October In The Chair

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 mind was full of such strange thoughts last night, I could barely contain them. Nothing bad, per se. Just bizarre little musings in my head about my life, recent past relationships, the differences between the then me and the now me, etc. Fun stuff, right? Right.

I suppose it's better when I stand outside on my smoke break and wonder how the fuck Iceman from the X-men comic/Spider Friends cartoon in the 80's coasted on ice to get where he was going. How does the ice fucking stay up? Why doesn't the shit melt? Could he go over the Atlantic Ocean like that?

I need sleep. And a lot of it. heh.

That bizarre little musing also reminded me of an ex-roommate, Demond. Mainly because this one time when he was stoned, he had started laughing at our other roommate, Tony of Destruction, and said, "He thinks he's motherfuckin' ICEMAN an' shit!"

This became a kind of catch phrase amongst the group of us for a time, said when we felt someone was playing the cool game. Or when we just wanted to torture Demond, which was always.

Leaving to drive my mother to chemotherapy in about ten minutes. Today, I don't have to stay there with her as my brother's driving up to meet her there. I drove her home from work on Tuesday and stayed home, thus missing half a day. Therefore, I decided his unemployed ass can take her to chemo today so I don't miss any more time at work.

I hear REM on someone's radio in my office. This is somehow intriguing. It half reminds me of high school, dancing in a playground in the middle of the night with someone's little tape recorder playing this song. And it half reminds me of Richard's father, in a pub with a guitar, leading a rowdy group of drunken rugby players at a bachelor party to sing this song.

I think I thought I saw you cry.

It has become very obvious to me that love is really only a measure of how much pain a person can inflict upon you. The more you love someone, the more they can hurt you.

And I'm not talking little piddling kind of hurt. I speak of the big pain. Capital P. Wounds. Scars. Crippled fucking hearts. The same kind of pain that left me in a gibbering pile of sobs and snot when I was 17. When I didn't eat for two weeks straight, existing only on cigarettes (THREE packs a day) and pink lemonade. The same hurt that caused me to turn from the one who cared about me the most in this world, turn and ran straight into the arms of another person who would inflict wound upon wound on my already beaten and battered skin.

Thinking back on it now, I was only running because I was wounded. And because I saw the stability that the Cheshire Cat offered me. The stability that scared the shit out of me. I've never been the sort of character who wanted that type of thing. I've always wanted explosion and dum dum bullets riccoheting off the walls. I've wanted an adversary, an equal. Someone who always kept me guessing.

The Cheshire Cat couldn't offer me that, bless his sweet heart. And neither could Richard, though I fooled myself into believing he could. I still don't have it. And that thought leaves me shaking to my very bones because I don't wish to cause the same pain on the Engineer as has been brought onto me.

It would seem that the only people who I've ever truly given myself over to were the ones who inflicted the most soul crushing pain. The liars. The cheaters. The boys who made me feel stupid and worthless. The ones who were light years ahead of me. And when they disappeared for good, I was left on the floor. Bleeding, panting, and broken.

And craving even more.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

A month ago I would have told you that while I was over Richard, I still loved him deeply. Now, after speaking to him at length this week (goddamn you unemployment), he only leaves me cold. Sad that I'm not the same girl who fell in love with him. And disappointed at what he did to me. But still, cold.

There's nothing left in my chest for him. The thought of him doesn't gives me a twinge anymore, except of annoyance at the lies he dropped on my flighty little skull. However, thoughts of the Antichrist will reduce me to a blithering wreck. Memories of Chris will send me into a depression for weeks.

But, the wounds from Richard seem to be closing over. They're not the deep and scarring knife edges that I once thought they were. If this maturity? Or yet another sickness festering away inside the rot I call a brain?

I say it again: What the fuck is wrong with me?

And why am I so scared of stability?

I don't wish to be myself anymore. I want to be
a doll. Or a betta fish. Or a tea cup. A wooden
spoon.

I don't want to be me, anymore.
I want to be something beautiful. Something
real. He told me that I wasn't real, a long
time ago. Not in so many words and he tried
to retract the statement later on, but that's
what he said. I know it.

I don't want this life anymore. I want someone
else's. I want to be a thousand different girls.
Pretty girls. Girls with pretty things to say.

I hate you.

Do you hear me?

I HATE YOU.

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.

I forgot the best part...

All of the psycho drama from yesterday?
It happened on the one year anniversary
of me originally being denied entry to the UK.

Do you know how moths kamikaze themselves
against light sources? How they bang themselves
against the glass, over and over and over?

That's me.

Only my source of light is actually pain.
And I throw myself at it constantly. To the
point I am exhausted and battered. Slightly
broken.

Broken. Why would anybody want something that
is so damaged? I'm defective to begin with,
but now I'm also damaged. Why the HELL would
anybody want to even come within six feet of me?

I'm loved. I'm told that I'm loved constantly.

And I don't believe him. Not really. Why would
you put someone you alledgely love so much
through all of this pain? Why would you sit
and listen to what they say would kill them
and then blithely go about doing it? How
the FUCK does that make any sense?

I'm resigned to the fact that things are
slowly doing down the drain. That I will be
kicked to the side of the road come August,
at the very least. That history is, yes indeed,
repeating itself. Just like I always said it
would.

I don't care anymore. I don't. I'm so sick
of being hurt and going through my days like
the walking wounded. I'm tired of being the
object of anger and disappointment because I
express how I feel. And I'm heartily sick of
placation and lies.

Fuck this.

Well.

I've managed to fuck things up yet AGAIN between
me and Richard. Because I didn't know when to
quit. I didn't know when to let something drop.
I didn't know when to just shut my fucking
mouth and let him talk to me at his own pace.

*sighs*

So. Now all of my preceding worries and fears
have all now become insignificant in the face
of this new worry/fear. The idea that he's not
sure if he's in love with me.

I was trying to be cute. I was trying to make
him feel better about things. He had said
"I wish I really could be of more use right now."
To which I asked "Well, do you love me?"

Him: Yes.

Me: And are you still /in/ love with me?

Him: I'm not sure. I feel detached and stressed and I can't really think or deal with anything lately.

I had thought he would tell me yes, of course
he still was. And I was going to say "See?
You're a big help." maybe with a little
smiley face at the end of my sentence (this
convo took place online, by the way).

I suppose I shouldn't have expected anything
from him. Another lesson to not expect anything
from anybody. Ever. Another lesson to not
trust. Another. Fucking. Lesson.

I'm sick of them. I'm sick of being hurt. I'm
sick of walking around in a constant haze of
pain brought onto me by myself and other people.

I don't know what to do anymore.
I don't know what to think anymore.
I don't know what to feel anymore.

I just want to go AWAY.

Richard and I have decided to "see other people".

The kiss of death, if you ask me.

I'm not sure how I feel about all of this, just
yet. He thinks that backing off a bit will help
clear our heads and help us not be so depressed
and miserable all the time. Perhaps it will.
Perhaps it won't.

I'm still convinced that in a few months time,
I'll be nothing more than a painful, sad memory.
Yet another psycho ex who has a hard time
letting go.

I don't really know what to do.

He's also been talking about inviting someone
to stay with him for a bit this summer, so he's
not so lonely. He asked me what I thought I would
do if he "misbehaved". My answer was that I would
forgive him, as I recognise the fact that he's
only human and terribly lonely for human contact.
He told me that he almost wished I'd said I'd
never speak to him again if something like that
happened, as it would stop him from commiting
the actual act for fear of me removing myself
from his life.

This bothers me as I've always felt that in
a relationship, you stayed faithful to the
person not because of fear that would leave you,
not because you didn't want to hurt them, not
because you have respect for them. But, because
you /love/ them.

So, I can't win on anything apparently. Tell
him "Yes, I'd forgive you." as I'm trying to be
a sweet, understanding girlfriend and I get
shafted. Tell him "No, I'd never speak to you
ever again." as a psycho, controlling girlfriend
and I get shafted.

*sighs*

In an email which I received yesterday, he wrote
that since we've made this decision, he feels
a lot better. That before, he felt as if he
were in a room, with a locked door. And now
that the door is unlocked, it makes him happier.
Even if he has no intention of going through
the door or even peeping through it, knowing
that it's unlocked is a benefit.

I don't care for that analogy very much. He
says he's just bad at making analogies and
wasn't saying what he wanted to say correctly.

Not knowing what to think anymore, terribly
confused, and hurting more than I can even
begin to describe. That's me, in a nutshell.

He kills me.

Over and over and over and over.

God.

This fucking hurts so much.