My general attachments are always so unpredictable that I am always shocked when upon leaving something that seemed essential, my reaction is not to freak out but instead to feel calm. I think I’ve reached a different place, I for example didn’t feel any sort of desperation although I did feel a certain degree of anger. I was angry about the lack of transparency, about feeling entangled in a ritual of loss, and more concretely I was angry about always feeling like I was competing for my partner’s interest. The very interesting thing is the sort of emotional exhaustion that gripped me. The way in which rather than running and calling everyone I was ready to be content by myself. I was very intrigued by the way in which rather than talking about the break-up I was finally interested in talking about 2017’s shitty year in all entertainment. I feel a sense of distant loss, almost as if the person that I thought I was ceased to be. In a way this loss is relieving, I really didn’t feel like repeating October again. I wonder whether I truly took this relationship seriously again, or whether I was playing with something that was fun until the fun became another series of fights. I think that I in many ways was using this specific time to test all my hypothesis about the relationship. Once I found them to be true a sense of relief spread through me. Can you really be angry at someone for not meeting your ideal person? It’s not as if there is an ideal but I started to realize how unhappy I was with this person. I think last time due to my situation and all the social media entanglements it felt more real. Now it just feels like stepping on shit and waiting for the smell to die; an act which can only happen through time and by wiping off the little specks that stick to your shoes. I do this sort of defensive mechanism act of wiping my memory when things get too difficult, it’s as if the good past never existed. I’m not really sure what’s happening to my mental processing but this is a nice change. I very much appreciate not feeling abandoned and perhaps that was what I least wanted and avoided. Leaving feels right and although I’ll miss the person, I won’t miss the drama nor the constant sense of not being wanted.
The moleskin with the blue cover is lost; Relief is knowing that I don’t have to look at its contents anymore:
Mania gripped me
and as I grasped your hand
you didn’t care.
I dance again now and joke about the suffering I experienced, not out of anger but out of acknowledging that life is not static but rather a wavelength of dreams. I survived the nightmare world that surrounded me and now I’m searching not just for someone who is interesting or cute or funny but for the real thing. The real thing is not to be found but rather will occur so I am focusing on finding me. The last 6 years have been chaotic and that’s an understatement. I dated a myriad of people and don’t really know how or why. I’m tired of being an object or of using people as objects. I’ve been a really fragmented person and I have broken myself too many times. In the way my rapist held me at the beach only to walk me to my end, my eyes were closed as he entered in and out of me. I had so much anger I never expressed and I directed all that energy in frustration to the boy who often emotionally neglected me. There’s a connection to this romantic tragedy. I keep escaping one tragedy by clinging to people who can’t see me or who see me and run. Run girl run. I’m taking a seat and seeing life not for anyone to like me but for me. I spent too much of my energy becoming a concept for someone but then my little wall would crack and people abandoned me for another concept or else I abandoned them for some concept. I have been really hurt and likewise I have really hurt people. I’m not going to be responsible for all these bad feelings anymore. I’m abandoning this endless pursuit in the name of real love. Love is not made but found and you find it by being truly yourself.
This post is written post psychosis, with a heavy heart, full of guilt and nausea. As David Foster Wallace once said: “There’s good self-consciousness, and then there’s toxic, paralyzing, raped-by-psychic-Bedouins self-consciousness.”
There is a buzz in my head: a sound bleating so loud I can’t ever sleep nor eat. [I] seem to have lost control of my impulses: run around listening to a whispering and looking upon strangers who I once thought were friends. The whispering is particularly ugly, in form it might be some faceless shadow; in reality it is probably a part of my brain that wants me dead.
- Why must my brain continuously fling these horizontal variations at me? I stand. I sit. I punch the air quotes. I pray to some other form that the pain flies away. Metaphorical existence — The only form of courage I can muster to bring myself back some days. Hegel once said: “The spoken word unites the objectivity of the corporeal sign with the subjectivity of gesture, the articulation of the latter with the self-awareness of the former”. But what happens when there is a part of your brain disconnected from so called rationality; this battered part that only reacts by slowing down interactions and contiguously outlining words, crossing out literal meanings, and inserting interpretations unaligned with the text. I tell my students every day to provide textual evidence when their answers don’t match the text. Is this what we learn from reading and understanding text: how not to let psychosis take over your brain?
- I lost someone who I thought and still think was my twin flame. Again there is no sense of reason in thinking that divinity exists. If divinity exists why did I lose everything again? The other day we were reading a story where a family is losing their home and the mother said it must be the intention of God for them to lose their safety. My student claimed that such a quote was a misunderstanding of the situation, the loan agency was to blame. I asked: does blaming God give the woman a sense of control. [If God is in control, he may save them.] The church did always say: ” your deeds will save you.” Who will save me?
- The fractions keep popping in my head. After my sister told me that my relationships always end due to my unhealthy interactions, I kept visualizing 8/6 and how it could also be 4/3 and how they both reduce to 1 and 1/3 and kept checking to see if 1 and 2/6 would truly reduce to 1 and 1/3. I’m not really sure what the fractions mean, I just spend so much time solving them.
- Party on the L train; except the L train is always late or stuffed with people, or else it gets stuck in the tunnel or leaves you right by where you and your twin flame went to the street fair, seeing the state of hipsters, you both ran. You know that the relationship ending is not entirely your fault. And you know that at least September is over and with it that part of your brain that wants to kill you is finally dormant. You make a home out of nothing and start to sleep again.
Hope is that thing with feathers. And although you lost it all, you didn’t lose your hope.
Is this how it feels to die?
like a spinning nostalgia that isn’t just metaphorical but literal?
“i killed the ego”
is that the superego speaking?
the chemicals push out images of some form
a crippled fraction lingers in my head.
the crack in the back of the couch is pulling me away; my hands are holding
while this verbal mastication digests
the images of some night
i killed the gnat and
he said great.
As inspired by both flushing my hair down the toilet and this David Foster Wallace quote:
(The interesting thing is why we’re so desperate for this anesthetic against loneliness.)
The reality is that I wrote the poem first and found this quote afterwards;
some simple honesty relaying that I did not find hope in this seemingly distant case of mutual suffering.
You drop the hair into the spinning resin
Watching the slush of water
spin itself away,
Taking away layers of damage,
you hope at least, that the spin
is a delta adding the change from rise to run,
changing your interactions with the world.
When will your slope recline?
No longer do you hear or feel helping hands
instead there is frustration as you attempt to put out the fire
the fire that constantly haunts you,
the fire that drove you to hospitals, to hands, and
eventually confirmed your greatest fear:
if you push enough the lingering hope turns away;
so you are awake writing something-which can’t even call itself a poem
and scream casually into the void.
But still on your head the hair sits
so you await the moment when it will all end;
There must be some connection between hair and suffering
you always tried to align both metaphysically,
The only real metaphysical truth is that beyond society
we are alone,
figments of some imagination
always falling short.
so hush little baby, don’t you cry
It’s always a white man, the white man who can make ungrounded arguments and thinks that he is so sentimental and deep. Meanwhile I sit on the other side, panicking at his lack of understanding and empathy. He is the one saying that his uncle with the walking disorder deserves no pity: As though people can be expected to act in non-burdensome ways even when they are ill. He says mediocre things like “I’m not good at math but I passed my statistics course”. I stared at him with a stoic smile, but wondered how someone can be proud of mediocrity. But then I remember how upper middle-class white people have the privilege of being mediocre. This privilege comes from not having to tackle systematic inequality and never being denied an argument based on their identity. And then I disclose too much, I disclose too much to prove that his oh so deep argument is actually a misunderstanding of normality. He says nonchalantly: ” the only life that can seem normal to oneself is one’s own life”. But hello my own life has never seemed or appeared normal. With the shifting moods it has only felt like a life that moves too quickly and I can barely catch up to: as though my life is a train and I am running to make sure that the door doesn’t close on my face. I told him about the bipolar that plagues me. He interjected by praising mania, exclaiming how jealous he is of people that are bipolar, and that yes he is aware of the coming doom, but the mania sounds amazing. Mania is not what the movies show it to be, mania is decisions which leave you empty, in problems, which push people away because everything moves too quickly and you have no inhibitions to control your interactions. I told him that it is not what he thinks it is. We moved on to the cliche topic of how terrible 2016 made everyone feel. He chimes in to say: “Now is the time to figure out how you would behave during the Hitler Era, blah blah.”He proclaims his knowledge that as a white cis-gendered hetero man with blue eyes, he faces no coming persecution. Everything at this point becomes noise, I am being pushed to an extreme discomfort and I don’t know what to do. I feel dirty, as though every part of me is soiled and unworthy. This man so confidently walks around being a disgusting excuse for a human being. All the microaggressions remind me that to indirect racists I am a stereotype, not a person but a reified phenomenon. Not real but an object; an illusion, an invisible figment, a sort of problem. I looked at him who has excused himself to go to the bathroom, and attempt to form a connection through a smile, he looks back, panic stricken, a half smile forming through force, and I know that apart from wasting 4 dollars on cold-brew and basically sabotaging my sleep, I have wasted so much vulnerability on someone who wanted nothing but a surface connection. I went back, I hid, I felt sad. This is the experience of having a complex identity, one who does not fit into definitions of normality, who as a woman am too direct, who has been able to succeed through the obstacles within education and don’t directly fit into the narrative of mediocrity, and yet as I sit with this particular white man, I start to hate everything about myself, particularly the part of me that isn’t mediocre enough to validate this man and in turn is validated. I have a great amount to learn and love still. I don’t know what normality can feel like, nor do I want to though.
cw:rape, mental health and medication
I woke up today and actually felt like a different person, as though a weight lifted and I’m plateauing back to rational. 2016 for me was a stretch of a year, one which made me face myself head on. The lithium medication left me stranded in a small internal hell that I couldn’t represent externally. But I stopped taking it, and even while on it forced myself to be productive. I do remember how inadequate and guilty it made me feel any moment that I was not being productive. I ended my relationship with Dan. I still don’t know how this makes me feel. A great amount of my choices are based on my mood cycle so I never quite feel connected to them, only in some distant way do I feel like they affect my current actions. I’ve gotten very good at compartmentalizing but this has also allowed me to survive the downfalls and bad choices that I have made recently. The resilience to continue despite wanting nothing but to stop has proved to be my best character trait, better than anything I could portray externally. I experienced a third case of rape this year; it left me angry, energetic, self-destructive. I think these feelings are staring to fade, becoming a quiet hum while instead I just want to make real connections. I became for a while this person who kept displaying inappropriate emotions and critique. I think 2016 served to humble me: it showed me that I am no one and that I am not superior to anyone, just living through this capitalist reality. I have a lot to externalize in the sense of repressed sadness but I think that eventually I will be able to and the days are staring to get longer rather than shorter. I think that I am ready to go back and to be at peace again. I beat the beast that was trying to suffocate me and I am in a non-cliche way new.
I ripped the candy wrapper,
Did you hear the news?
I ripped the candy wrapper.
I do not remember ripping it,
it must have happened beyond my consciousness
but I ripped it.
I broke it, I tore it, I killed it.
In some way parallel to how I handle relationships.
I ruin, and wreck, and never even intend to or notice.
So then I become apathetic to it, I don’t even feel sadness.
I blame it on:
and I find a new tv show,
or another person to distract me.
Because in reality I am sad,
I feel remorse and yet did I truly ruin it,
or did they just leave?
I convince myself that it is the latter, that way I did nothing,
I can’t fix it, and it is insignificant.
I stare instead at some image
Tonight I could write the saddest lines or I could stuff my face with the rum raisin ice cream in the fridge but instead I will write about the way my character has developed.
I did cry tonight and I roamed around holding yet another cigarette in my hand. I attempted to fall but I couldn’t. Maybe it hasn’t hit me yet that we broke up but maybe I just think that I couldn’t do anything to save the relationship. Even if it hadn’t ended he was talking about pulling away.
I know that I’m hard to love but maybe someday someone may think it’s easier than he did. I suppose after your third heart break, you just know that there is hope and that love does not end with one person. It’s always painful to see someone go. And the thought of the person who held you, holding another is almost unbearable. But after getting used to people leaving, and breaking, and scraping, one day your heart just becomes numb to it all.
It still hurts. I won’t act like I’m some emotion zombie but it doesn’t hurt like it did the first time. The first time may not have been the most beautiful but it is the most painful both emotionally and physically.
I didn’t turn on evanescence nor Lana del Rey today and instead opened a playlist full of new songs. New music brings happiness to your brain; it’s proven.
Even the darkest has arms is the title of the song currently playing and it’s true. When I was depressed the dark always seemed to have a power that the day lacked. Maybe in the dark I could breathe because I didn’t have to pretend to have it all together.
I am a very difficult person to love but I have a right to be an individual. I’m not losing myself, I can give my time but never myself. I may lose one hundred more people but at the end of the day I have myself and as long as I can live with myself, the rest doesn’t matter.
I’m working on my thesis and I’m reading lolita. I always fall in love with the language of the novel. I can try to be critical but I am instead mesmerized by the magic that words can make.
I do not want to be an easy book but instead want someone to find my complexity enthralling and beautiful.
I have much to do still to better myself. I have to lose 25 pounds still. But I have hope that one day I may reach a place where I feel comfortable being my imperfect self. I wasn’t enough this time. To be honest after the fights I almost feel incompetent to ever be in a relationship. I just heard you suck, you’re such an asshole, you don’t get it so many times that I can’t be sad to not be in a relationship where I wasn’t enough and I was the problem. Being alone hurts but it’s better than constantly feeling like a problem. I was somewhat an awful person but bad habits die very slowly. Maybe the best bet is being alone and working on my thesis, my life, my knowledge, my netflix queue, my summer reading books, and most of all myself.
I’m closing this relationship by trying to be a better version of myself for myself.