I’m going to confess this to you.
I feel weird. I don’t know. I knew this time of year would be stressful and it is and it isn’t. I’m accomplishing the bare minimum I need to get by, I’m sticking, imperfectly to my diet, I’m trying to get some poetry published and actively doing that. Today I was grumpy as fuck about how Monday it was, though, How people kept wheedling their way into my agenda and how I didn’t feel like I had a grip on any of it. I wasn’t working on any sort of new ways to cope at all.
But, end of the day, I’d gotten my books done and they’ll be ready first thing in the morning pretty much and the market paperwork is done. It’s at least something, you know? So I went to my parents because…I didn’t trust myself coming home. I was a stone’s throw away from self-destruction at the hands of a fast-casual restaurant which will remain nameless. I just wanted to feel numb. I just wanted to not have to be a martyr for this unobtainable bullshit I didn’t care about. For about 30 seconds, I honestly, deeply, drool-fully cared about eating. Then I remembered all the things I typically don’t wait that long to remember – how much effort I’ve been putting into the weight loss run I’m on, how destructive doing that would be because it always is, and that I’m just hungry…too hungry to think and therefore, I need to eat something correct before I can decide mindfully to fuck myself over.
I think I feel so off because of what I’m dredging up with Calling in the One. I feel like chum for the sharks of my psyche, just bobbing out in the open water right now.
I want to do so much and my energy to combat it, to attack it, is just not there. But I told myself today how maybe…it was okay. Maybe I’ve learned enough to know that I don’t want to go down this miserable road or that I can walk a road and not take on its properties as I go.
I need a break from that place. This place, too. Need to see it with fresh eyes.
I think I took the disappointment I blogged about yesterday, along with that of a lot of coinciding events (or absences of events) and knotted them together into this katamari of belief that I’ve never seen the center of. It made me honestly feel like everything on the list provided:
I am alone. I am bad. I am a brat. I am a disappointment. I am dirt. I am disposable. I don’t matter. I am a failure. I am fat. I am gross. I am incapable. I am inferior. I am insignificant. I am a loser. I am a mess. I’m not enough. I am unlovable. I am unimportant. I am sad. I am a screw-up. I am selfish. I am sneaky. I am smelly. I am stupid.
All of it at a core level, intermingled with anything good I felt about myself. There isn’t a way to get rid of it without boiling off the self-confidence and self-security to distill it.
What did I make this disappointment mean about the world and other people?
I made it mean that the state I was in was unacceptable to address the hopes and aspirations I held. That I could get by, but I’d only ever be happy if I transformed. Wholly and utterly. Because there was something wrong with me – maybe I’ve mentioned this elsewhere in the archives but it is right in front of my eyes at the moment – I remember this profound moment of a girl in 7th grade who I didn’t know beyond a name – asking me why I was the way I was.
I didn’t know what that meant. I still don’t know what that meant. She didn’t explain before or after the bell rang and I, silenced by the shockwave of being seen, judged, and found wanting, never considered gathering up the gumption to ask what the hell was so terrible about me. If it was obvious to a stranger, then, it wasn’t from my fevered imagination and
I still remember another girl making fun of my clothes. Another making fun of Target – where my mother worked.
I think I’ve walked around convinced of something I don’t understand – that I exist in a way that is contrary to what girls should be, what boys would like.
And for a long time my little sister was a center of this negative comparison. She always had a sharp word for me, was the the embodiment of all these nasty little people and memories and the Quinn Morganddorffer of our house. My empathic head got busted by time after time, as I found myself completely unequipped to deal with how she was able to cripple me with a look. All these beliefs…I marinated in them.
It also reinforced this idea of needing to preserve family unity. Because of course they have to be there for you, even if it’s on their own terms, even if they could zero in on the sore parts of yourself and made sure that’s where they put their hardest kicks. Losing that means losing everything there is. And the isolation screw turned ever inward.
Slowly, I found some teachers that wanted to support me, that made me feel good about my writing again, and got me into more challenging English classes and I felt like I could put my identity into being a Word Girl, despite my ambivalence and anger toward being as such because at least it was a known quantity and the people in those classes had some respect for that and in some ways I was starting to come together in Junior/Senior year. But everyone’s emotional lives had been jelling for years and suddenly, it was time for college and I…spun out again.
I’m still spinning.
I’m not depressed, just trying to be aware of all of this. More to come, I guess.