October In The Chair

The conversation in my head stops on the eighth panel.

The problem is, I'm just unsure who I should be having the conversation with.

Weird.

The 11th of July passed with absolutely no notice of mine. I'm fairly sure I noticed it last year, the anniversary of me being kickbanned from the UK. The beginning of the end, you might say.

And it's strange now, this feeling of emptiness in my chest. I'm not really sure what to name it, if there is indeed a name for this feeling.

I can't believe that I was that girl in the year 2000, so completely blindsided and hopeful and stupidly thinking every little thing is gonna be alright. That used to be my mantra, you know. Fucking Bob Marley. It came from me sitting in the bedroom of one of my old roommates, stoned out of my gills and talking so much shit about how my life was going to be. How it was to be green and golden. Every little thing is gonna be alright. I repeated it to myself over and over again, a futile chanting invocation against the powers that be, as I curled in a ball in the detention center at Heathrow International.

I repeated it to myself every single time his words arced through me, every little stab and prick of that ignorant knife. Every little thing is gonna be alright. I said it each morning when I opened my eyes and prepared to drudge through another nine hours of work that I despised. For him. For me. There was a meaning, there was a point. I was getting through this. I was going to walk through this dark tunnel to the light on the other side.

I repeated it to myself when he left me broken. I repeated it when he told me I'd forgotten how to dream. I repeated it when he compared me to his psycho ex-wife. Every little thing is gonna be alright.

I repeated it when I met the Engineer and schemed to make him mine. I repeated it every time I saw the Cheshire Cat and his grin at my arrival. I sang it to myself on the empty nights where I kicked myself for being so thoughtless. Every little thing is gonna be alright.

An endless loop, those seven small words. Constant run through my brain. It was my sword and shield. My proof that all of my efforts were for something. I drove alone up to Irish Hill in the middle of the night and screamed it at the sky, as my mother lie sick and near dying in the hospital. I held her hand and whispered it under my breath as she drifted, motionless, in a morphine haze. Over and over again.

My grandmother dying at home, starved to death because there was nothing else we could do for her but pump in more drugs. Letting her sip her Tanqueray through a straw, to hell with the nurses.

My father covering his face from me, hiding his tears.

Losing my job last summer.

My friend, Henry, dying two Halloweens ago. Far from his friends and refused the dignity of his religion to deliver him from this coil.

Every fight I've had, all the biting words I've thrown and had sent back to me on a goddamn gleaming platter.

All of it, each time: Every little thing is gonna be alright.

But, it's not going to. Is it? It never is. There's always something else, getting in the way. Always something bigger and worse to push us back down.

It's all fucking temporary. And I'm tired of deluding myself into believing that I'll make it out of each obstacles with my feet under me and a smile on my face. I'm sick of it. It's foolish.

This is temporary.
I'll not play the fool any longer.

I'll get through whatever is thrown at me. Not because of the good grace of God, but of my own voalition. My own steam. I'm Queen of this fucking shitheap and it would behoove the Fates to grasp that notion and mark it in their fucking dayplanner.

I'm not going to be pushed around any longer.

My hair is clean, bangs cut freshly short and proper. The last vestiges of my fever are drifting away. Though my continual retyping of words is more then enough evidence that it's still a bit here.

It snowed yesterday, strangely enough. And I, wrapped in my sleep sick, never even knew until about four in the evening. I woke up, went to the kitchen for ice water, and happened to glance out the window.

Snow. On the asphalt and covering the cars. I was thrown back and left dumb. And my mind reeled at the idea of it all. Snow in April? Okay. I grin and go back to bed, thinking it all a product of my fever ridden mind.

In my dreams, I turned away. Over and over and over again.
You never wanted me. Not really.
I did, but you never saw. Your eyes were shut and they still are.

For anyone who may be of the mind to care: Thursday April 10th at 1:35 am, my friend Michael's band, Stellastarr*, will be playing on Last Call with Carson Daly. Technically, 1:35 Friday morning. But you know what I mean, yes?

Hrrrrm.

You look so very strange like that. Not bad. Just...not the person I knew.
I suppose neither of us are the people we knew anymore.

You surely aren't the person who has hid inside my head for all this time,
all these years. Same eyes, though. Same voice as well, I'd reckon.

But, there's a brittleness around your mouth. It comes out in your breath and blood.

Time is never kind to the heart.

Last night I told a stranger all about you
They smiled patiently with disbelief
I always knew you would succeed no matter what you tried
And I know you did it all
in spite of me
Still I'm proud to have know you for the short time that I did
Glad to have been a step up on your way
Proud to be part of your illustrious career
And I know you did it all
in spite of me
In spite of me
Late last night I saw you in my living room
You seemed so close but yet so cold
For a long time I thought that you'd be coming back to me
Those kind of thoughts can be so cruel
So cruel
And I know you did it all
in spite of me
In spite of me

~morphine

Last night, I spoke to Pixie on AIM. We were
being girly. Giggling and talking about mushy
heads. Being silly. Things that I don't normally
do with other girls. I've never been someone who
had close girlfriends. I've only one or two.
Now I have a third and this makes me happy.

But, she said something last night which made
me cry. Not because it was mean or hateful, but
because I wanted so badly to make her life
beautiful for her and I know that I can't. It's
not within my power. It's not my story to
write.

She was telling me that I would get what I wanted,
and I was denying it. I asked how she knew.
She said because I wasn't her. And she never gets
what she wants.

So, I cried.

This morning, I spoke to Matthew on AIM. The
two of us are like the walking fucking wounded
right now. Both hurting and hateful and angry.
The Hearse Girl got on a plane last night,
bound for a land that should have mine. That
probably would have been, if I weren't such a
fuck-up.

She got on a plane. And I sat here, last night,
with a Jack on ice, wishing that it would go
up in flames. And then feeling terribly guilty
for having such nasty thoughts.

And I cried this morning, as I was talking with
Matthew, when he asked how I was doing. I cried
as I typed and told him about hateful thoughts
and drinking alone.

Everything has begun to hit me. And it's like
a sack of bricks, come down on my head. I thought
that I was okay. I thought that I was coping. I
suppose that's because the fact of what's gone on
wasn't a true reality until yesterday. Or to be
more specific, last week. When I was told that
plane tickets had been gotten and that there was
an actual date of departure.

That was supposed to be my life. And I hate both
of them for it. Something which I've never
admitted to anyone. That I do, in fact, hate them.

I'll never say it out loud, though.

I hate them because I put so much of myself into
something for almost two years. And it was
apparently a futile effort. I hate them because
I tried so goddamn hard to be a good person,
an understanding girl. Only to have the dirt
kicked in my face as I was down. I hate them
because I held hopes. And because I had faith.
And trust, though it is the most difficult thing
in the world for me to trust someone.

I hate them because they hurt me, despite the fact
that it wasn't maliciously or on purpose.

I also hate them because it echoes back to what
I did to the Cheshire Cat, when I left
Philadelphia with my heart in a suitcase. I'm
seeing the repurcussions of my own leaving and
feeling his pain, only now the positions are
reversed and I'm the one who's heartsick.

I hate them because they've shown me exactly how
horrible and unthinking of a person I was.

A month or so ago, the Engineer and I were having
a conversation about what I did. I had made
the comment that what is happening to me must
be the punishment for all my former sins. He
sighed and said "Where's the chaos girl? It's
only a punishment if you want it to be."

Another time, he and I got into an argument
because I've remained friends with Richard. He's
never done such a thing because he feels it only
leads to getting back with the person (by his
personal experience). He said it was unforgivable
what Richard had done to me and what the Hearse
Girl had done to Matthew. He made the comment
that it was something a bad person would do (I'm
roughly paraphrasing here, I don't remember
the exact words).

I sucked in my breath and told him that made me
a bad person because I had done practically the
same thing to the Cheshire Cat. He looked at me
and asked "You're never going to forgive yourself
for that, are you?"

Am I? I don't think so.

He gets upset because I won't always talk about
what's bothering me. Fact of the matter is
(and I write this, knowing full well that he will
read it) that I don't always wish to express
myself. I don't always want to give voice to the
pain in my head, despite the fact that it causes
worry in those who care about me. Sometimes, I
just want to feel the pain for what it is.
Sometimes, I don't know HOW to talk about it. And
sometimes, I just don't feel like talking about
it at all.

Foolish and selfish, I know. I recognise
those two traits in me. I give credit where
credit is due, I would reckon.

I don't want to talk about it because it
makes me feel stupid for having trusted someone
to such a degree. I don't want to talk about it
because I'm tired of hearing how rotten somebody
was to me. I don't want to talk about it because
hearing how rotten somebody was to me makes ME
feel rotten for having done almost the same thing
to someone else. I don't want to talk about it
because I feel pathetic. I don't want pity. I
just want my life to go back to whatever degree
of normalcy I can potentially achieve right now.

This isn't said in anger. I'm just tired of
hurting. I want to heal and be clean again. It's
going to take me quite some time and I can't
promise that I'll be the same girl at the end
of it. I've been burned, quite badly, and fire
always changed what it touches. Sometimes for
the good. Sometimes not.

I'm not always sad. I'm not always the broken
girl, crying her heart out. I can smile, still.
I can find happiness in the things and people
I love. It's just not always going to be a
constant, running pattern. I'm going to be down.
I'm going to be reminded of something from my
past every once in awhile.

I've just come home from a war. Now is the time
for me to build myself back up again. Pixie's
entry in her own journal last night spoke of how
she used to have small wings, but time and people
and circumstances plucked the feathers from them
until there was nothing left but bony nubs. And
how now, she's growing them back to be more
beautiful than they were before. But, it's going
to hurt for a long time as they're reforming.

This is what is happening to me, as well.

I'm growing back my wings.

It's going to take time, patience, and a hell of
a lot of courage. On my part and the parts of
everyone who comes into contact with me.

I can only ask for understanding.