2018-06-16 18:39:47 (UTC)

This too shall pass, my ass

"Crab" by (Sandy) Alex G

Do you miss me, you sad lady?
'Cause I'm really feelin' down
And if you're feelin' lonesome too
I'd like it if you came around

Do you miss what you thought you were
Back when you thought you knew what you are
Do you miss your favorite song
Back when you thought you knew what was wrong

Where you are,
I don't care I just wanna be a part
of something

When I was sixteen I was dead
I was sick from bein' underfed
When I was twelve all I did was cry
I saw my favorite band burn alive
When I was ten I hated you 'cause you hurt me
It was what you know
Do you miss me, Stephanie?
'Cause I'm really missin' you

Where you are,
I don't care I just wanna be a part
Of something

June 16, 2018 Saturday 6:44 PM

Today is Liv's birthday! She is 18. She is still not speaking to me and I haven't tried to contact her. I told my dad to take her out to dinner or something, but I am not sure if he got my message.

I love this song. It sounds like old Someone Still Loves You Boris Yeltsin—like "I am Warm and Powerful" or "Yr Broom" or something.

I am very tired today, and I have a headache (as usual). It is eighty degrees out. I just put three ice cubes in what is quite possibly my fourth cup of coffee today. It is deeply bitter even watered down. I could add almond milk, but I think I prefer it black like this. So yeah, my hair is up, I'm wearing a white t-shirt and a pair of black corduroy shorts, no underwear no bra. I am overheated. And I am deeply sad.

I've gone to therapy twice this week. Started to think I was okay, but I don't feel okay. My self-esteem is really low. I went to the Incredibles 2 with Ibn last night and all I could think was "Why are you even hanging out with me?" I felt so young and useless. Doesn't help that he's 4 years older than me. He is closer in age to my sister than he is to me, and I shouldn't care since this isn't very serious, but it still makes me feel Some Type of Way. Not disgusted, but intimidated, I guess. I don't know that it has to do with him. I'm very vulnerable lately.

I honestly just wish Goose (reminder: my roommate on whom I have a confusing crush??? more borne of physical loneliness than actual emotional attraction—my point is, it's one of those crushes that isn't meant to go anywhere)—fuck, anyway. I wish Goose was a hugger so he would just like.... hug me...... and not say anything.... just hug me and fall asleep with me, make me feel better..... but he is not very touchy-feely in the emotional or physical sense. Well, actually, he touches me a lot, but usually only for a short time. Like he'll lay his head on my shoulder when we're on RIPTA. Or, like, grab my wrists or arm when we are play-fighting for whatever reason. He also hit me in the shoulder like five times when he found out I don't have a license, haha.

Anyway, I don't need it, but I kinda wish I had it. Tentatively. Either way, it is usually enough that Goose is just.... around. I am not totally alone. But he has gone home for the weekend, and that is relieving in some ways (I can walk to the bathroom pantsless post-masturbation) but not ideal in others (um??? I tend to spiral when I'm alone?????).

The obvious solution: be around someone. It would be so easy. Ibn is so willing. He invited me to sleep over (nothing weird, he said we didn't even have to cuddle—just it's nice to sleep next to someone. I'll make you breakfast and drive you home, he said) last night. He invited me to pride a bit ago. He asked if I was busy tonight. I said no thanks to pride but I haven't answered the last question because I'm not sure if I'm really in a place to be around a semi-stranger right now. That's the thing, right? We don't really know each other. He says, "So let's GET to know each other," but do I want that right now?

I just feel worthless, and ugly, and deeply stupid, haha. Can't explain the extent of these feelings. It's gospel. They are truth. Opposing thoughts are weak, no backing by conviction, just empty and obligatory. I'm half-hopeful that they'll work, that positive thinking is like... a thing. But not for me it isn't! I can't lie to myself, I think I might actually be incapable, lol. Lancelot says so too. But sometimes I am not sure whether to believe him. I can't even believe myself—how can I believe other people?

I feel untethered. Nothing is true anymore. I don't know, I'm letting myself get in this space—I need to calm down. It's hard to calm down when I'm alone. Goose is usually the person that stops me from going insane (usually being in the past week haha), but he is not!!! here!! ANd he doesn't do it knowingly anyway, which is actually preferred.

Ugh, I just. I told Ibn I couldn't hang out tonight. Was not feeling it. I think if we were to hang out I'd just be really anxious, stock-still and staring at the ceiling, attempting to appear human the whole time. Not. Ideal.

I don't want to do anything, but I am sort of preparing to make dinner, which I think will just be caesar salad. Right now I am defrosting the chicken breast I was going to cook. I don't know what else to do. I also did the dishes. I masturbated. I played games. I applied for jobs. I've done the things that I have to do, I dunno. I could probably clean more. I might do that.

God! I went to therapy yesterday and I was fine. I don't know what's up with that. Look, see, I can't even live, can't acknowledge my current mood without shaming myself for it. I am just so mean to myself and I don't know how to stop. I didn't explain this properly and because of that my chest burns: I am angry, that I can't even journal right. It's melodramatic and a gross distortion of perspective, and I can acknowledge that—pull it out of my mental In Case Of Emergency box, full of fail-safe thoughts—but what does that do for the situation? Nothing. Slaps a sticker on it that reads "This Is Not Real."

I don't look like the girl in the mirror, who is constantly warping. I don't look like the girl in photos, who is frozen. I don't act like the girl in memories or on paper, I don't think like the author of my entries, I am in whatever medium distorted and stained, and then I ask myself: what is this search for the unadulterated truth of self? Why? It's a holy grail type thing, isn't it? Might not even exist. I'm like: where does it come from?

My dad? Who planted within me a seed of doubt that has fractured my self-image since childhood? The constant questioning, the disbelief and distrust he cast on me, like a medical doctor who's seen to much to treat invisible pains, he has no faith no faith no faith. And now I see that this is not necessarily the way to live: with an eye cast down at everything. In fact, it is arrogant, to hold onto your beliefs and force others to prove you wrong, to trust only yourself. If you don't trust anyone else, then trusting yourself is a fallacy, but you don't see that because somehow you've got a blind spot where you're concerned.

Yeah, I could blame it all on him. I could cite the loads of conversations between us, my volume rising and his steady, me standing up and him sitting, my fists curled while his loose. I love my dad and I hate him very much. I hate him for questioning me. I hate him for making me question myself. I hate him for not believing me when I told him that Adrian held false beliefs about our relationship to each other. I hate that his first question was to ask whether I'd done something to lead him on. I hate that—out of all that everyone has told me, out of my sister's word, out of Liv's word, out of Alexis's word, my mom's word—out of all that, I side with him instinctively. They all say I was right to cut off Adrian, and my dad agrees now, but in my heart I have that memory of him questioning me like he always does and I live in that question. I don't know, dad, maybe it is my fault. And because it might be my fault, it IS my fault.

And this is not your fault, dad. You didn't mean for me to be like this. You couldn't have known.

It is a protective mechanism I developed on my own: to expect the worst, to embrace myself at the worst.

When I was 12, my very sense of self broke and that wasn't because of you, dad. That was because of me. That was because I played a prank on a friend of mine and it went too far, I got too caught up in the story of it—the realization that the story wasn't real pretty much broke me. And suddenly I wasn't sure of anything I'd done before or during or after that. I remember sitting on the couch in the dark, and mom was there, and so was Caroline. I don't remember why, but we were all crying. My mom knew what was wrong with Caroline, but when she asked me why I was weeping I said it was something that I could take care of myself. I was too ashamed to tell her that I'd hurt someone I loved accidentally-on-purpose. I can't tell you where anxiety began, but I can tell you that that exact night was when I developed depression.

These days, I'm like, kids will be kids. They do bad things sometimes, but if they learn from it, it should be fine. I learned. I try not to hurt people now, but it's inevitable. Anyway, I can't go back in time to tell myself to calm down. It's not like I would've listened to future-me anyway. If it wasn't that moment that broke my self-image, it would've been another, you know?

And since then, I've had a hard time visualizing who I am. My sense of self, actually, is rooted in this identity of constant questioning, of mixed anxiety and scientific method, of amateur psychology and strict policing. On this foundation I have set up values, consisting of honesty and truth—and paradoxically, a dedication to anti-melodrama. I don't know how I'm supposed to be honest if I'm constantly undermining my own feelings with a "this is stupid" or any derivative of that sentiment. When has that ever made me feel better? When have I ever felt calm at the idea of This Too Shall Pass, of You're Probably Not Thinking About This In The Right Way?

It just makes me more distrustful of my own mind. To think, I could have thoughts so heavily influenced by my emotions, thoughts that are truthful in one moment and dishonest in the next, or—fuck!—both at the same time!

Example: I miss Liv.

But if she called me right now I wouldn't pick up. So what is it that I miss? I miss her when I remember it's her birthday, and when I keep track of her life from afar, when I remember the things she did or said, when I recall the details of her family history, when I memorize the date of a graduation I will not be attending. These are things she doesn't realize I pay attention to. I miss her when I do these things, which is confusing to me, because maybe I don't miss her at all. Maybe I just miss the stability of a labeled relationship. But labels don't imply unconditional love, I guess. I had never thought that: I guess I had hoped Liv was like me in the way that I still loved her when I didn't love her. I think of her more as a sister than a friend at this point, but I guess we're like... estranged? Not forever. Eventually, she'll reach out. Of that, I am semi-confident. I have nothing riding on it if I'm wrong, though.

I wish Liv understood me. I wish she accepted me. She does not. So in the end, I see it as her having done wrong: not me.

I say that, and it is true, but it doesn't tell you about all other attached thoughts—the heavy self-doubt, the suspicion that I am wrong and that I've abused her and everyone else I've loved, the terrifying idea that like when I was 12 the rug will be pulled out from under me, my entire worldview broken by a confrontation.

What if I'm wrong? I've seen people be wrong. My dad is wrong. I see him walking around with his worldview sticking out, lol. My mom, hers more subtle but still there, sick-yellow with jaundice. What if I'm like that, too? What if I've got my filter and you can see it? Is it too close for me to identify? Is it arrogance to keep trying? Am I arrogant? I feel gutted, empty, worthless—am I arrogant? Am I arrogant? Lack of self-esteem, narcissism, those are not mutually exclusive. What if I am one of them? Is that why I can't do anything? Why I can't write anymore? Why I can't speak or even think? I am paralyzed. Cut off at the knees.

I can't tell what is real anymore. I mean, thought-wise. There are supposed to be truths in the world, and I suppose in an inane sense that remains. I can look out the window and say the sky is blue, I can look at my body and say I have blood in my veins. But that doesn't matter to me like the inside of my head matters. I can't tell you if I like washing dishes or if I am hungry; I can't tell you if I have a headache or if I'm just thinking myself into imaginary pain, I can't tell you if I enjoy the bitterness of black coffee or if I'm just used to it, I don't know! I don't anything anymore. I don't know if I should die or not, if I should be an alcoholic like I'm meant to be, if I should finish school like my past and future self says I should, I don't know if any of that matters really.

I can't tell anymore. I don't know what to do. So I guess for now I'll just—refrain from doing anything.