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If Someone Walked Me Home: Quiero—algo.
October 21, 2018 Sunday 1:37 AM
Disclaimer: I'm a bit drunk. If someone walked me home, I might've not had these thoughts. Can't tell yet, if this is good or bad.
Sometimes I think I should stop getting drunk, because when I do I become someone younger. Someone wanting. Right now I am still dizzy—I can't still the words on the page. But my fingers move because they remember how to, I've done it so many times I've thought it so much when I'm alone. On the way home from dancing—I waited two minutes outside the tent for my friends to come out but they didn't so I left by myself and read a text from Maria later, saying she intended to "watch the kids"—which meant she was staying at the dance party to make sure they didn't hurt themselves. Not that they would. I think she just didn't want to leave, but I wish she had just said that, but also it doesn't matter. Drunk me just naturally feels—abandoned.
Lancelot said that word, only not as a past-tense adjective but as a condition that I have. A thing to describe my frequent state of grief. "Abandonment." The state of feeling abandoned.
The state of occupying a descriptor.
It is hard to forget that he said that. In passing. Followed by a sympathetic expression and, "Sorry," and, me, as usual, ignoring its significance and saying, "Yeah," because I knew all along, and I DID know but it hurts for it to be recognized. In some ways it is almost better to pretend that I feel bad as a spontaneous series of chemical reactions and a consequence of learned cognition and not—not because I had to learn to think that way. It's easier for me to think I thought like that because it was "cooler," because I had an affinity for it. Not for emotional survival, you know?
But then it's another thing when— when you're at dinner with your parents and Maria's parents and your dad admits you got the short end of the stick. We spent all of our parenting on the first child, he said. He didn't believe me—when I said I remembered him falling asleep while reading to me at night when I was very small. He didn't remember that, and he tried to convince me I was thinking of false memories, my sister's stories. But I remember, it was him and occasionally my mom. If I think hard (and thinking hard makes me think I can't trust the ensuing memories), then I remember it was rare, but it happened. I tried to cover up the hurt—at the fact that he couldn't even remember. On one hand, it is really funny that they can't remember the differences between their daughters. But on the other hand it is not and I didn't know how to feel, so I pretended it didn't matter. Doesn't matter that he doesn't believe me, that he gave up on me. And mom describing me as the independent one, the one who read a lot. It's not like Caroline wasn't that girl—it's that they didn't force her to be that girl. And she's still messed up, they STILL didn't pay enough attention. That one kid, that they were supposed to give their everything to, and instead they forgot, smeared it everywhere. I wonder, when I tried to kill myself, if they thought it was because of negligence. If so, they never said. Mom only said: "you are weak—not like [Caroline]," who withstood bullying on the soccer team. You are weak, for wanting to die, you are weak, "I don't even know you anymore," and I took that personally, as if it was my job to let her know me. As if it was my job and not hers—not hers, not theirs, to TRY and know me instead of letting me just...
What's the point of telling him these things matter? He doesn't listen to me. In any case, my dad thinks dads are a negligible thing anyway. Isn't that what he told Liv? "Dad's only have to be there, they don't have to do anything." And a consequence of this philosophy—is me. Is someone who never trusts herself, never trusts the people who love her. Because they will criticize her and then leave her and it may not be a physical departure but it sure as hell is felt. Dad said on the phone a few weeks ago that he wanted to read my poetry; he said, I won't criticize. I'm already proud of you. And I wondered why that didn't just—fix everything. Why I didn't suddenly feel better when he proclaimed that he is so-called proud of me. Why am I not ecstatic about that?
Why am I still thinking about all the times that he didn't believe me? (Almost every memory I have of him that doesn't involve other people) Didn't trust my intellect? Even today, doing something so stupid as changing the height of a bike seat—he asked me five times whether it really needed to be that short. It DID need to be that short. I am a short person. But he forgets that because HE is not short. He only believes what is within him. Which is the same reason why he delivered this bike to me even though I told him the brake pads needed to be replaced. He, of course, did not replace them. Hopefully it will be okay—the last few times I've ridden this bike it has screamed like hell on hills, which sucks because this whole campus is made up of hills—maybe it will be fine., maybe he was right. But it still annoys (hurts) me that he didn't even fucking do that one thing I've been asking him to do for over a year. And you know why he didn't do it? Because HE didn't believe the brake pads needed replacing, and what he believes and does takes precedence over everything else in the entire world. Including his daughters.
As I was dancing tonight, I kept thinking that I was in love. One boy in the crowd said he knew me and I apologized because I didn't remember him at all (I was also flustered because before this conversation he'd been gripping my hips from behind). He asked me to dance and I imagined—everything. Us dancing, me feeling his boner, him leading me outside, us kissing, and me ending the makeout session with a stupid excuse because kissing is a boring slide of lips (as far as I know—feel free to change my mind). Don't get me wrong, it's not unpleasant. It's just that it is a pretty stupid and pointless physical activity. It's feels kind of good, but also completely alien, and I quickly run out of energy for the two dialectical possibilities.
Anyway, I rejected the guy and I felt a bit bad. I said I'm dancing with friends and he said, "I'm heartbroken," and I laughed and when I turned around he had disappeared. I felt odd for the next five or so minutes, especially because all I had wanted the whole night was a boy to dance with. I saw Gregory across from me, and I have the vaguest and stupidest crush on him even though I think we would make a terrible couple. And also there was this other kid, who I think is cute, and when we swayed as a group to a cover of Etta James' "At Last," I had my hand curled around his waist and his was around my shoulder. I wanted to kiss him. He's not a stranger or a friend—I've probably never named him because I only see him about once a week and it's usually a useless meeting. He's very pretty, I've always thought so (first met him after Moby, so I thought it was just a kind of—rebellion against my feelings, but I still feel that he is attractive). But I can't imagine us being normal people together, even if I can imagine him with his eyes closed above me forehead against mine. Kissing the side of my mouth. You know?
I wonder if I just need someone to fixate on when I'm drunk. Drunkenness brings out my lonely. lol. Anyway, I almost ran home, especially towards the end—going wild with these thoughts, sort of tormented, I needed to write them. The need to write—god, it vibrates in my fingers. Even as I was embarrassed when my dad described me as a writer, I thought, oh: I don't want Maria's parents to think I am a stupid failure because I am not in the sciences. I don't know to prove to them that—that reading is worthwhile. I guess because I don't really know that it is.
I just hope.
Knowing myself, I can only do a thing I love. In sex, in career, in thought, etc. A thing I hate—it can divert an amount of energy, but not nearly the same as something which I love. Something which I love gets everything—is everything. Is all I am. Becomes me, or I become it, or it was already me and I only discover this later.
So I just hope—that what I am is worth anything to anyone.
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