Pretty Much, Fuck Me
"Don't Swallow the Cap" by The National
Everything I love is on the table
Everything I love is out to sea
I'm not alone
I'll never be
Into the bone
I'll never grieve
I'm tired, I'm freezing, I'm dumb
When it gets so late I forget everyone
I need somewhere to stay,
But I don't think anyone I know's awake
Keep my arms the rest of the night
When they ask
What do I see?
I see a great white beautiful heaven hangin' over me
October 20, 2019 Sunday 12:01 AM
I wouldn't say that I'm horny, necessarily—but I do want to be fucked (afternote: not that I understand it or have any context). I do want to kiss someone, grab the hair at the base of their neck, feel their hip bones, that sort of thing. Strangely, I don't even have anyone in particular in mind. Just—want to feel something inside of me that is not myself.
I'm drunk. I woke up a little before 3 PM, and I had work at 4 PM. I felt depressed, I felt the same way I felt when I went to bed last night at 2 AM: empty. I walked around Providence a bit last night, and then I got home and my friends were in my living room. I lay back on the couch and felt empty. So I left, to be alone, to get some pizza and I read this book called "Hotel Splendid" and it was an easy read, a really wonderful read, a deeply depressing read. It reminded me of those two characters in Coraline, the two former performers that lived together; only somehow more grotesque. I came back from pizza and ended up sitting with my friends to watch this Bollywood movie. At some point, we paused the movie, and Marie put her forehead on my lips and I blew out a bubble and we laughed for several minutes; which was probably when I was happiest that day. It was really nice.
Before I went into work today, I flipped through my copy of Hotel Splendid and I found a sticky note that Marie wrote: it said, "I miss you, take your time. Lab u :) -marie"
I started crying where I was kneeled on the floor, still not sure why. It hurts me when I realize I have that sort of love available to me. I have been trying, to confide in people. But sometimes I just feel so far away, so confused, so unworthy. It's hard to explain. There aren't enough words. I say it is profound—it's almost religious, the utter disgust with which I exist in myself.
I was in a bad mood all night, but I appreciated Diego's effort (at work) to make me feel better. I can't believe I had a crush on him last year. I sometimes worry this is all that will be left of me; this writing. This stupid, unstructured writing. As if, when you try to least, the most comes through.
Anyway Diego was nice. He is generally inconsiderate and I don't think he is attractive. But he always asks interesting questions, and makes me laugh, and he likes me. He is unambigous about that. I like people, that make it clear when they like you. I think I'm too insecure for any other kind of love. This isn't really a direct attack on anyone specifically, just an observation that is hopefully true.
My feet are cold. I want to drink until I die. I want to preserve myself with my own blood alcohol content. I am not sad, exactly, just profoundly empty. I want to be like this forever. Empty and selfish and absolutely mindless of everything. Mindless, mindless, mindless. I can't walk without going insane, I can't lie in bed without crying, I can't do anything! I cried in the stairwell yesterday, I cried on my floor today; it's a matter of, where will I cry next?
And guess what? When I wake up happy, I will be sad. When I wake up happy, I'll be sad that my sad is gone, and that now I have to continue living after I had just worked to break down what I had built. I'll have to re-learn the process of waking up, the process of doing homework, the process of smiling and making conversation. As if all of this were inherent and not some sort of facade I built on a melting foundation. A swamp, as it may be in the Hotel Splendid.
I'm going to keep drinking. Bacardi and lemon juice. I can't remember why I began this, except for to say that I wanted to be fucked, which, yeah. Only now I have a particular in mind, and it's a stupid particular.
I miss my sister. I wish she wasn't... I don't know. Speaking to her feels difficult now, and I miss her so much. I wish she would just comfort me. I guess that's too much to ask, from my mom, from my dad, from my own sibling. They're all fucking cold and far away. And it's fine they don't care, because I guess I don't care either. That is the whole issue among us, is that we are terribly neglectful of each other.
She never answers my texts. I know that's how she is—in fact, I am always the one defending her to my mother. But I feel so hurt, when it's me. And I almost understand my mom. My dysthymic mother, my fucking depressed mother who will never be happy, who has never, maybe, been happy!
My sister asked, on Thursday, how junior year was going.
I said, "bad but its all good"
And she asked if I was at least enjoying things.
I said, "nope!" because I've cried every fucking day for the last 2 weeks and I've had to go see deans and e-mail professors and confide in my friends and do all this trash stuff that I wouldn't have to do if I were just... not a fucking sensitive, mentally ill fuck-ass. I put it kindly. I am kind to myself. But you must know, my words are fucking manipulative. In reality, I am much worse. It is not so much "mental illness" as it is inherent flaw.
Yeah, Caroline replied:
"Well, hang in there, schools not for enjoying things anyway. I hope the lame passes before you graduate and you find things you enjoy, at least in reasonable pockets."
And I was very mad so I didn't reply. I thought that was a stupid reply. I want her to come down here. And hug me. And tell me it's okay to be awfully depressed; it's okay to miss class and cry at night, to be tired every day, to sob in your living room your kitchen your bathroom your bedroom in front of the sink while doing dishes while watering the mint plant. I want her to tell me this isn't normal, but it's okay, and that I am doing the best I can. It doesn't feel like I"m doing my best. This wasn't always "my best.'
But when I sobbed in the stairwell on Thursday night, Karina hugged me and told me I was doing okay, and I don't understand why she is so fucking nice to me. I want her to tell me that it's okay for me to cry until I actually believe it. Which will be never, but I will be thankful for the validation anyhow.
I told Nadiya the other day, that normally it doesn't bother me; I figure it's like any other chronic illness, and that I may be sort of sick the rest of my life, but I will compensate for it and it will be fine. But right now it doesn't feel like the kind of thing that allows the future, it really doesn't. I don't want to be alone; I want to be able to concentrate, I want to stop crying, I want to fall asleep quickly, I want to go to work and grin, I want to go to the library and study, I want to kiss someone and smile, I want to do that sort of thing.
I always think, when I'm happy, that I want to be sad and broken, and then when I'm sad and broken I think the opposite, but also I think secretly I always want to be broken and fucked up so someo—
OK Nadiya got home from a date and interrupted my line of thought and suddenly I feel a lot better. I think I must've isolated myself too much today. Which I knew, and I tried to prevent by hanging out with Marie, but she was tired so I ended up alone drinking Bacardi, but now my friend/roommate is here, so I'm happy :) well. Not happy, but drunk and focused on conversation. I still want to drink myself into the ground but I won't because I'm a reasonable human being :)
Things are good.