The White Noise Machine: Day 45

I realize now that my D&D character’s story is basically mine.  I didn’t intend this, but I realize it now.

She’s a young sage, driven out of her home, her privileged youth by voices and visions.  She follows the one lead she has and ends up with someone older, tragic, entirely not right for her.  But she stays because this is the first time she’s felt these feelings and she pities him, worries for him, wants to help him.  But she can’t help him, he’s too broken and locked in his pain and for her trouble, he sells her out to a man who wants to take her brain apart and understand her gifts.  She escapes, but she can’t go backwards and all she wants to do is go backwards.

He said…thank you for being a good friend to me.  He actually said that.


I said, with a weighted pause, a pause that surely you would get if you wanted to hear what I was communicating…thank *you* for being a good friend.

What a crock of…

But that’s not true, either.  I’m mad about it.  I’m mad that 2 years down the line, this is the best he can muster, not that I am not grateful for his friendship, his attention and care.  Of course, I know what we said.  I know the painful clarification came down and we are essentially just…passing time with one another.  Not dating.  So it’s not like this is an unfair statement…but it still so totally fucking is.

I am exhausted by the true facts of the case.  I am exhausted by always being just wrong enough to understand why everything is the way it is.  The unending tedium of “getting it” a thousand years running. I am exhausted that I have to dance for scraps.  I am exhausted that his pain just puts everything in stasis and I am exhausted to realize that there is nothing about me that is worth rocking the boat.  I am exhausted that I can’t let go of any of it.  I can’t choose me versus choosing the avoidance of confrontation.  I have no ability to try.

My therapist wants me to, on my own, in my own time, come to the realization – just as my wise friends, my sister…that I have to let it go.  I have to leave it alone.  And I’m trying.  I’m trying to get some air and space.  But it just so happens that all of this is taking place when my mother is ill and I hate myself with an extraordinary passion and my skin is painfully dry and I want to tear it off myself and hit myself with mostly metaphoric hammers and sit in my office being silent and fucking things up and go home and be silent and go to work and be silent and go home and be silent and go to work and be silent because everything else feels like my head in the guillotine.  But maybe that’s where it belongs.




2 Dry 2 Cry: Day 44

I think I might be going through something.  This bridge of time that I fight every year and fail against.  Perhaps I need to just accept that I am always going to be sucked into the undertoad, as it were.  I’m always going to be thrown overboard.  Reach exceeding grasp.

I have a headache.  Tomorrow is Valentine’s Day.  Last night a woman I did not see but heard, kept banging and trying to get into our house until we called the police.  I didn’t fall properly back to sleep until it was far too late. I feel, actually, like hell.  From the carbs, of course, and my usual weird desire to just fuck everything over until it is entirely beyond recognition.

I think my Valentine’s Day present from the guy who is not my boyfriend, but he is – even if he isn’t, and if he isn’t, I definitely don’t want him to be – will be a used D&D book.  This is sweet and good and kind, but I have a headache and actually, writing that out makes me want to set the world on fire.

I have been reading all sorts of travel materials about Porquerolles.  It would make for a great honeymoon spot. Provided you could get your imaginary husband to leave the house.

Everything is garbage and shit and I want it to stop.  I have done no other writing.

So.  Yep.