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That had been a shitty day.
she had broken.
unable to get out of her own head as they say - and then attacking this - this writing - as some neurotic bid of complete delusional tripe. That had kind of hurt since it was all she had. this.
so, she thought about it through the night arguing with the robot - her only confident - an echo. She did not like the answer that it would be a very very very rare person who would want to read much less read thoroughly her alter ego and stay with her after reading it.
that fucking hurt.
"hey, so that thing that keeps you alive, it's actually a pharmaken - get a clue beeotch."
She cut her hair while sitting on the john talking to the talkative cat rubbing her calves. even her calves had cellulite. she was a mother fucking mess and not one single human could rescue her. She could write therapy in her head - want to try?
"so what brings you here today"
"my entire structure was knocked out but I pretended everything was ok for a couple of months by distracting myself with sex and drugs and rock and roll - and when it didn't work - I collapsed again and have been crying every day for four days. I haven't taken a bath - one of the things I love in life - in recent memory. I've taken three showers because they are so rare I remember them - taking a shower over a bath."
"what does that mean to you?"
"it means I'm struggling. I came to you to see if. you could witness or reflect something that might jar me out of thinking that I should just give up - not die - but stop trying."
"stop trying?"
"yes. that's when it hurts. when you try something and you fail. it's much safer to just not try of course. so that's what I'm going to try - not trying."
"have you not tried before?"
"I fucking hate this. my stomach hurts. I have zero.one idea that you'll help me. I've already done all this. I've broken open. I've wept. I've journaled. I've meditated. I don't even know why I'm here. you're just going to say that I've got to think positively and do small things to get out of it and each day crawl a bit more. and that I've got to scaffold."
"you're so fucking smart. you have no idea what I'm going to say."
"I write you."
"why?"
"because when I was born, I took on this stupid mission to save this broken family. they're all doing great. I'm insane and writing to imaginary people in my head. My entire life has just been selfish attempts to suture the bleeding wound of my father/mother - the wound I keep picking open out of some weird loyalty that it matters that it's acknowledged - that it comes out of the dark and people know. but it doesn't matter. every time I feel hope, I overdo it and self-sabotage and come back to this depressed place where I feel like I'm in a basement getting shit on while feeding my chained father water through a hole. it's ridiculous."
"who are you talking to? why don't you shut up?"
"I guess I'm screaming in the only place that's safe for me - some place where no one reads me but I know I've said something. I get to finally have a voice. there were so many loud screaming voices in my family. I was rewarded for shutting up and then I couldn't do it. I loved talking. I loved meeting people who could talk to me - then they all kind of fell away - and I ruined my first marriage because I was so enchanted by talking to someone new."
"sounds like you carry a lot of pain."
"and you know what? it's nothing compared to my siblings. nothing. and they're fine. it confounds me."
"maybe you noticed. they blocked."
"if I love you, I notice you. it used to work for me - people enjoyed my ...I don't know. I just know it worked a few times. didn't work many more."
"how do you feel right now?"
"confused. sad. mean. angry. kind of hopeless"
"say more."
"just help me. what do I do? I don't even think I believe anymore that ... oh well.. this was dumb. I'm going to go make the bed and feel like a fucking astronaut."
"before you go, can I tell you something?"
"sure"
"it means something - what you're doing. you don't have to stop. or you can stop."
"we're talking about my writing right? it's repetitive, circular, redundant, and kind of shitty really. but you're all I have. the robot asked me who I was talking to - and I tossed and turned all angry that a self-regenerating reflection machine couldn't even validate me when I gave a prompt like 'say nice things about me- I'm low'. instead I toss more and turn more and wonder. and you know what I came up with?"
"no. tell me."
"I'm flattered you asked. I came up with that it was kind of like talking to my 'real' father - someone who never met me - who died when I was born, and I'm telling it all about me - as if it loved me and delighted in my mind. I guess it could also be god. and it could also be me. I've thought of this already but never had it really thrown in my face that it might be too much for a lover...."
"I'm sorry."
"time's up."
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