I crawled around on the floor for a pale pink pill that did not belong to me, and I stood up empty handed.
I’m sorry.
The concern for what would happen without it was genuine
even though I had the comfort of knowing it wouldn’t happen to me.
I think that means I care about you…
I’m insanely sick of the term, “fundamental” as popularized by the current Presidency. I’ve tried and tried to forgive its occurrence, but I just can’t listen to it anymore.
Note to self:
Put it in the box with “literally” “condone” and “sneaked” as another word that is just too fucking battered to acknowledge anymore.
I’m waiting for May so that I can ask you questions you put into the back of my mind late last year.
I told you I’d wait.
I spend a lot of time waiting, but this time hasn’t been idle.
My factory warranty is about to expire, and the sky has turned dark with rain.
In half an hour, I must leave my room.
For a mid-day social visit…with an intellectual snob.
The cacti seeds are sprouting.
Johnny Cash’s cover of Trent Reznor’s Hurt has nothing to do with revenge.
Worst misappropriation of lyrics ever.
I’m relatively stable right now…almost happy.
My fish survived my latest move…and my plants…and, of course, my bird.
My day job is not bothering me too terribly much.
I feel little to no need to entertain working at night at the moment
although I still look for a legitimate third shift job.
While my debts are still looming, dark and foreboding, they are all square.
In fact, I’ve paid down three smaller debts completely in the past year alone.
Even though the next payoff date is set a year and a half from now…it’s a big one
that will free up a sizable monthly chunk of change for the day to day.
A year and a half is an entirely manageable duration of time to sacrifice
with my head down.
In short, I’ve been successfully living within my meager means for the first time in two years.
I’ve managed internet access, but maybe I’m not quite as obsessive about it as I used to be.
I’ve been reading quite a bit, although my writing has not returned.
I’m okay with abandoning books and authors that I don’t enjoy without feeling guilty.
The other day, I was painting, and I find the urge more frequent since the last move.
I’ve taken the head long dive into mending the rift in my family.
I’ve been invited to Florida this autumn.
I’ve been invited to New Orleans this summer.
I might go…to both.
I’m much more at ease spending most of my time alone.
This is the upswing.
We’ll see how it goes.
Living with a seasoned lesbian that’s rarely around has been surprisingly good for me.
I’m still unsure about the cats.
I left my mp3 player to die
on accident
and was left to listen to the radio.
Left thinking how odd it is that Green Day
always
transports me back to Goldmann’s Department Store
even though I was introduced to them years before ever setting foot in Milwaukee
and that shit never
ever
played within the beautiful walls of that building.
Funny how memory works.
Listening to Green Day and Nickleback is not my idea of a good morning, however,
so when he showed up and offered his music for a listen, I accepted.
After all, he introduced me to Pretty Lights.
Fancy.
Touch screen.
Evil.
iPod.
I scrolled through the options and chose.
“Good choice.”
“Good option.”
Most of it was mainstream rap, although I do like Common.
Silly little suburbanites crack me up.
I chose an anomaly with Neutral Milk Hotel.
I went to choose again and couldn’t help but stifle a smile.
A name popped up that he could have only gotten from one of my own random selections
a few weeks ago.
It was so out of place, and it made me happy to see it.
The Beautiful Girls.
So…you’ve found a way to mine data from me after all.
I wouldn’t have expected that.
Sneaky little bastard.
Enjoy, and thanks for letting me listen to something other than Goldmann’s.
Washington Post email headline: “Is the tea party still relevant?”
Deleted: Was the Tea Party ever fucking relevant?
You’re my sister, and I love you.
I’ve been trying to be your sister for a hell of a lot longer than you’ve been pretending.
We are not the same.
How dare you even make that implication.
You barely know anything about me
except that I’m sick.
I’ve been sick since grade school.
If you were really my sister, you’d know that.
You’d understand that unmedicated me isn’t just a little sad and withdrawn.
You’d fucking know that.
You read resentment for what you have…but it’s not what you have.
It’s not what I lack that you have.
It’s who you are.
I resent you for who you are
who you were and still show me that you are.
I understand that you came here to try to set things right
because you’ve moved on
and forgiven yourself
and that upset me when you asked to come
and while you were here
and I cried in my spare room while you slept
on my best imitation of a bed
that I put together just for you
because I sleep on the floor.
You coming here pretending that we’re okay.
Pretending for the past decade that we’re okay.
We are not the same.
Our DNA is not the same.
Our histories are not the same.
It is not okay for you to claim these things now.
If it makes you feel better, that’s fine, but it’s bullshit.
You are still a snide, smug individual.
I have not forgiven you, because I can’t.
I’m still the one that had to put everything out first.
You talked about people that don’t matter from a mutual background.
I cried because you forced your politics on me.
That’s how your attempt went, and now I’ve given mine.
I had to tell you that I’m sorry first.
I had to tell you that I love you first.
I had to tell you that I’m jealous first.
I had to tell you that I’m afraid
and angry
and feel guilt and remorse
for failing to forgive you and wanting to move on.
I’ve wanted to move on for so long, but I can’t turn my back on the past.
I can’t reject my family, and you are my sister.
You came here, and we went to the zoo.
The gesture wasn’t lost on me, but now I’ve told you everything that I’m ashamed of and would rather not admit
because you wouldn’t.
The closest you came was telling me that it’s normal for siblings to act the way you did.
Viewing me as your own personal play thing…was normal
Normal
and therefore, I’ll presume,
okay.
This is my way of telling you that I want the same thing you do, but can’t do it the same way.
You?
You just moved on without me.
You’ve always been self-centered.
You fucking came here pretending that you are not your past.
You are.
You created that.
That was you.
Fuck you.
I gave you what you wanted
what you’ve been nosing around begging for from me for years.
Only after I turn out an honest, ugly image do you offer what I’ve
more than deserved
from you.
A goddamned, heartfelt apology.
It’s going to take time. We’re not friends, but we’re sisters…and we’re on speaking terms again.
Pause.
Yes, that would explain…everything.
Love triangles are tricky things, much more complicated than young adult fiction makes them out to be…or so I’ll assume, since I have only gleaned the plots of the current books written for television vicariously.
I mean…film?
Fiction at any rate, and it falls flat.
When did you have a kid?
I’ve been out of touch for two years.
Stagnant.
Trying to recuperate.
Evidently, the rest of the world is doing just fine.
It’s impossible to ascertain this from “the news” which has devolved into a poorly cited, vastly unsubstantiated kangaroo court of media spun disaster obsessed infotainment.
Also, I am not fine and have projected my personal state onto my surroundings
to simplify and marginalize abrasive differences.
I get unreasonably upset when people tell me, during this lieu in interaction with the outside world, that I’m still sick.
The judgment, while likely valid, does not promote anything but further withdrawal.
In other words — Fuck off, Captain Obvious. Who needs you?
Congratulations on perpetuating your particular flavor of superiority, obtaining that elusive sense of productivity coupled with pride…and a satisfying sense of higher worth, no doubt.
Who lives too close to a nuclear reactor to safely grow their own produce?
Yeah, that’s right. Buy local.
I’m just bitter, because I don’t have a garden anymore. I spend most of my time in the corner of one room.
Cooking up strange new hobbies.
Yesterday, I decided to buy cacti from my neighborhood green thumbs.
I’m not entirely sure why.
Oh well, so much for the rest of April’s grocery money.
I used to be so ashamed of this common type of scarring that I first started to refuse to wear bathing suits, and then shorts, and then short-sleeved shirts.
I’ve had these marks since around the age of ten. I first noticed them on my chest, and then my upper arms. Followed by my thighs. My stomach. My inner elbows and my calves. For me, these marks are essentially everywhere, ranging in size and direction, prominence and abundance.
I’ve been told that they’re the result of all kinds of faults from dietary deficiencies to excess weight to hereditary skin conditions, and I’ve been told just as many stupid ways to diminish their appearance or magically get rid of them all together.
I used to envy much larger people than I’ve ever been who somehow managed not to have nearly so many stretch marks, but I’ve grown accustomed to them. I’ve met many people of all different sizes and fitness levels that harbor secret stretch marks, although I’ve never met anyone else sporting as many as me. Honestly, I still don’t love them, but I haven’t been ashamed of them for quite some time. I’ve never bothered to do anything but hide them, and I gave up on hiding them a long time ago.
I have stretch marks, and cellulite, and wrinkles and body hair. My skin is pocked with moles and freckles and visible blood veins.
I am not beautiful, and people have commented on all of my physical transgressions from standard femininity.
People have made many callous, hurtful critiques, but they’re only able to say anything, because I will fuck with the lights on.
I have never been kicked out of someone’s bed in disgust for having these flaws, but I’ve gotten a lot of comments.
I’m okay with my imperfect body and most of the decisions I make regarding how I treat it.
I don’t want to be a man.
I don’t hate pretty, high maintenance, idealized and socially idolized women.
I am a feminist, but not a man hating sort that adopts traditionally masculine characteristics in some contradictory attempt to assert equality.
I’ve been asked repeatedly why I’m like this.
There’s just no sense in hating my body. I can’t rationalize being ashamed based on standards that undermine reality.
I am not beautiful, and I do not strive to be.
If this bothers you…don’t fuck me. Then you’re not close enough for it to matter much.
Problem solved.
I still break down for hours at a time and rub the skin on my eyelids raw when I’m sleepless and sober.
I stop eating, because the thought of feeling sick makes me sick before I’m sick and then I’m sick
and I want to be sick, so that I can focus on physically feeling like shit.
I pretend that my new Land of Make-Believe friends can distract me from the ravages of sharp thinking
pounding against a dull, dim fog spreading from behind my left eye to crack my jaw and roll down my spine.
Crank the wheel up, up and away, and slam into the curb, but I’d rather backslide
slip down
pass out in the cold dew covered grass of a soft, well manicured lawn where I’m unwelcome come sun up
but you’ll hold me till dawn.
Shut up. I caught myself telling you to shut up.
“I don’t care. Shut up,” and I turned the power on and the static off before someone notices
I’m fucking arguing with myself aloud in the back room where we keep the broken merchandise out of view.
Damn right, I’m still broken, but you’d be so fucking proud of me, because right now, I’m sober.
“You look like you lost your best friend.”
I used to steal from department stores.
Then I stopped.
He asked me if I had a heroin connection.
“No,” without hesitation.
Not for you, I don’t.
They titter and flirt.
I just want to do my job and lapse back into solitude.
She told me not to be ashamed of being different.
Evidently, I’m “different.”
Thanks for that.
Turmoil must equate to shame.
Bitterness and grudges.
People used to say shit to and about me
just to try to hurt me.
I don’t think I’ve ever fully recovered from that.
Nothing changes the past.
There simply isn’t enough time to give everyone the benefit of my doubts.
Check.
Double check.
I’ve made it pretty clear how I feel.
Who I struggle to be.
Come on, man.
There’s nothing to see here.
I was sad when porn shops became mall warehouses in an attempt to compete with internet sales, disappointed when used CD and DVD corner stores went out of business, indifferent to Borders going belly up, but I’ll be absolutely devastated when I can’t find a second hand book anymore. If you like, it’s baseless sentimentality.
The spines don’t make fun of me for staying in my room naked with them all day with the lights out until dusk. They don’t care that I don’t talk much, and they don’t feel the need to comfort themselves by judging me aloud the way my housemates do. They care nothing about the soundness of my mind, and if we violently disagree with one another, I can simply set them aside where they will wait, unchanging, for me to come around again. They don’t even draw attention to my failing eye sight the way that my addiction to the internet does. I can curl up with them outside without having to concern myself with battery life or rare earth elements, and my family does not have to worry much about this penchant of mine to spend stray change on paper rather than food. Almost all of my books were previously purchased and abandoned. Some were rescued from garbage water and broken glass in the bottom of industrial dumpsters.
They’re a fire hazard and a storage burden. They recoil in disgust if I get them wet. People make fun of me. If I just stopped buying books for a few months, I could get half of what I read for free with an ereader. I could borrow electronic best sellers from the library with a simple time sensitive download, no wait list, no pick up, and no late fee. I’m clinging, they tell me; clinging to the wrong side of history. People “lightheartedly” joke with me for reading at all.
That’s okay. You just keep misreporting via the Twitter feed. “Multitask” however you like. I don’t bother you, and you shouldn’t bother me.
I had to work today, which is normal.
Fine.
I had to leave early to stay under overtime.
Okay.
I came home to trash strewn everywhere.
Damn.
I cleaned it up.
Vacuumed.
Swept.
Took out the trash
And aired out the main floor.
I took my mail and retired to my rooms
Talked to my bird
Let her out
Changed her water
Refreshed her food
Spot cleaned her cage
And decided I needed a fucking shower.
After my shower, I opened my windows
Because it was a pretty nice day today.
I towel dried my hair and sat down in my chair.
Then I picked up the small package I received in the mail
Yesterday
But found on the kitchen counter today.
I knew it would be a book.
When I pulled the cardboard tab to open the package
Out poured a butt load of ants
Scurrying around
Carrying eggs.
I
Naked
Flustered
And exhausted by the day
Flipped the fuck out.
In grade school, art class fell on Wednesday. Wednesday also went by the moniker of Chocolate Milk Day. I considered it the best day of the week for these two reasons.
During college, I ran into something that we used to do as children on Wednesdays. It was a communal sort of clusterfuck.
You may remember it well.
I also recall dealing with it under your command outside of this specific context of drawing a picture.
Start something, and then, at timed intervals, pass it along to the next designated person in a chain.
Continue until the massacre returns.
Sometimes, in case the point hadn’t been driven home forcefully enough, the same abortion would be passed around numerous times
until the stain on the page was unrecognizable
both as something self-initiated and as something identifiable as anything worth looking at, at all.
My brain does this to me.
I putter along slowly gaining confidence in interpreting what I experience.
Then something in my brain clicks off and switches over before humming back into coherence.
Occasionally, I witness the muddled down time in between thoughts when everything is familiar, but nothing makes sense.
Usually, however, the shift is relatively graceful.
Everything has just shifted without warning. Everything is in place but slightly askew when compared to its previous position.
Everything is fine. Different, but entirely fine. Not new. Not outwardly changed.
It’s entirely internal.
Adaptation follows with minor resistance.
There is rarely an epiphany, and it’s not as simple as changing my mind.
It is not a conscious effort.
It is not even a linear progression.
It’s as if someone just shouted “Switch!” and my own page has been handed back to me from some unknown journey time and time again.
I love you, they said, oh, I love you. Do you, too, love yourself? Do you love me, say, do you really love me? I love myself too. And from sheer love they called each other radishes, they loved radishes, they bit into each other, out of sheer love one radish bit off another’s radish. And they told one another stories about wonderful heavenly love, and earthly love too, between radishes, and just before biting, they whispered to one another, whispered with all the sharp freshness of hunger: Radish, say, do you love me? I love myself too.
Grass, Günter. The Tin Drum. New York: Vintage Books, 1964. 204.
and so we meet again 