The Dream Keeps Dreaming Me

Oh! The glories of being an emotional, vital, living human being.  How easily we are crushed, how easily we are able to build ourselves back up.

I am trying to let myself be sad.  Sort of.  I need to step back a few paces and explain.  Last night was so lovely, falling asleep listening to the rain without any sort of music or technological device to keep my brain running until I don’t notice that sleep has overtaken me.  And I woke up early and puttered about, admiring the world, and trying to affirm my place in it, awkward gosling that I am.  Then, after a very good, mostly low-carb breakfast, we sort of wound up back at my parents’ house to await what we thought would be the soon arrival of my half-sister and niece and nephew.  This didn’t happen until much later, so I had a very good, mostly low-carb lunch and helped them move around some furniture on the new hardwood floor my father installed.  A few intermittent hailstorms barged in and flew out in fits of pique we’ll never be privy to.  Finally, I gathered up the odd dresses my aunt had given me and my sister’s kimono and old cassette tapes we have no cassette player for and scurried home, rather determined to get some things in order here with the few hours I have left in the day.

And mostly, I have been able to do more than I expected or as much as I’d hoped.  I’ve got a load of laundry in and my sheets are being washed.  My sister’s made me more tea and I’m drinking it and liking it.  It’s almost 8:00pm and I really have no interest in making dinner, even though It wouldn’t take much to put it together and I may still do it.   Still need to get the bed remade and the clothes put away.  Got to not start another load when I’m only half-committed to getting it to where it should properly go and not just in another mound next to the dirty pile it came from.  Maybe get on the exercise bike as well.  That would be a good plan.    So yes, as part of this energetic thrust, I started deleting old emails.  They say on Gmail that you never need to delete an email.  But frankly, having 5,000 unread emails feels a bit excessive.  So I’ve deleted junk all the way back to 2008 when I found some correspondence from a friend I stopped writing to after he sent me this amazing letter and cd and I realized in this letter, after confusing its contents entirely, that actually he told me he had fallen in love with someone else.   And I wish so terribly not to be his wife or have his children as this woman has done, but yet to still be his friend because he was so kind to me and saw me in the best light I wish to be seen and I feel so bad about how I end things with people.  But now, four years later, begging forgiveness seems more like manipulation.   My heart was broken then.  That’s why I stopped writing.  I couldn’t figure out a way to keep writing without acknowledging how keenly I had found myself caring and there was no reason to do that because it would have changed nothing.  Still, it’s a bit like Griffin and Sabine, only not so much at all.

So I read these letters and I feel a hard pull after all our conversations.  My little sister explaining that I’m not in a relationship because I don’t date and she feels this is because I have these high expectations for men because “of the tv shows I watch.”  Which is such a loaded statement that I do want to be an English major and unpack it and divorce it from this emotional bow that draws back when I think about it.

A.  She’s not wrong.  I do have these weird expectations, this faceless desire for a person to fill that they never will be able to meet in full.   And the expectations shift all the time.   I don’t have this strong sense of what another person can emotionally provide me with so all of it seems up for grabs.   I want laughter, I want appreciation for my writing, I want

The sense of what they may require of me is equally vague.  I go through phases, like most anyone does, of feeling like I could never handle someone’s constant hovering presence and like now, feeling absurdly invisible and available to just flood someone with adoration and attention.   I know that relationships are projects, they’re work.  But I know that I would want to learn about who this hypothetical person was for himself and not to try and match the characteristics of a vast legion of fictional men in my head that I’ve admired.  I know that I would be so fucking curious to know who the hell he was that I’d lose them.  Which possibly is part of the problem.  Sad as it is.  You can kind of trust the character of a character over a dude who turns up one day and says he wants to write you into his RPF.  His literotica.  There’s a lot more control there, but, that said, if there was someone who met the marks of single, friendly, male, interested in me as a human being…I know I’d throw myself into the deep end of the pool.  Couldn’t help but.

B.  I don’t date because the people who are available to date are gay, married, or completely bizarre.  And I don’t mean that in some “they’re left-handed or can’t spell or didn’t know the Titanic was a real thing” bizarre, I mean, they are deviants or they’re so Type-A, let’s make sales calls and go climb mountains and make sales calls while up mountains that there’s no way that even if they DID think I was cute that it’d work.   I get hopes up and I try not to prejudge, but I meet someone vaguely eligible so rarely in my realm that I think I’ve lost the ability to pick someone to even try to flirt with or befriend.

My friend I mentioned here in posts from 2010 called from Houston where he’s doing well but remaining.

 C.  I don’t date because I pretty much operate on a level of body hatred that assumes I am invisible.

D.  I get so thrown out of whack by the socializing I do every day that I drive home just craving my fortress of solitude.

But then I hear a Vienna Teng song – an artist he introduced me to – and I feel a weird, unexplainable, unfounded hope.   A pain and a hope in equal measure.

Soup Etiquette Day

I do not have the remotest idea if I am sick or well.  In any sense of either word. I am in my essential, but always forgotten stage of any illness.  The “I’m fine now, but I’m pretending to still be sick for sympathy and laziness’ sake” stage. Except I still ache in twinges and I still feel off.  So I am at home, drafting this on my phone wondering why I’m not a better
person than I am.

On a gray day, where we are anticipating snow and our impotence before Mother Nature, when we’re not at work where we properly should be, I start to get rather frantic about the future.  I don’t have my guitar here.  No computer or X-Box games and tv to distract me, I start to think about my most favorite topic: myself.  I start to think with fervor and rapaciousness, how much I need to alter myself.  Immediately.  I realize how unacceptable I am as I am.  Sitting about in these clothes, eating crackers, wasting life while everyone I’ve ever heard of is either running marathons, being married and having children or in the alternative, developing brain tumors and cancers and age is coming upon them and stealing them in the night. 

I start to feel the individual grains in the hour glass, these separate days of my life as it were, and I am not satisfied and I don’t know how to change the big things and I don’t – at this moment – have the ability to change the small things like what I’d wear or going and putting on makeup and straightening myself and my surroundings a bit as I’m not at home and I am car-less and this frustration continues.  The pressure builds and I start to deal with it by completely compartmentalizing it and muting it until I hear only white noise and fall into a story where the heroine has power, wit, and resolve and knows everything she needs to know and I’m there until that, too, fades into the middle distances and then for a time there’s nothing until I remember the body housing this great mockery of a life and the cycle begins anew.

When you go to a random page in this blog and it could be an exact description of today, exactly, only it’s from three years ago and even then bespoke of a mobius strip life…when you know that everything you say and feel is so relentlessly worthless, released in a klein bottle, surging forward only to smack you in the back of the head…well, it sucks. 

I would like a real life person to distract me from all this.  Offer me advice or kindness.  Hell, a real fake person would be fine, so long as they could stay for more than appetizers, for more than an apperitif.  I need to go places and meet people.  I need to escape the gray cloud.  I need and I know that my need is whiny and draggy and unattractive and I want to escape it, too.

But first I have to meet it – look it dead in the eye and hear it out, all of it, every last warble and every last clutch at my ankle – before stamping it on the head.

Violet Beauregarde

I have a certain impulse, which I will ignore, to write this post entirely in capslock.
Today is a day of food anger.  Oddly enough, I don’t think I’m that angry or upset or even present.
Hah, small signs, I knocked the burrito bowl off the couch arm where it was and I thought of course, of course on a day where I eat like some sultana of smorgasbords, feasting on french onion soup, bacon glazed salad, steak and potatoes, and then four kinds of dessert including creme brulee, I would come home and idly, out of happiness and boredom and having money in my bank account insist upon a dinner that I don’t even want and shove it down.  Luckily, dear sirs and madams, my awkwardness in this is accompanied only by my tremendous dumb luck.
Spilling a burrito bowl would be bad fucking news since it would go right into our carpet in a big, hideous mess. Somehow, we had an empty, bagged trash can right next to the couch and as if guided by a heavenly hand, it felt right in there.  Done and done.
I want to puke.  Ugh, so much food for our office party.  Our nice little office, end of the year, we didn’t murdilate each other despite random, stupid tension anyway party.  For the most part it was just as pleasant as punch, except for the fact that my boss encourages us to enjoy the food like the gourmand he is and by the end of it, I felt pretty numb and ridiculous.   Completely overcome by the element of food.   I didn’t like it.   I definitely don’t like it right now when I feel like I am the human lump and all I want to do is just go in another direction from this feeling right here – this reaction to my reality and my behavior.  I want to sing songs, tell stories, and not feel like the blueberry girl – Violet Beauregarde, sitting here in the glory of my gluttony.
The year was really not supposed to end up this way.  I was supposed to be wearing my tiara right now.  Princess of the good behavior.  Weight loss goddess.  Journalist extraordinaire.  Tightrope walker, nay, dancer.  I was supposed to be skinny, dating, writing and on the verge of quitting my job and getting my big break with my poetry.  Life was supposed to be cracked by December 31st, 2010.  Done and done.  I think I need one post, just one, to mourn the fact that despite the many achievements this year has brought to bear, getting a handle on food has not been one of them.
I’ve gone in the wrong direction.
I think I’m too easily able to come to terms with that.  Well, not terms, I’m able to just turn the disappointment off.  I know people struggle their whole lives with this, but I’m not struggling or thinking or making any Socratic self-inquiry at all.
But I’ve learned a lot about how I fuck up and why and where and with what methods and I think – if I choose to use it – it can help me going forward.

Just Enough Wrong

Okay, maybe I just need a cathartic release.  Maybe I’ve been holding things in that I didn’t intend to.  Maybe I thought my head was on straight, but brains have been leaking out the side.  It’s Friday night and I feel like shit.  It would be nice to just feel like shit and wake up and do better, but we have this writing thing and this writing thing can’t just ignore truths.  If that happens, it stops working.  It stops trusting me to tell it at all.

It started today at lunch with pizza.  Or maybe with breakfast by having no breakfast and no plan and then lunch, and it left me stupid for the rest of the day.  I could feel the stupid rising in my brain.

The stupid reacted to all of these feelings I’ve been dredging up lately.  Feelings of self-loathing and anger and the fear/sense/recognition that I’m never going to be a real person.  Never going to get off the fence with anything or anyone.  Never going to risk anyone.  That you’re nearly twenty-seven and have never been anything to anyone seems like your/my whole life should totaled.  They should send me a new one.

And I know that ll of this – all of this is resistance to the change.  I know that logically.  But tonight I succumbed.  I went to the ribbon cutting that I didn’t want to go to – at all – in this beautiful, svelte, tv vampires would live in this building, new medical office.   It was quiet for a while as we waited for others to arrive, and I sat on the bench in this stark, spartan building, looking in the reflecting glass.  There I was.  The Michelin Girl in my puffy hoodie and jeans and my short little body played against all these gallingly tall, skinny girls in heels and dresses and makeup that were sauntering about. I had the dichotomy in my head of knowing what these feelings are about and knowing they’re meaningless and knowing that I’ll never see these women again and KNOWING to my very root that I’m still okay and YET, yet…FEELING like I was being set on fire and only I could see the flames.  I left as soon as I snapped the last picture.  Didn’t say goodbye.

So I’m eating Chipotle now.  I’m not happy about it.  I’m not unhappy.  I’m quite numb and considering how this is all my behavior and my reactions and how it doesn’t seem to matter what I do, if I won’t let myself change, how can I change?

I plan to go to work tomorrow for our Christmas decorating party,  the party where they have 900 doughnuts and then lunch and everyone marvels at my willpower.  I plan to be awesome.  I plan to not do this tomorrow.  I plan to write out the stupid thoughts in my head about how maybe limerence is not just a prettier way to say crushed, maybe it’s a real disorder.  Maybe I have it.  Maybe I don’t.  Maybe I’m just at this point of resistance and I’m doing everything in my power to stop myself from going forward and even if I don’t have a reason, if I see it happening and kinda want to stop it, maybe I should?

I have been feeling really alone lately.  Doing the diet, coming home, playing games, going to work and feeling like my soul’s not coming along for the ride, trying to limit the psychopathic need to see this friend who isn’t going to requite jack shit for me, being ignored by anything and everything that matters to me, this early darkness, this feeling like there’s no chance, no opportunity, everything’s wrong or slotted for someone else, it’s been hard.   I haven’t seen my mom in a while and she and my aunt and sisters have been hanging out, which I don’t begrudge, I just miss faces and funniness and things outside of my own head.   I miss not staring at the scale and knowing I’m doing just enough wrong to make it not go down.

It’ll be okay.  Tonight’s not great, but it’ll be okay.  I know that.  Don’t feel it, but…

The Fate Thief

Baby, you can do it, you can write yourself right through it.

Today’s lesson is as much as you want things to happen, sometimes, darling, they just ain’t gonna happen.   I am still fiendishly on track with the diet.  No Chipotle splurges, though my mind has begged for it.  No fast food relapses of any kind, not even for a salad (none that I can recall and I think only the buffalo wings have been questionable) and I’ve been pretty much ketosifying and being in it to win it and all since I began.  It’s like I’ve said, all you have to do to get in the groove is to be in the groove.   I’ve wanted it and I feel like it’s happening.  I’m maybe the only one aware of changes, but even if I’m just imagining these changes if they’re sufficient motivation to keep doing what I’m doing…I’m fine with that.

Today was rough, though.

I ended up dressing up in sort of an undead, goth, witch, go-go dancer sort of way.  I said to myself I’m going as an existential crisis so I don’t know what it all means, either.  But if you have to explain a costume, I’ve long since learned ever since I dressed up like Nightfall from Elfquest in sixth grade, you pretty much are going to spend all the time you wear it explaining it and rarely, if ever, hit that mote of recognition in someone’s eye with what you’re going for.  Mostly, you’re a cipher when everyone else is just looking for a sugar rush courtesy of a stereotype.

So as awesome as my tights were, as creepy as my makeup was, as earnest as my drapey, witchy black sleeves, no one was in tune with it.  One of the volunteers caught me and said it was so nice to see me wearing makeup since I never actually wear makeup.  Huh.  I wonder what I do for twenty minutes every damn day.  And if that means my makeup is so natural it’s unnoticed and my face is fine or, more likely, my face is terrible and my makeup melts off leaving hideousness and no one’s ever mentioned it.

Or.  If I’m not a paranoid sot, she’s not got great vision and my face is probably a great blur anyway.

It’s always curious in a crowd of people how I begin to realize how my secret visions of the world, the obvious connections I think I’ve made, are just the passing friction that any two people make.  That I play at things to make myself feel special, but there is no mutuality and if I were to ever act on a spark, I would be dancing on a thawing lake.

But you know what?  If that’s my fate, let’s steal ourselves another one.  A braver, clear-eyed one that sees a dead end and shrugs.  What makes us happy, makes us happy and what hurts us can be survived and eventually forgiven.

Laws are only written to stop a crime that’s been invented and I have a few new ones in mind.

Marching Band Between the Floorboards

Watching MST3K – The Rebel Set on my most magnificent, how did we ever live without it XBox.  Funny that this movie is all about Chicago.

I am feeling right now like I would dance on the table if there was a get out of blogging free card I could invoke.  I don’t think it’s very worthwhile or challenging to have to force each and every word out.  There’s no inherent majesty in the words.  I suppose I could find something and copy and paste it – something sufficiently majestic and powerful – how would you know?  But that’s not what I vowed to do.   Once you make a vow, it’s kind of shitty to renegotiate with yourself.  That’s how I do most things, and that’s how I know that it rarely works.

It’s a curious thing.  Last night I was in one of those moods where I felt very alone and down.  Transitioning from vacation – friends – food and a vision of the world where I could do anything, so long as I was willing to do it on my own.  It left me thinking about the beginning of the year where I was going through something similar and I realized that if I just put it out to the universe, someone would show up.  Someone showed up then and while it didn’t work out, it was almost instantaneous that I let that space stay open and options made themselves known.

I got a message today from someone that is actually sane and pleasant.  All of a sudden, I feel really ridiculous.  I feel really like it’s…my fault.   Like it’s a negative thing. I did absolutely nothing to provoke or instigate it.  It’s coming from a weird place inside, this powerful KIBOSH action that I am feeling.  This Oh, fuck me – someone might want to talk to me – I’ve got to stop this before they hate me for trying to do something so shamelessly unacceptable feeling.  It wells up like some kind of internal septic tank explosion, rising to the surface in soupy, disgusting muck.  Sorry for the shitty analogy.  Oh, I have to at least amuse myself.  I just feel like I’m just inviting whomever I talk to / flirt with / be in the vicinity of to be disappointed at best by getting to know me better.  There’s a physical ugliness in store for them, a social ineptitude, a gap.  Like everyone hates those myspace girls who take photos of themselves at certain angles so you don’t see their size or you see only the beauty that light, a poor camera and photoshop can plaster together.  Everyone hates to be bamboozled.  I’m just trying, on some levels, to not pretend anything is different than it is.  And so I hang out by myself and yearn and pine and change nothing.

That’s not what I want.  I don’t know what brought this upon me, but I feel it.  I feel it a…lot.

I am worthy of a person, or succession of people, who care about me and find me beautiful.  They are also worthy of me.  And out there.  Somewhere.