Ad 2:
2020-06-21 04:05:56 (UTC)

broken days

June 21. 2020 Sunday 4:06 AM

Today is one of those days where it is so hot your brain comes out of your ears. Excuse my la gauge, by the way, I might sound weird because I’m at my sister’s house and so I can only type on my phone. And also only to the best of “wedding song” from Hadestown which is stuck in my head.

Outside the window, a steeple. I taste like garlic. Not a very sexy taste. Earlier, my sister’s boyfriend brought out this garlic dip (they’ve been dating for like 2 years so if I haven’t managed to name him I will be mad at myself).
It was so good. I thought that it wasn’t rhe type of food you would want to eat if you thought you might kiss someone later, but it didn’t stop he and Caroline from holding hands and generally flopping all over each other through out the show we were watching (Watchmen on HBO. Which, btw, is fantastic).

*I* wanted to kiss Isaac, but that’s because I am drunk. I ended up at my sister’s because I facetimed her with the intention to ask her boyfriend (a foodie) about the best place to get seafood stakeout (it was too hot out to cook today, but even if that wasn’t reason enough, my parents spent the entirety of late afternoon/early evening replacing our kitchen sink so they entrusted upon me the responsibly of choosing the takeout. Of which I wanted seafood).

Anyway, Caroline’s BF (i’m so scared of misnaming him according to my own criteria lmao) made poké bowls and they were sooooOoo good. and then we helped Caroline baked a carrot cake for my dad (for father’s day). I was paranoid for a bit thaT Caroline and BF were either having a hard time or experiencing the preliminaries of a breakup but I was calmed by their touchiness during the TV show portion of our evening.

Watchmen had a lot of flashbacks to Tulsa, OK (if you don’t know, Tulsa was home to what is known as “black wall street” before it was ruined by riots due to a white dude dying). It made me want to cry. Sometimes I feel tired because of how terrible things are. Most of the time I feel guilty because of how little I do (I’ve been holed up in my parents’ house for a month).

I remembered, that while I wa s probably the only POC in the room for much of my childhood (I was one of maybe 3-5 other non-whites), I still feel this implacable guilt. I think because I am very, VERY a white-passing. My mom is very clearly latina, but although my dad also has latinx genes, he appears rlly white. Both my sister and I grew up looking very white as a result. We were never really treated differently when it came to race (aside, of course, from our personal shame towards how we “should” and “should not” be).

The only time I remember being aware of who I was, was when a fellow latino kid made fun of the way I said “Santa Maria” for the school Thanksgiving performance. That was elementary school. And I have never been able to forget that.

Imagine if you were reminded every fucking day? That you were different/weren’t enough?
In terms of race/appearance, that is, not daddy issues (although fuck knows I have those for some reason).

It’s... It must be so much fucking worse for those who are not white-passing. Not only that—folks were are black. Folks who must bear the brunt of history while living lives as chaotic and irregular as our own. It’s unjust, and easy to forget when you’re at home by yourself and everything is happening over the internet.

Sometimes I truly believe I might not live to 50. Not even because of depression, but because of everything happening. I think I might die a terrible and frightening death, and nothing of significance will either occur nor fail at that consequence. Like a grain of sand vibrating at whatever frequencies. If I die, I die. I hope nothing will hurt in consequence.

I have a lot of fear. Not necessarily sadness. I’ve been experiencing a lot of nightmares but I’m not particularly sad. I am just disappointed and I think I have an avoidant attachment typed because I really think Isaac is interest and talented in a way that is difficult to understand. But you know how it is—novelty evaporates and I think he’s pretty but I compulsively think of what may go wrong so nothing else matters and I just want to be alone again. My parents were the permissive type. They always were.

Both of us, me and Isaac, in high school—i think I thought we were the same sort of stock. The same emotionally absent professor sads, the same cluttered (yet emptied) homes, the deified and absent siblings. The works. We turned out different, even then. Me, an avid student and, he, a drug dealer. Now he paints cars and I sit around doing nothing waiting til I can graduate and sit around and do more nothing.

I’m not broken or anything, but I would say, I certainly am.. something.

Not even different, just.. somrethibf.

anyway I have to go. It’s almodt 5 AM and I’ve been feeling gross and sick all day because of the heat. I’m a sweaty lump on the floor of my sister’s apartment.

Thank you for listening. I don’t deserve ehes half as much as those out there—maybe you—living in the pain. Whatever pain. Please send me a message if you need someone to talk to.

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