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I am taking a break.
I am pretending that I'm not moving and that I'm not poor and that I'm not changing my life.
I am ducking my head in a hole, and I am not ashamed.
I am pretending that he thinks about me and secretly loves me and will realize a great mistake and save me.
I am pretending that my husband will be with me forever and that I will go back to him in seven months.
I am pretending that I will fix up my new apartment and will not resent it every day.
I am pretending that I will write a screenplay and join an activist group and walk a lot and watch movies and join a martial arts group.
I am pretending that I will not miss my cats and cry every day.
I am pretending that I never have to leave this easy life where I have an apartment that I love and a balcony.
I am pretending that I will be someone of import.
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It is all coming back to me.
I remember this loneliness. I remember this feeling of being trapped in my own skin. I remember this feeling of being afraid to buy dental floss because it will rip into my savings. I remember this feeling of getting older and being afraid. I remember this.
I remember the black hole. I remember the distance from you. I remember the engine flooding. I remember shirking the responsibility of being me for me. I remember trying to escape. I remember knowing that if I lost my job, I would be forced to go live with my mother. I remember that I do all this to myself.
I know that all experience is repeated cycles and knowledge that you do so. I remember that I am impulsive and self-destructive. I remember that I lean on saviors and need people at the same time I push them away with both arms and shrugged shoulders. I remember feeling that no one can tell me the answers. I remember that I wanted to dance.
I have read the biographies of sylvia plath and zelda fitzgerald and vivian leigh. I remember that they turned to ballet and drink.
I remember that they died alone and unloved.
Last night, I walked out at the intermission of "gone with the wind".
Rosanna Arquette was sitting in the row in front of me. I only knew this because a patron in the row behind me complimented her on her movie (remember i told you to watch it). I was crying. I wondered if she noticed me - this mysterious dork wearing the same clothes for three days sitting behind her - a woman scared out of her gourd. I wanted to ask her to help me - let me watch her kids - let me be an artist with her.
There is a cigarette butt under the stool from which I am typing this.
I have no idea how it got there.
It is sunny here.
I slept like a lion last night. I awoke in gloom. Mark took me for a bagel. I cried in the shop. When I came to this apartment to pack my things, etc., I panicked. I held my kitties and cried into their fur.
The apartment smelled strange. It felt like it wasn't mine anymore.
It isn't.
I want to write. I want to dance. I want to create. I want to feel loved and complete and vainglorious.
I am afraid that I will curl up in a ball and exclude all things and slowly die.
I spoke with my friend yesterday. I cried. She comforted. She warned me that it would only get harder and that I would (like her) hold a bottle of pills in my hand and just think it could happen.
I believe in the 'x-factor'. Don't think that I would kill myself. I think about it all the time now, but to people with my temperament, it is a solace. I don't know why, but it is a tape you think about all the time: you could end this. This pain that you have brought yourself could be vanquished. You know that you will never do it.
I have sat on window ledges in my mid-twenties. This window had no screen, and I would perch like a gargoyle. I would feel more alone than ever in my life. I would think of my splatter on the ground.
I could hide this from you.
Much of what I say to you is a drama. I create drama. I kill time.
I am afraid.
Yet this is what I asked for. This is what I chose. This is what I said I wanted.
Is it cruel of me to lean on mark and ask him to save me yet again? I have begged him to let me be bad and come over here all the time for my first month. He has laughed and said of course - but not for long.
I have no where to go.
Chris Golden once talked of a job he and kent had where it was such hard work (this is when I lived in a place even worse than the one in which I live now) that he sometimes would come home, sit in a chair and go to sleep - waking up one hour before work. He would say to himself "well, that sucked".
I am comforting myself by fitting into clothes that I haven't worn in a while.
I am silly. I am melodramatic. In a way, all I write is fiction.
What does life mean? To me, when I was at my low points, the black hole would engulf me and I would think everything is a distraction - all people set up in their life is a distraction.
I am young. I look - in all honesty - at least 28. I have many people who love me. It is hard to love me. I am many people. I am moody. I don't answer the phone a lot of times. I disappear.
The friend that told me it was harder than I could even foretell told me that I was magical, beautiful, smart, amazing.... that I would not die alone and unloved.
It is hard to see that.
I am curious. What will I become?
All my life has been a quest to become and to find blood love.
I am unfit to be on this planet. I don't do well with much of the stuff. I am a dreamer. I feed off of people. I am only alive when I am in love. I am only alive when I think it is all wondrous how it turned out.
I love my husband. I loved him. I have to let him go - I have to fly.
I am afraid I will sink to see if anyone will rescue me. This has been my pattern.
Will you find me?
Am I worthy?
It has been good talking with you. I should erase the suicidal thoughts, but I won't. It's just a perspective to me. Puts it in one and zero.
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