I think it is okay on April the Second to be mildly bemused at one’s self.
Time to focus tonight. No running off without numbering the day at the posts’ title. No getting lost in the noise of the rain splattering against the roof.
I was told today or it was told about me as I grumbled at the table that I was bad at taking compliments. I know I am, when it comes to me, and this body. It’s hard to listen to how thin your face looks and not feel at once completely detached from the way one’s face happens to look on any given day, and unnerved that you’ve been alerted that someone has an opinion about how your face, the portal through which you view the world, is appearing to them. Especially when you know – or I knew – that I’d been ripping through packages of cookies in a day. That I’d been recently drinking pop again. When I felt fat and unwanted, because, you know what the hell evidence has there ever fucking been to the contrary, like ever, (hyperbole: venting: don’t tell me what I feel when I just need to say the negative part of things because holy shit does that make me defensive and make me cling to this shit shit). Even though I was at my aunt’s magical house, my blood sugar was off (because of the trip to Starbucks that did get me out of the house and into the car which is the only way I’m ever going to get back to where I need and deserve to be driving-wise), and I had this little plan get foiled. And the house was silent and in that silence all my worst thoughts were battering around in my head, a bird in a room full of windows, and I am thinking about life and death and loneliness and poetry and how I can change things and the BUT YOU CANNOT CHANGE ANYTHING, YOU ARE A PAWN OF FATE AND YOUR FATE IS A PARTICULARLY SUCKY ONE. But I was being silent about all of this. Half sleeping, half thinking about this thwarted plan I had to watch Amelie with my aunt who is going to Paris and has never seen the movie and how I was explaining to her how deeply I connected with it and that would really be a nice time to spend with her rather than this thoughtful silence. That she would find joy in it in the same way I did. And out of the blue, I’m told by my aunt, oh, you’re looking so nice.
And the gears don’t shift that fast. So I don’t make the right face and I’m told I should get over it. They mean my mood. When to me, getting over it is about getting over 30 years of self-doubt and the fact that I should be working my ass off getting ready to be thin in Italy because that would be really life-changing, but I can’t be thin in Italy because what if my life changes and it’s not what I want and I lose control. And of course my life won’t change in Italy because I can never lose control and nobody is waiting to change my life in Italy. And instead of doing something that would make things better for me, I’m spending my life eating cookies and thinking about cookies and sugar and panic and the same old fucking shit that I can’t trust is going to be the same in the morning, like my ability to drive to work, or lamenting the fact that we’re eating vegetables for dinner and not pie.
I just…when do I get to just not be like this? When do I get someone who distracts me from all of this and convinces me there’s more to life than solipsism? When do I figure out how not to lose whole half-centuries to useless, frustrating bullshit like this? When do I get however smart you have to be to stop riding your thoughts straight into the wall you’re throwing them at?