected. Lance asked me if I had ever considered the idea that my dad may be autistic. I said, "Yes, my sister and I have talked about it. Non-family members have suggested it. My mom has said it. But he has never been assessed."

I hate thinking about my dad. We have such a volatile relationship and it makes me really sad. I love him. He is a good father, and a good man. But for some reason I just... I can't be around him??? I know I'm not the only one; he's lost friends over the years for the same reason I can't stand having a conversation with him for too long. Mom stays with him because she is overly self-sacrificing. Caroline doesn't interact too much with him. I worry I will interact even less, since I am not as patient as my sister.

Thinking about it makes me want to cry. I miss him. I really hate him. Whenever we speak—I just feel so inadequate. I'm never enough. Nothing I ever say is enough. But whatever, that's fine. It is really not the worst situation a girl can have with her dad.

Lancelot wants me to confront it. I do not want to do that. I am not sure why. I don't know if I'm scared or what, but I keep telling myself there is no point: he will not change.

Wow! I am so glad I am not home anymore. Home was fine, but I was sick of it by the time I left. I am sick of it just thinking. Sick of my lovely mom, and my well-intentioned dad, and my ex-bestfriend Liv, and my childhood buddies Laney and Lily, and my longtime friend Alexis. Hate being on my street and fearing that whatever red car drives by me has Stephanie behind the wheel—hate that I accidentally kept saying her name while I was at home, in place of Sidney's name. Caroline did not point it out, but she definitely noticed and I kind of wish we were the types of sisters who talked about things. But we aren't.

Oh, cool, now I am crying. And I have to pee. I don't want to be sad. I feel it under my skin always. Mostly treat it with acceptance: but god I am so sad and so scared.

Man, I just want them to lock me up. But that's a fleeting want—I like my "independence." Or whatever you call this. Not quite freedom, but something like it and I'm pretty sure that's the pinnacle of what a human can experience. I mean, pure freedom would be me lying in bed forever until I rot, Staring at the ceiling until I can't see and the maggots crawl out of my eyes. That isn't going to happen, though; it's physically impossible, to live and to also be entirely decomposed. You live and you choose, and I choose to live. Next to death it is less commitment.

Lance said he was glad that I was back; glad to return to our banter. He says nice things like this a lot. I was uncomfortable because his compliments mean a lot to me.

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