I can feel myself going insane. it's been a week, I haven't told anyone but I feel it again. I'm grasping at the seams here, I'm at the end of my good days. doom is upon me, I'm fighting it with all my might, but I think it'll break me. I feel like it can break me, you know. I don't know how strong I can be without letting anyone know.
lately
lately it seems like the cheapest form of therapy is screaming into the void. and by the void I mean this blog. it's like the feelings refuse to come out of me in a different way.
it feels helpless. I haven't had a good idea in ten years and I think I'm about to sell out on the ones I already had. writing feels like a dead end, relating to people feels like a chore. I am usually angry, I barely look at myself in the mirror anymore.
I feel like men are the issue. men are consistently undermining my authority because I am a young woman. as if that meant anything. I could fix my own car if I wanted to, I just paid you for the convencience and because you happen to be an idiot. I can pay for my own stuff. I could escalate my own issues but you're in my way to upper management, so what's the use. I don't know. I don't need them. and it annoys me so terribly.
I digress — this is not the point. the point is that I am angry and I don't know how the anger is gonna come out of me.
moving out
when I was 24 I moved out of my mother's house into a rented flat. I had always dreamed of that moment but of course, I had no idea of the mental toll moving out would entail. especially if you need to furnish the entire house and you live in a 60 year old apartment that had been empty for over a year.
my mom was against it. I get it, she thought me moving out was because I was unhappy, but I was just tired of not having my own place. I'm the child of two divorced parents who've made me have two separate houses since I was three. my dad on the other hand had pestered me for years on end, ever since I turned 18, to move out of my mother's house. he'd always find a moment alone with me and start asking when are you going to move out. I'd usually just answer I don't know, and he'd get into a psychotic rambling on how my mom was toying with my head and I was basically subdued to her power (what?) so I'd stop listening. so, you know, when I signed the contract I told him I had found my own place and felt very happy. I thought he'd be happy too, but I was just met with... nothing.
my mom helped with 90% of it. she was there for all my five panic attacks. she would carry bags back and forth from my car. she was there when I lost my keys and when I had to sign the lease. she washed each and every one of my new dishes and cups, helped me build my furniture and change the mirrors in the bathroom cabinet. she also cleaned out the kitchen, the bathroom, paid for the paint. her husband paid for the fridge and the delivery.
moving out took weeks. there was radio silence for days on end from my dad. he wouldn't even call, and I was busy trying not to fall apart between work and moving houses. my car would also consistently break down, so it was difficult knowing whether or not it would make it to and from the apartment every time I set myself to load another batch of books and CDs in the trunk. obviously, I had no time to call him either. what good would it do? I would've appreciated the thought, a hand, something. words of encouragement. instead it was just empty space.
he did give me some furniture. from his house, I got my nightstand (which I love), the futon (which was really useful), a foldable wooden table (which was super handy for the kitchen), a salt lamp, a jewelry box, a few books. him and his girlfriend helped me get the futon back home, which was easy to pull apart and then put together once we made it. it was just a bunch of bits and pieces and luckily it all fit in the elevator. he came into the apartment and didn't even wait for me to pull up the blinds: he took a peak inside and said, nice! then said he was in a hurry and left.
I didn't hear from him again in days. I asked if he could help me fix some light fixtures but he didn't come. I asked if he could fix a leak in a pipe but he didn't come, either. I called a plumber, which ended up being better because I needed to fix all the taps, the shower head, unclog the drains and fix the leak with sealant in the kitchen sink. so that's fine, the plumber was what I actually needed.
I often wondered if there was a problem with him and me. I didn't ask. I didn't have the guts to tell him I was hurt, as I would usually do. I didn't like to bother him with my problems because he'd use it against me later down the road. so I'd just pretend I didn't care for as long as I could pull it off.
between all the coming and going it was my second anniversary with my boyfriend. on may 10th we went out for dinner and then we came back to my new apartment to watch a movie. it was incredibly cold inside the house and we had no heating.
we settled on watching secretary, which kept me entertained for hours. my dad texted me during the movie, but I didn't answer (I didn't get to the phone). he called me later in the evening, and the first thing he asked was, are you alone? which sounded pretty violent. I always get uneasy when he starts the calls like that, and he always does a variation of it (is your mom there? is your boyfriend there? are you alone?).
he wanted to complain about how I was a terrible daughter for not reaching out to him during those days. I had been moving from one apartment to the other, dealing with flooded kitchens, cockroaches, the coldest apartment ever, fitting a fridge in the smallest elevator ever, running back and forth with my old car (which ended up breaking down shortly after the move was over!) and most of all, dealing with the difficulties of leaving your childhood home. so I was suddenly a terrible daughter who didn't care about him, and he was the best father ever, and I never asked for help because I was selfish. I had no chance for rebuttal because he did what he always does: he screamed at me over the phone, pleading like an infant that I paid no attention to him, and hung up.
I just remembered all of this because I saw a poster for the movie secretary pop up on twitter. and the truth is I barely recall the movie but I remember everything about that fucking conversation. I feel like I've been stuck in his endless cycle of violence for years and it's wearing me out. he does this fucking thing all the fucking time. then he comes back and asks for forgiveness and me, being the idiot that I am, I always say yes. then he tries to buy my trust with money and when he doesn't get it, it starts over. it's always about him, he can't think outside the reality he's created for himself. never in a million years it would've occurred to him that I was in fact dealing with a lot of things, and I would've appreciated a loving and helpful parent, just like my mom was. no. it was about him, like it always is, and always has been. I'm just my mom's puppet and basically, an idiot. the idiot kid.
letter boxed
I was doing my daily letter boxed run on the new york times this morning and I realised I could have spelled out your name with the letters I had. I tried to spell it out once and it didn't work, some of the letters where on the same side of the box. but I tried again and again, not thinking about ways to solve the puzzle but different ways in which I could simply say your name. it's funny how I saw all those words out of order and I could just see you. in an instant I knew your name was in there, like a gimmick, a wink. I just couldn't bring myself to say it.
I haven't been able to say your name in conversation in a while. I can't even whisper it. I don't know why I try, I don't know why I keep coming back to that empty space between my teeth and thinking I'll meet you there, like you have ever mentioned me. do you say my name? would I hear it, if you said it, would it reach me? there's no recognition here, I'm consuming myself inside something that has never been real. it's real to me, maybe, that should suffice. it's in the game, it's on my keyboard, in my dreams. it's everywhere.
He
As a boy my short linen pants reached
right above my knees.
Mom set the table for five and I counted;
Stella, Marina, me, mom. Who else? He
arrives earlier than expected and flings
his briefcase over the couch.
I stand by in the corridor as motionless
as a child in awe can intend to be.
He wiggles his tie down and removes his
tartan sports coat,
the button of his shirt sitting atop of his belly about to
jump out of the seams.
He bellows, 'what's for lunch?' directed at the kitchen,
but mom doesn't answer. I don't think He
has seen me yet.
I still don't move, hoping this time,
if I stay quiet long enough, the behemoth of a man that stands upon me
is kind, and maybe this time,
just for once, I'll get a nice little wrapped up caramel that he might know I like,
I mean if he was paying attention last Sunday when mom stopped by the corner shop after church.
But, why would He? I mean,
why would anyone, in this world, reach down to look at a child's bare knees,
no scrapes, unscathed,
a well-behaved, invisible idea of a boy?
But this time, Goodness Gracious,
this time I remembered what lunch would be –
a trail of voice came out my mouth without a second thought
so He looks down.
'Thank you' follows, a pat on the head, a brief smile.
I frolic in acceptance,
about to gleefully kick my feet, I contain
any emotions that may come off as loving,
for one does not love a father in the same way one loves a mother. Why would anyone?
As I set down the tray, steaming,
I sit by his side. His only boy, there's a look back at me
with soft brown eyes, inside the casket of a tough man, a face worn out by the summer days
and the wind of a thousand sails,
He extends his hand. Soft, warm, calloused. Mine feels like a little present. He
holds my hand and we close our eyes to pray.
In my head, I say a prayer for me, for the day
I claim my acceptance. The day that comes where it's my seat at the table,
my pants reach my ankles and I own my ties,
the day where my wife awaits home for me, in an apron, smiling.
Nobody moves for a second. He says thank you, and with my eyes still closed,
I bow my head down to kiss his hand.
Eyes shoot wide. Why would I do this? He doesn't understand,
a bewildered look from around the table, the boy that now decides to kiss.
How else can I show my love? I think, I don't know what I thought,
a tender kiss on His hand, just a reverence,
but it doesn't elicit the response I expected. Instead, I get punished
by his never ending silence, his disapproval, a shift in his eyes which I can't change.
China and silver click and clack,
my hand breaks apart from his, limp,
reminds me to go back to my place.
May, my dismay
my lips have turned yellow.
the inside of my mouth is pasty and lousy,
it feels like I ran sandpaper on it for fun.
there's a heaviness in my chest I can't shake.
I haven't written like this in year.
I'll wear my grandma's scarf, I'll wear a coat that doesn't fit me.
I don't think I have it in me.
I'll wear lipstick, I'll wear boots
I don't think I have it in me.
It feels like I'm writing a story I never begun,
I don't think I have it in me.
the nights get longer and I feel my eyelids struggle to close at night.
the inside of my mouth is pasty and lousy,
it feels like I ran sandpaper on it for fun.
there's a heaviness in my chest I can't shake.
I haven't written like this in year.
I'll wear my grandma's scarf, I'll wear a coat that doesn't fit me.
I don't think I have it in me.
I'll wear lipstick, I'll wear boots
I don't think I have it in me.
It feels like I'm writing a story I never begun,
I don't think I have it in me.
the nights get longer and I feel my eyelids struggle to close at night.
May, yes, my dismay,
never again, I thought the disdain was over a few years ago
but I guess it follows like a burden:
there's something that prevents me from going the right path.
what is it? what the fuck is it?
maybe I think maybe it's
laziness,
maybe I'm a little too sharp to be at the gym all day,
fear,
or that people will have something to say.
what does one need to do to shake off the fear?
it rattles and rattles and it shakes and it never wears off
then it sticks to my ribs and pokes a hole
my mouth is dry and my teeth got darker
my lips are chapped, my hair is thinner