Truth Hurts
I think starting my birthday off with the passage of a dead egg is very appropriate. I'm entering the span of a woman's life where the "last chance" to live out motherhood is a looming threat. So it has been a good reminder of my quickly deteriorating fertility and the plain fact that I don't ever want to take advantage of it.
Welcome to 31. Only death and wasted potential reside here.
It was a rainy day. Father's day. It happens often that my birthday and father's day must be celebrated at the same time. It's never occurred to me before that I could consider myself a little father's day gift. Like a Valentine's day or Christmas baby. I think Gilbert was a Valentine...but I also like to attribute romantic things to people to make them more interesting...so it's likely he wasn't that important. I don't think I know any other holidays- but I do have a friend who was born on 7/13 and I've always liked the idea of that. Mr. Lucky-Unlucky.
I'd want to call myself a father's day gift mostly because I don't know him well enough to get him anything good. I don't know most people well enough, but it feels particularly bad that I don't understand one of my parents this way. Even if it's largely his fault for refusing to interact meaningfully. I thought about getting him soccer tickets once, but he doesn't really like going out. We went to the movies when I was little... The kindest memory I have is waking him up by pulling his eyes open. When I was very little, of course. Although, it would be funny if I still did that. And it's also entirely possible I am remembering something I saw on a sitcom because I like to attribute romantic things to life to make it more interesting.
The worst memory of him is the day he told me that maybe I'd be better off if I stopped dressing like a slut. It's okay, they gave me $500 for it later. The worst memory I have of me is making him cry. That might not have happened though. It's all hazy. Fuzzy and romanticized.
I have some weird relationships...and a limited vocabulary. Everything is weird and obscure these days. I'm leaning too far into the persona of the girl who watches weird obscure prestige TV and weird obscure comedians because it's too hard to keep up with weird obscure musicians. I've got a very niche aesthetic there that would be hard to expand. I should probably start listening to NIN. I also got hard to be the girl who reads weird obscure comic books. The kind that you insist people call Graphic Novels because they're so deep. It's too hard to keep up. And everything is being adapted to prestige TV anyway. I'll have to look for weird obscure words to better explain how much better I am than the people I have casual conversations with at house parties. Esoteric? Recherche? I have recently insisted on texting one of my best friends in French, so that one would be good.
I really do hate myself.
In other things that have happened since I last forced myself to do this:
I got another job. A second job. It was necessary, and I can see on the horizon a time where I have enough money to feel more independent. Things have become suffocating.
I sent my mom a text about season 2 of Aggretsuko...specifically "Fuck! This speed dating is so scary!"
On the second day of my newest job I fell down a flight of stairs. I go up and down them all the time now and every time there's a dizzy sense of anxiety. I grasp the handrail too tight. I counted the steps. It was only 15. It was a level of drama I never expected. I don't know how it happened, and that's the most common question I get. I wasn't on my phone, and I often am as I walk. I didn't have anything in my hands. I guess I missed a step? The newest question was "did you roll?" and I totally did. It was horrifying and so annoyingly fast. I tried to grab the rail as I felt myself slipping and when that didn't work I tried to catch myself with my hands or something, just get lower on my own, and the effect was only to slam my hand, arm, knees, butt and thigh. My head lightly smacked against a step. NBD. I landed at the bottom with a whine. Like an injured animal. I was on my side trying to wrap my head around whether this was real. So many things feel unreal. This seemed like the kind of thing that never really happens. Like the way I dream of speeding off an overpass. The fact that it happened when I think about it all the time makes that overpass feel closer than it used to. So I was lying on the ground, whining, trying to form something to console myself, trying to come up with the thoughts to pull myself off the ground. Grateful that no one had seen me. Too embarrassed to register that I could have been hurt. Then my new boss showed up, as I was pulling myself up...and I felt so much worse than I had moments before. IT WAS MY SECOND DAY. Was he going to let me go? I tried to make it seem like it wasn't a big deal. I had only been there like an hour. I didn't want him to think I was going to file a worker's comp claim. My hand was bleeding. It felt like my side was bleeding, it was on fire. He left to get some band-aids and I slunk around the corner to hide from anyone passing the staircase. I touched my hair to check for blood. I laughed it off and forced myself back up the stairs. Tucked my shirt into my pants to keep it from rubbing what I was sure was a bloody mess at the band. And I texted people I knew who had gotten concussions. Prefacing texts with "it's not a big deal..." Not understanding until I was in my car 6 hours later, off to drive alone to my house alone to a future alone that it was. It was a very Liz Lemon moment. Ugly crying I tried to come to terms with the conversations that would surround my death if it turned out I had actually done some damage somewhere. I don't have any chairs in my house so there's nothing to throw myself over if I start choking. The kitten will eat my face.
This has taken a turn.
My sister came over to help me clean. Ryan was coming over the next day to stay the weekend and watch the season finale of Killing Eve. I wasn't all that dizzy. I didn't throw up. I wasn't nauseous...so everyone confirmed I didn't have a concussion. The pain in my side was the worst, and it wasn't even a scratch. I had three very large very serious bruises bloom over a week that made it hard to sleep. They're much smaller 3 weeks later, but there are tiny patches in two places. One being that part of my side I was sure was bleeding. I have a super small scar on my hand. One on my knee. The pinky that was bloody and swollen for the week is normal sized and flexes properly again. There's a black patch of blood under the nail. I showed it off at my party. I think because I wanted it to be real. I think because I wanted the attention I didn't get when I had small gashes on my arms.
I keep telling myself I need to get out of here. But would I get out of myself if I did? I lost the ten pounds I gained when I moved here, but not the 40 pounds I gained from my relationship to Scott. I am even closer to my first Bachelor's. Which won't be my first degree if I get my Associate's at the end of next month. I am pretty sure I have the credits...so I put in a request to graduate. I think I could finalize 6 degrees in the next 3 years if I play my cards right. 4 Associates and 2 Bachelors. So I ask about med school. And talk about disastrous dates. Count calories and promise myself I won't eat. Always repeating that something will be better after the next thing...something has to be better. Not even my writing is getting better.
I'm honestly just fucking exhausted. I've hit a wall. I hit a wall as hard as I hit that floor and I'm drained. I don't have it in me any more. It wasn't as hard before to be in school and work full time. To go out. To play nice. To talk to my parents. People keep asking how my mom is because of course they would, she had cancer and that's a big fucking deal, but the truth is she's miserable like she was before and will probably always be. That's not the answer anyone wants. No one wants to hear, "oh, she's completely gone back to being a huge bitch, she asked me to starve myself last month because she's sick of looking at me and a little because she likes to be able to control me, then asked about where we're going to move once I graduate like I'm not going to completely fucking abandon her after this...so, great. SHE'S DOING SO GREAT. We're all so lucky."
I feel insane. I briefly went of my medications. I feel like I'm regressing. I'm having a very public very private meltdown. I want someone to intervene. I want to not have arguments about how in my heart I knew I was being cheated on for 9 years because that's an insane thing to come to terms with. That things were so unstable that I had to stay with someone who fucked me while I was crying to keep afloat. Someone that hit me. Someone that hit other people. Someone that engaged in a constant cycle of guilt trips and lies. That I was probably just as abusive. I don't know how to get out of or not participate in these kinds of relationships.
I like to market myself as recondite these days. There is very little substance. A future of poverty chasing degrees. Do I really want to spend that much time in school? There's nothing else to spend it on...I struggle to explain. A feeling that in a world of people pairing off and having kids...I feel like I need an excuse for my existence. And it's all so transparent.
Welcome to 31. Only death and wasted potential reside here.
It was a rainy day. Father's day. It happens often that my birthday and father's day must be celebrated at the same time. It's never occurred to me before that I could consider myself a little father's day gift. Like a Valentine's day or Christmas baby. I think Gilbert was a Valentine...but I also like to attribute romantic things to people to make them more interesting...so it's likely he wasn't that important. I don't think I know any other holidays- but I do have a friend who was born on 7/13 and I've always liked the idea of that. Mr. Lucky-Unlucky.
I'd want to call myself a father's day gift mostly because I don't know him well enough to get him anything good. I don't know most people well enough, but it feels particularly bad that I don't understand one of my parents this way. Even if it's largely his fault for refusing to interact meaningfully. I thought about getting him soccer tickets once, but he doesn't really like going out. We went to the movies when I was little... The kindest memory I have is waking him up by pulling his eyes open. When I was very little, of course. Although, it would be funny if I still did that. And it's also entirely possible I am remembering something I saw on a sitcom because I like to attribute romantic things to life to make it more interesting.
The worst memory of him is the day he told me that maybe I'd be better off if I stopped dressing like a slut. It's okay, they gave me $500 for it later. The worst memory I have of me is making him cry. That might not have happened though. It's all hazy. Fuzzy and romanticized.
I have some weird relationships...and a limited vocabulary. Everything is weird and obscure these days. I'm leaning too far into the persona of the girl who watches weird obscure prestige TV and weird obscure comedians because it's too hard to keep up with weird obscure musicians. I've got a very niche aesthetic there that would be hard to expand. I should probably start listening to NIN. I also got hard to be the girl who reads weird obscure comic books. The kind that you insist people call Graphic Novels because they're so deep. It's too hard to keep up. And everything is being adapted to prestige TV anyway. I'll have to look for weird obscure words to better explain how much better I am than the people I have casual conversations with at house parties. Esoteric? Recherche? I have recently insisted on texting one of my best friends in French, so that one would be good.
I really do hate myself.
In other things that have happened since I last forced myself to do this:
I got another job. A second job. It was necessary, and I can see on the horizon a time where I have enough money to feel more independent. Things have become suffocating.
I sent my mom a text about season 2 of Aggretsuko...specifically "Fuck! This speed dating is so scary!"
On the second day of my newest job I fell down a flight of stairs. I go up and down them all the time now and every time there's a dizzy sense of anxiety. I grasp the handrail too tight. I counted the steps. It was only 15. It was a level of drama I never expected. I don't know how it happened, and that's the most common question I get. I wasn't on my phone, and I often am as I walk. I didn't have anything in my hands. I guess I missed a step? The newest question was "did you roll?" and I totally did. It was horrifying and so annoyingly fast. I tried to grab the rail as I felt myself slipping and when that didn't work I tried to catch myself with my hands or something, just get lower on my own, and the effect was only to slam my hand, arm, knees, butt and thigh. My head lightly smacked against a step. NBD. I landed at the bottom with a whine. Like an injured animal. I was on my side trying to wrap my head around whether this was real. So many things feel unreal. This seemed like the kind of thing that never really happens. Like the way I dream of speeding off an overpass. The fact that it happened when I think about it all the time makes that overpass feel closer than it used to. So I was lying on the ground, whining, trying to form something to console myself, trying to come up with the thoughts to pull myself off the ground. Grateful that no one had seen me. Too embarrassed to register that I could have been hurt. Then my new boss showed up, as I was pulling myself up...and I felt so much worse than I had moments before. IT WAS MY SECOND DAY. Was he going to let me go? I tried to make it seem like it wasn't a big deal. I had only been there like an hour. I didn't want him to think I was going to file a worker's comp claim. My hand was bleeding. It felt like my side was bleeding, it was on fire. He left to get some band-aids and I slunk around the corner to hide from anyone passing the staircase. I touched my hair to check for blood. I laughed it off and forced myself back up the stairs. Tucked my shirt into my pants to keep it from rubbing what I was sure was a bloody mess at the band. And I texted people I knew who had gotten concussions. Prefacing texts with "it's not a big deal..." Not understanding until I was in my car 6 hours later, off to drive alone to my house alone to a future alone that it was. It was a very Liz Lemon moment. Ugly crying I tried to come to terms with the conversations that would surround my death if it turned out I had actually done some damage somewhere. I don't have any chairs in my house so there's nothing to throw myself over if I start choking. The kitten will eat my face.
This has taken a turn.
My sister came over to help me clean. Ryan was coming over the next day to stay the weekend and watch the season finale of Killing Eve. I wasn't all that dizzy. I didn't throw up. I wasn't nauseous...so everyone confirmed I didn't have a concussion. The pain in my side was the worst, and it wasn't even a scratch. I had three very large very serious bruises bloom over a week that made it hard to sleep. They're much smaller 3 weeks later, but there are tiny patches in two places. One being that part of my side I was sure was bleeding. I have a super small scar on my hand. One on my knee. The pinky that was bloody and swollen for the week is normal sized and flexes properly again. There's a black patch of blood under the nail. I showed it off at my party. I think because I wanted it to be real. I think because I wanted the attention I didn't get when I had small gashes on my arms.
I keep telling myself I need to get out of here. But would I get out of myself if I did? I lost the ten pounds I gained when I moved here, but not the 40 pounds I gained from my relationship to Scott. I am even closer to my first Bachelor's. Which won't be my first degree if I get my Associate's at the end of next month. I am pretty sure I have the credits...so I put in a request to graduate. I think I could finalize 6 degrees in the next 3 years if I play my cards right. 4 Associates and 2 Bachelors. So I ask about med school. And talk about disastrous dates. Count calories and promise myself I won't eat. Always repeating that something will be better after the next thing...something has to be better. Not even my writing is getting better.
I'm honestly just fucking exhausted. I've hit a wall. I hit a wall as hard as I hit that floor and I'm drained. I don't have it in me any more. It wasn't as hard before to be in school and work full time. To go out. To play nice. To talk to my parents. People keep asking how my mom is because of course they would, she had cancer and that's a big fucking deal, but the truth is she's miserable like she was before and will probably always be. That's not the answer anyone wants. No one wants to hear, "oh, she's completely gone back to being a huge bitch, she asked me to starve myself last month because she's sick of looking at me and a little because she likes to be able to control me, then asked about where we're going to move once I graduate like I'm not going to completely fucking abandon her after this...so, great. SHE'S DOING SO GREAT. We're all so lucky."
I feel insane. I briefly went of my medications. I feel like I'm regressing. I'm having a very public very private meltdown. I want someone to intervene. I want to not have arguments about how in my heart I knew I was being cheated on for 9 years because that's an insane thing to come to terms with. That things were so unstable that I had to stay with someone who fucked me while I was crying to keep afloat. Someone that hit me. Someone that hit other people. Someone that engaged in a constant cycle of guilt trips and lies. That I was probably just as abusive. I don't know how to get out of or not participate in these kinds of relationships.
I like to market myself as recondite these days. There is very little substance. A future of poverty chasing degrees. Do I really want to spend that much time in school? There's nothing else to spend it on...I struggle to explain. A feeling that in a world of people pairing off and having kids...I feel like I need an excuse for my existence. And it's all so transparent.
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