I really need someone to occupy my chest. When it comes to love, I'm the 99%. (Is it too late to use that play on a phrase? In my defense, I've been working on this entry for a while so I came up with it way before it became played out.)
I've pretty much eliminated the word "love" from my vocabulary. I kind of feel bad about it but I guess not bad enough to actually do anything to remedy it. And, really, what could I do? I guess I just don't feel comfortable using that word because I really don't even know what love is or what it means to me. I'm not even speaking about romantic love but just love in general. I suppose I've always assumed it to mean a great affection for someone or something but for some reason, it doesn't feel that simple anymore.
And I think I used to love. I felt affection for people, cared for them. I wished the best for them and hoped they were okay. I suppose that was love. But the one person I cared for the most, someone I believe I loved at one point, completely shut me out in an instant and ruptured my world forever. And that's when my idea of love fell apart.
Why does it seem like the people that you give the majority of yourself to are the ones who hurt you the most? I guess it's because you invest your time and your heart into that person so that you are more connected to them than anyone else. You become vulnerable. Your defenses are down. You are allowing someone else to come into the soft fleshy places, sensitive spots that hurt when tampered with. I suppose the tightest ties bleed the most freely when cut.
And on a somewhat similar yet different strain of thought, why is it that two people who are so in love can end up hating each other so much? It always perplexed me how girls and guys get into relationships, become partners in crime, then suddenly turn into each other's worst enemy. Things turn sour, love turns to hate, and it takes a while for that hatred to boil away. I suppose some couples who split do so amicably and remain friends. But it doesn't seem to happen often from what I've seen. The breakup is usually ugly. And I wonder why that is. What does it take to get to that point? Abuse? Infidelity? A love that has died? An understanding that you are on a different path than your partner? When does heartbreak turn to hate and is it always justified or only under certain circumstances?
So that whole experience with being cut off from my friend really screwed me up. Now, I don't believe in love because it feels like someone who loved me wouldn't do that to me, no matter the excuse. Some would argue that's not real love but I'd hate to think she didn't love me. I used to have a hard time believing anyone could love a mess like me but she gave me hope, made me feel that I could be loved despite my plentiful flaws. It wasn't a case of her saying she loved me and me not believing her. I knew enough of her to know that she did. It wasn't always in the words but in the gestures and actions, in how she made me feel, how we made each other feel. I held onto that and it helped me to feel like a real person. I'd hate to know that it wasn't real, that what I thought was love wasn't. But what was love to me back then?
She made me not believe in love. She even went as far as to make me stop believing in friendship. At the same time, maybe there's a small part of myself that is making me not believe in it, or at the very least, not allowing the microscopic part of myself that still does believe in it to actually experience it because I'm not sure I can go through another rejection like that. I don't want to work on something for so long, give so much of myself to another person just to have it all torn down one more time.
It's so silly because I used to council people in my predicament when I was in high school. These girls broke up with their boyfriends and they came to me to vent and said they'd never fall for another guy, never let them get close because it hurt too much when they left. And I always said that not every guy was going to do that to them, not ever guy would hurt them and they'd be missing out by keeping their hearts so guarded.
Now, here I am, the guy with the guarded heart, eating my own words. Sorry, girls.
Saturday, January 28, 2012
Saturday, January 21, 2012
hunger pulse
"We all have a sickness
That cleverly attaches and multiplies
No matter how we try..."
-Dig, Incubus
Life put together. Life pulled apart. Life semi-assembled.
Most people are screwed up. Maybe everyone is screwed up to a certain degree. And it's weird to realize that. I've been envious of people who I thought had their lives together. It happened a lot throughout my life but never more than when I was in college. When I was in high school, no one really had it together. Some of my peers were more organized in their future plans than others but we were all still slaves to the educational system.
But college came around and there was more freedom. Most of the kids I saw chose to be there. It was a part of their plan. They chose their schedules and professors and classes. And they began to assemble themselves into the adults they wanted to be. They knew their strengths and utilized them. They were forming themselves, from their clothes and hair to their behavior and attitudes to their education and careers.
I walked around and saw so many people who I thought had it together. My first roommate, Keith, seemed like he had it together. He knew who he was, even if he was a giant asshat. But he embraced it and was comfortable with that. He was also a musician and good with girls. My other roommate was an extremely talented artist. His work was fantastic and he had drive and passion and knew exactly who he was and what he wanted out of life. He went on to work on the latest Chipmunks movie. Good for him.
Even the roommates and classmates I had who were not fully formed at least had some direction. They all spoke of far away dreams in a sleepy manner, as if they were slipping away into a daydream of what their day job would some day be like. As for me, I was just trying to lose weight, just trying to get my next project finished, just trying to make it through the day without cracking. I had no goals beyond the sunset because I was weak and incapable of being okay with who I was. All the social/emotional/physical/spiritual development that a lot of adolescents experience in high school was lost on me. I was always behind everyone else.
Everyone experienced physical changes during puberty but mine happened before my balls dropped and my voice deepened. I got fat first. And that was a hard adjustment to make. And when I went through puberty, I got fatter and pimply. And that was even harder to bear.
While everyone else dealt with their changes, even embraced them, mine made me feel hideous. Guys started shaving and girls started wearing bras and everyone got braces and I hid in my room because my face and waistline had exploded and when I was forced to go outside, I wore layers of clothing to hide my belly, which just made me hot and perspire. I was the token fat sweaty guy. Nice to meet you.
I was ashamed of myself and never socialized because of it. And then I lost the weight and I felt better about myself but I was already years behind my classmates. They were already starting to form real relationships with people based on commonalities deeper than an enjoyment of television shows or songs on the radio. They were discovering who each other were as people, how they felt about the world and life and the future, how they felt about their significant other.
And right when I started to think I could really be something, when I felt good enough to become an actual person instead of a label, I gained the weight back and ended up a hermit again. I realized the only real relationship I had in my life was with food.
My classmates focused on their futures with their girlfriends and boyfriends and the colleges they would go to and the professional world they would some day enter. But I couldn't get to that point. I couldn't see beyond my belly. Literally. I was stuck in the moment, stuck in my body and that's all I could envision. I had to lose the weight, had to be thin. To me, everything else was determined by my weight. If only I could be thin, I'd be social and make connections and fall in love and fall away from the depression that drove me deeper away from the world.
Diet pills and exercise and leafy green vegetables and dirt road walking. Sixty pounds lost. I was ready to enter college. I was the average weighted, slightly less sweaty guy. Hello again.
That cleverly attaches and multiplies
No matter how we try..."
-Dig, Incubus
Life put together. Life pulled apart. Life semi-assembled.
Most people are screwed up. Maybe everyone is screwed up to a certain degree. And it's weird to realize that. I've been envious of people who I thought had their lives together. It happened a lot throughout my life but never more than when I was in college. When I was in high school, no one really had it together. Some of my peers were more organized in their future plans than others but we were all still slaves to the educational system.
But college came around and there was more freedom. Most of the kids I saw chose to be there. It was a part of their plan. They chose their schedules and professors and classes. And they began to assemble themselves into the adults they wanted to be. They knew their strengths and utilized them. They were forming themselves, from their clothes and hair to their behavior and attitudes to their education and careers.
I walked around and saw so many people who I thought had it together. My first roommate, Keith, seemed like he had it together. He knew who he was, even if he was a giant asshat. But he embraced it and was comfortable with that. He was also a musician and good with girls. My other roommate was an extremely talented artist. His work was fantastic and he had drive and passion and knew exactly who he was and what he wanted out of life. He went on to work on the latest Chipmunks movie. Good for him.
Even the roommates and classmates I had who were not fully formed at least had some direction. They all spoke of far away dreams in a sleepy manner, as if they were slipping away into a daydream of what their day job would some day be like. As for me, I was just trying to lose weight, just trying to get my next project finished, just trying to make it through the day without cracking. I had no goals beyond the sunset because I was weak and incapable of being okay with who I was. All the social/emotional/physical/spiritual development that a lot of adolescents experience in high school was lost on me. I was always behind everyone else.
Everyone experienced physical changes during puberty but mine happened before my balls dropped and my voice deepened. I got fat first. And that was a hard adjustment to make. And when I went through puberty, I got fatter and pimply. And that was even harder to bear.
While everyone else dealt with their changes, even embraced them, mine made me feel hideous. Guys started shaving and girls started wearing bras and everyone got braces and I hid in my room because my face and waistline had exploded and when I was forced to go outside, I wore layers of clothing to hide my belly, which just made me hot and perspire. I was the token fat sweaty guy. Nice to meet you.
I was ashamed of myself and never socialized because of it. And then I lost the weight and I felt better about myself but I was already years behind my classmates. They were already starting to form real relationships with people based on commonalities deeper than an enjoyment of television shows or songs on the radio. They were discovering who each other were as people, how they felt about the world and life and the future, how they felt about their significant other.
And right when I started to think I could really be something, when I felt good enough to become an actual person instead of a label, I gained the weight back and ended up a hermit again. I realized the only real relationship I had in my life was with food.
My classmates focused on their futures with their girlfriends and boyfriends and the colleges they would go to and the professional world they would some day enter. But I couldn't get to that point. I couldn't see beyond my belly. Literally. I was stuck in the moment, stuck in my body and that's all I could envision. I had to lose the weight, had to be thin. To me, everything else was determined by my weight. If only I could be thin, I'd be social and make connections and fall in love and fall away from the depression that drove me deeper away from the world.
Diet pills and exercise and leafy green vegetables and dirt road walking. Sixty pounds lost. I was ready to enter college. I was the average weighted, slightly less sweaty guy. Hello again.
Saturday, January 14, 2012
a funny thing happened on the way to my toes
It's weird to me how out of touch we can become with ourselves. We go along, oblivious to our actions, behaviors, perceptions, or in some cases, our bodies. As for me, I think I've been oblivious to it all, walking and working and eating and sleeping with my head in a different dimension.
When I entered college, I was the thinnest I had been in years. And it took me several years to get to that weight. Yet, I still thought I was fat. Did I still have a fat boy outlook on life? Could I not accept that I was no longer the chubby dude who could draw, as I was known as in high school? Was I so out of touch with myself that I didn't notice the way I was thinning out? What was I truly seeing when I was looking at my body? Was I seeing the physical or the fear?
When I graduated, I returned home and became depressed and ate to cope. And I gained all the lost weight back. Plus some. All the while, I still remained unaware. I lived in elastic sleep pants so any expansion went unnoticed. Yet, I looked in the mirror every day. How did I not see my face getting fuller? Was I out of touch with myself? Or was I just not wanting to see the changes? Was I denying myself, lying to myself yet again? Or maybe I was just too apathetic to deal so I looked but I didn't really look. I ignored. And I carried on.
It's just sad to look back and realize all those years I worked at losing the weight was ruined. All the calorie counting, the sacrifice, the working out and sweating and being frustrated, all gone. All wiped out. And I'm left where I began. I have a long, hard journey ahead of me to lose the weight all over again. It feels like such a waste of time, like I should have already conquered this, like this shouldn't even be an issue. I have so many other aspects of my life I need to figure out and weight shouldn't be one of them. But it is. But it always will be.
I can do it again. That is not the question. The question is how long can I make it last before I succumb to this sickness one more time? And how many times do I have left in me?
It's weird how we can lie to ourselves, how we can become estranged from our own bodies, minds, and souls. You'd think you would know yourself and know more about yourself than anyone else but that simply is not true. You are in your head every minute of the day and you have access to all that you know and believe yet you can still be disconnected from yourself, still not even know who you really are. It's kind of astounding, actually.
Once, I was who I was and then something happened and I wasn't who I was anymore. But I didn't know that. I lost myself, somewhere deep within my mind or soul or psyche or whatever. I became disconnected. Broken. And maybe that's how I lost my way. I wasn't whole and because of that, I veered off my path and ran right into a ditch. I've been stuck there ever since.
I've been working out ever since the first of the year. I get off work and all I want to do is eat a pizza and take a nap but I don't do that. I change out of my work clothes and pop in a workout DVD and get going. And I hate it. Every time. And I dread doing it and I never feel better afterward. I'm still waiting around for those alleged endorphins to kick in. But I keep going because I know I'm doing something good for myself, although it doesn't feel too good.
Usually I wear athletic pants to work out in because it makes me hotter and makes me sweat more. Helps get rid of some of that water weight. Plus, I just like to be covered up at all times. I'm painfully modest. But I recently split the pants right down the crotchbecause of my huge package because I stretched too far and ripped them and all I had was a pair of cotton shorts to work out in. So, I slipped them on and began to sweat.
I never wear shorts. I don't own any shorts of any kind. I was surprised to find those shorts at the bottom of my chest of drawers. See, I always like to be covered. I'm a pant guy. If I weren't so hot-natured, I'd probably wear long-sleeved shirts all year round as well. But that's just not feasible as I am the human furnace. So, it was a strange feeling being bare below the knees. It was cool and comfortable but still strange. Foreign.
As I was on the floor stretching, I walked my hands up to my knees and felt my shins as I was trying to get to my toes. This is going to sound kind of lame but go with me on this. I felt my shins in a different way than I had before. Like, really feeling them. It wasn't like showering with the buffer of a bar of soap or scratching an itch through thick denim or plaid cotton. It was skin on skin, exploring what my legs felt like without all the other stuff getting in the way. And I realized that these were my legs. They felt cool despite the sweat I was working up. The skin was smooth and pale beneath the abundance of soft dark hair. My shin bone was rigid like a steel pipe beneath a slippery satin sheet. My calf muscles were pliable while at rest, hugged by a pad of fat, yet firm when I flexed them.
And I thought to myself, "Damn. This is my body. And I don't even really know what it feels like." And that's when I realized I couldn't even get to my toes because of the enormous layer of fat around my midsection that acted like a pillowy barrier. I recalled all those years ago when I first started seriously losing weight, how I could reach beyond my toes. I had become so inflexible and so fat all these years later and I could barely get to my ankle. And suddenly, everything started clicking. That was my bulbous stomach. That was my jiggly thighs, my doughy waist, a roll of fat between my stomach and chest, man breasts, thick arms and back fat. Hindering my movements. Hindering my life.
There was only one other time I can remember when I really looked at myself. Back when I was in college and at a decent weight, yet still thought I was fat, I can remember lying on my back on my bed. I was preparing for my afternoon nap when I looked down at myself and realized I could not only see my toes but my feet, legs and thighs. There was no mountain of meat distorting my view.
I lifted up my shirt to my chest and visually explored the landscape of pallid skin. My hip bones stuck out at each side of my waist and dipped inward, meeting the corners of my belly that sloped upward in a small pad of fat. Back then, I thought I was fat. I realize now that I was probably just slightly chubby. No where near as big as I am now. I massaged my belly and ran my fingers along the hard bone of my hip. Deep shadows formed in the concave formation of my hips, shadows that led into my underwear, the elastic waist forming a smooth line from one side of my waist to the other.
Although I thought I was fat, I was becoming aware. I hadn't quite gotten there but I was close. So close. I was beginning to realize I wasn't as big as I thought I was, that the shadows and protruding bones were evident of something my mind wouldn't allow me to understand, wouldn't allow me to believe.
I kept touching, exploring, realizing, becoming aware. The cool skin of my stomach was interrupted by jagged red lines, stretchmarks that scarred me from my shoulders to my inner thighs. Yeah, no matter how much weight I lost, they'd always be there. A reminder of my gluttony. Another thing to be ashamed of. And suddenly, the awareness was gone and I was still fat and stretched out and ruined. I'd never be smooth. I'd never be flat. I'd never be good enough.
Just like that, I lost whatever it was I was so close to finding.
And through the years, through the binge eating and consistent weight gain, it was my body going through the changes but I wasn't aware of it, didn't realize how big I was, didn't realize what I felt like. You'd think because it was my body, I would at least have some kind of awareness about what was going on with it. But that's how out of touch I was with myself. I had ignored the problem for so long, choosing not to touch or even look at myself, just masking the problem, literally covering it up with clothing. If I didn't have to see it, I didn't have to worry about it.
And I wasn't just out of touch with my physical body. Obviously, I had to be out of touch in other ways to ignore and/or be so unconscious of the changes.
So, how do I fix it? How do I become in tune with myself, with my mind and my body? How do I get back inside myself and take an inventory of problems, both physical and mental? Does it start with a touch? Does it start with acceptance? Or does it start with a frustration, an admittance, a confession?
Do you ever look at yourself, really look at yourself? Do you ever realize that you are in your body? I know that sounds like an obvious statement but is it, really? There are times when I look at myself, examine myself and find flaws that fluster me. But this is my face and this is my body and I have to accept it. This is the only body I will ever have and this is what I was given to work with and it's scary sometimes.
I always wish I had a different body, different face, different hair and skin and eyes and teeth. And I can spend so much time wishing for things that I forget that I'll never have them (with the exception of plastic surgery which isn't likely for me). Like, this is it. These are my eyes, whether I like it or not. This is my jawline and my receding hairline and stretch-marked stomach and nipples and penis and fingers and lips and flat butt and freak lump in my throat and this is all that I have. This is mine, all that I will ever possess, no matter how I like it or don't like it or accept it or don't accept it. It's still all there, all mine for the taking or for the destroying.
But this is what other people see. My eyes and jawline and receding hairline, etc., define who I am to others. They look at me and that is how they identify me. That's what Brannon looks like. That is his body. That is his face. This is the vessel that I move around in, express myself in, communicate with others in. And it's surreal to me. This is it. It will never get better than this and it hurts because it's not very good to begin with.
But I can take myself out of myself and put my head somewhere else where I don't have to deal. I can eat away the shame and think about how I could look if I could just get myself together and it's a momentary comfort. I disconnect again, lie again. I can separate myself from my body and fantasize, dream, hope, envision something else.
And that will get me by for now.
When I entered college, I was the thinnest I had been in years. And it took me several years to get to that weight. Yet, I still thought I was fat. Did I still have a fat boy outlook on life? Could I not accept that I was no longer the chubby dude who could draw, as I was known as in high school? Was I so out of touch with myself that I didn't notice the way I was thinning out? What was I truly seeing when I was looking at my body? Was I seeing the physical or the fear?
When I graduated, I returned home and became depressed and ate to cope. And I gained all the lost weight back. Plus some. All the while, I still remained unaware. I lived in elastic sleep pants so any expansion went unnoticed. Yet, I looked in the mirror every day. How did I not see my face getting fuller? Was I out of touch with myself? Or was I just not wanting to see the changes? Was I denying myself, lying to myself yet again? Or maybe I was just too apathetic to deal so I looked but I didn't really look. I ignored. And I carried on.
It's just sad to look back and realize all those years I worked at losing the weight was ruined. All the calorie counting, the sacrifice, the working out and sweating and being frustrated, all gone. All wiped out. And I'm left where I began. I have a long, hard journey ahead of me to lose the weight all over again. It feels like such a waste of time, like I should have already conquered this, like this shouldn't even be an issue. I have so many other aspects of my life I need to figure out and weight shouldn't be one of them. But it is. But it always will be.
I can do it again. That is not the question. The question is how long can I make it last before I succumb to this sickness one more time? And how many times do I have left in me?
It's weird how we can lie to ourselves, how we can become estranged from our own bodies, minds, and souls. You'd think you would know yourself and know more about yourself than anyone else but that simply is not true. You are in your head every minute of the day and you have access to all that you know and believe yet you can still be disconnected from yourself, still not even know who you really are. It's kind of astounding, actually.
Once, I was who I was and then something happened and I wasn't who I was anymore. But I didn't know that. I lost myself, somewhere deep within my mind or soul or psyche or whatever. I became disconnected. Broken. And maybe that's how I lost my way. I wasn't whole and because of that, I veered off my path and ran right into a ditch. I've been stuck there ever since.
I've been working out ever since the first of the year. I get off work and all I want to do is eat a pizza and take a nap but I don't do that. I change out of my work clothes and pop in a workout DVD and get going. And I hate it. Every time. And I dread doing it and I never feel better afterward. I'm still waiting around for those alleged endorphins to kick in. But I keep going because I know I'm doing something good for myself, although it doesn't feel too good.
Usually I wear athletic pants to work out in because it makes me hotter and makes me sweat more. Helps get rid of some of that water weight. Plus, I just like to be covered up at all times. I'm painfully modest. But I recently split the pants right down the crotch
I never wear shorts. I don't own any shorts of any kind. I was surprised to find those shorts at the bottom of my chest of drawers. See, I always like to be covered. I'm a pant guy. If I weren't so hot-natured, I'd probably wear long-sleeved shirts all year round as well. But that's just not feasible as I am the human furnace. So, it was a strange feeling being bare below the knees. It was cool and comfortable but still strange. Foreign.
As I was on the floor stretching, I walked my hands up to my knees and felt my shins as I was trying to get to my toes. This is going to sound kind of lame but go with me on this. I felt my shins in a different way than I had before. Like, really feeling them. It wasn't like showering with the buffer of a bar of soap or scratching an itch through thick denim or plaid cotton. It was skin on skin, exploring what my legs felt like without all the other stuff getting in the way. And I realized that these were my legs. They felt cool despite the sweat I was working up. The skin was smooth and pale beneath the abundance of soft dark hair. My shin bone was rigid like a steel pipe beneath a slippery satin sheet. My calf muscles were pliable while at rest, hugged by a pad of fat, yet firm when I flexed them.
And I thought to myself, "Damn. This is my body. And I don't even really know what it feels like." And that's when I realized I couldn't even get to my toes because of the enormous layer of fat around my midsection that acted like a pillowy barrier. I recalled all those years ago when I first started seriously losing weight, how I could reach beyond my toes. I had become so inflexible and so fat all these years later and I could barely get to my ankle. And suddenly, everything started clicking. That was my bulbous stomach. That was my jiggly thighs, my doughy waist, a roll of fat between my stomach and chest, man breasts, thick arms and back fat. Hindering my movements. Hindering my life.
There was only one other time I can remember when I really looked at myself. Back when I was in college and at a decent weight, yet still thought I was fat, I can remember lying on my back on my bed. I was preparing for my afternoon nap when I looked down at myself and realized I could not only see my toes but my feet, legs and thighs. There was no mountain of meat distorting my view.
I lifted up my shirt to my chest and visually explored the landscape of pallid skin. My hip bones stuck out at each side of my waist and dipped inward, meeting the corners of my belly that sloped upward in a small pad of fat. Back then, I thought I was fat. I realize now that I was probably just slightly chubby. No where near as big as I am now. I massaged my belly and ran my fingers along the hard bone of my hip. Deep shadows formed in the concave formation of my hips, shadows that led into my underwear, the elastic waist forming a smooth line from one side of my waist to the other.
Although I thought I was fat, I was becoming aware. I hadn't quite gotten there but I was close. So close. I was beginning to realize I wasn't as big as I thought I was, that the shadows and protruding bones were evident of something my mind wouldn't allow me to understand, wouldn't allow me to believe.
I kept touching, exploring, realizing, becoming aware. The cool skin of my stomach was interrupted by jagged red lines, stretchmarks that scarred me from my shoulders to my inner thighs. Yeah, no matter how much weight I lost, they'd always be there. A reminder of my gluttony. Another thing to be ashamed of. And suddenly, the awareness was gone and I was still fat and stretched out and ruined. I'd never be smooth. I'd never be flat. I'd never be good enough.
Just like that, I lost whatever it was I was so close to finding.
And through the years, through the binge eating and consistent weight gain, it was my body going through the changes but I wasn't aware of it, didn't realize how big I was, didn't realize what I felt like. You'd think because it was my body, I would at least have some kind of awareness about what was going on with it. But that's how out of touch I was with myself. I had ignored the problem for so long, choosing not to touch or even look at myself, just masking the problem, literally covering it up with clothing. If I didn't have to see it, I didn't have to worry about it.
And I wasn't just out of touch with my physical body. Obviously, I had to be out of touch in other ways to ignore and/or be so unconscious of the changes.
So, how do I fix it? How do I become in tune with myself, with my mind and my body? How do I get back inside myself and take an inventory of problems, both physical and mental? Does it start with a touch? Does it start with acceptance? Or does it start with a frustration, an admittance, a confession?
Do you ever look at yourself, really look at yourself? Do you ever realize that you are in your body? I know that sounds like an obvious statement but is it, really? There are times when I look at myself, examine myself and find flaws that fluster me. But this is my face and this is my body and I have to accept it. This is the only body I will ever have and this is what I was given to work with and it's scary sometimes.
I always wish I had a different body, different face, different hair and skin and eyes and teeth. And I can spend so much time wishing for things that I forget that I'll never have them (with the exception of plastic surgery which isn't likely for me). Like, this is it. These are my eyes, whether I like it or not. This is my jawline and my receding hairline and stretch-marked stomach and nipples and penis and fingers and lips and flat butt and freak lump in my throat and this is all that I have. This is mine, all that I will ever possess, no matter how I like it or don't like it or accept it or don't accept it. It's still all there, all mine for the taking or for the destroying.
But this is what other people see. My eyes and jawline and receding hairline, etc., define who I am to others. They look at me and that is how they identify me. That's what Brannon looks like. That is his body. That is his face. This is the vessel that I move around in, express myself in, communicate with others in. And it's surreal to me. This is it. It will never get better than this and it hurts because it's not very good to begin with.
But I can take myself out of myself and put my head somewhere else where I don't have to deal. I can eat away the shame and think about how I could look if I could just get myself together and it's a momentary comfort. I disconnect again, lie again. I can separate myself from my body and fantasize, dream, hope, envision something else.
And that will get me by for now.
Friday, January 6, 2012
depriving depravity
"I was like the wild animals in my Homes and Habitats of Wild Animals
book who spent their lives hunting down other animals and eating them
raw. Nobody much liked me, I thought, because they sensed that I wanted
to bite into their bare arms and bare cheeks and rip off chunks of them
and chew and chew and swallow. I wanted to eat them not because they
looked particularly tasty or even because I was hungry, but because I
was empty and I needed to feel full."
-Fat Girl by Judith Moore
After all of these years of struggling with my weight and writing about it and thinking about why I am the way that I am when it comes to food, I am still such a mess. As much as I feel I have learned a lot and have come a long way in my struggle, I still keep losing out to food. Maybe I don't know as much as I think I do or maybe I know enough but I'm just not strong enough to face it.
I already know that I'm a stress eater. I already know that I use food to comfort me when I'm sad. I use food to celebrate when I'm happy. I'm a glutton. I'm a carbaholic. I like sweets and sweets like me. Food is the only thing in my existence that makes me happy. God doesn't make me happy. People don't make me happy. Writing, painting, drawing doesn't make me happy. But food does. Every. Time.
Food is my comfort. It's my crush. I'm in love with food. I think about it constantly. I crave the textures and smells and spicy zing. I'm in love with the process of biting and slurping and chewing and swallowing. It fills me up inside in a way that nothing else can. It's an event. It's an experience. It lowers my blood pressure and temporarily distracts from the hate that boils away inside me. It's calming. It's soothing. It's destroying me in the best way.
Food always answers me when I call. It never disappoints me. Maybe I just can't deal with people like I can with food. People are fallible. Food is immaculate. Maybe I'm playing the victim and making food my savior. But it's so much easier, isn't it? Especially because the people I cared about the most, the ones I thought would be around, left me. Left me for reasons I'll never know. Left me for other people. I was a penis placeholder until someone better came along. I feel pretty abandoned and it's something that I've struggled with for a long time. The why. The not being able to understand how everything went down the way it did. But food can't leave me like that. It's always there to listen and make me feel better. It fills those spaces that people left behind.
But food isn't all that great. Food has caused me to gain a significant amount of weight since my college graduation in 2009. I don't want to go anywhere or see anyone because I feel I look disgusting. I don't want to see old high school acquaintances because I don't want them to think I was just another classmate that got fat over the years. I hate that they missed all the weight I lost after high school, how I looked decent and thin for about three years before I came home and put all the weight right back on.
I hate myself for getting this way. But I hated myself before it even happened. Which is why I ate. And now I eat to not hate myself so much. And that's how people get trapped in that cycle of pain and self-soothing. I've realized I've caught my sleeve in some machinery and I can't wriggle myself free.
I've become lazy. I feel like I've come pretty close to pinpointing my problems with food and people and myself but I just don't feel I have the energy to deal with it. It's just so much easier to grab food instead of legitimately dealing with what's going on. I don't want to deal with the fact that I'm a college graduate working in a shitty retail store. I don't want to deal with the fact that I'm one hundred grand in student loan debt. I don't want to deal with the fact that I have never had a meaningful relationship in my life. I don't want to deal with the fact that my Christianity is hanging on by a thread. I don't want to deal with the fact that I have no idea what I want to do with my life because the things I thought I was passionate about don't mean anything to me anymore. I don't want to deal with the fact that I'm fat. Maybe my mind can't handle it, can't comprehend the crap heap I've gotten myself into. So I ignore it with food.
I try not to eat so much but I've become so accustomed to this lifestyle of funneling food in every second that if I'm not eating, my body responds. I get flushed and nervous. And I tell myself that it's no big deal, that I'm just cutting back. I'm not giving up food forever. I'm just not going to eat as much. But my body doesn't believe me. I get anxious. I try to ignore it, to focus on other things but my brain gets busy and it stirs up thoughts of eating until I literally can't concentrate on anything else but the fridge.
EAT EAT EAT EAT EAT EAT EAT it tells me. It fills my head and consumes my concentration until I bust into the kitchen to soothe the sirens that blare incessantly. I give in one more time, give it what it wants, and wait for the temporary feeling of euphoria wash over me.
And then the inevitable crash. The hatred. The loathing. The sadness that sweeps in and takes over my body until I hear the EAT EAT EAT EAT EAT EAT EAT EAT again.
It'll make you feel better. You won't be nervous. It feels good. It feels right. Do it. Do it. Do it.
I don't mean to downplay the significance of an actual addiction but in some ways, I do feel like I'm addicted to food. It might be more of a psychological dependence than a physical one or maybe I'm just dependent on the way food makes me feel rather than the substances themselves but it's all I can think about. I wake up to breakfast and wait out the hours until it's time for lunch and do the same until dinner and go to bed thinking about breakfast again.
And then there's the snacking and the indulgent sweets and the high that I get from eating them. And just like an addict, the one snack high wears away after a while and then I have to have two, and then three, and then that's not enough and I have to keep eating to sustain any form of anesthetization.
I've tried replacing food with some other form of stress relief. Yoga. Meditation. Writing. Drawing. Listening to music. Petting a cat. Nothing does what food does for me. Nothing feels as good or as fulfilling as eating.
Most people treat food as fuel but I treat food as a friend. I know I have a tendency to personify objects. Not just stuffed animals but televisions and bedding. I create personal attachments to inanimate objects without thinking anything of it so is it that much of a stretch to think I would personify food as well? To think of food as an actual something that I can see and talk to and touch?
Maybe the reason I can't stop eating is because I'd feel like I was leaving the only friend I ever had, the only person who made me feel good inside. The only one who never left me. I wouldn't want to leave the way I've been left. I wouldn't want to turn my back on food.
Or maybe I just don't want to give up the one thing I feel like I have left. If eating is the only thing that makes me happy and I give up my favorite indulgent foods, what do I have? Nothing. And how would that make me feel? Devastated. Angry. Impossible to handle. I'm already on the verge of snapping at everyone and if I can't self-soothe with food, I might just blow up on someone or find life even more unbearable than I already do. I don't want to deprive myself because it's too hard but I know I have to because it's also too hard being in this body.
I feel like I can't control it. There's just something inside that clicks. All of a sudden, I get it and I can diet and deal with it and lose the weight. And then whatever it is that keeps me in control goes away and all progress is lost. I've lost weight before and I can do it again. I just have to wait for the click. I can feel it coming. I can do this.
I just have to stop self-sabotaging.
-Fat Girl by Judith Moore
After all of these years of struggling with my weight and writing about it and thinking about why I am the way that I am when it comes to food, I am still such a mess. As much as I feel I have learned a lot and have come a long way in my struggle, I still keep losing out to food. Maybe I don't know as much as I think I do or maybe I know enough but I'm just not strong enough to face it.
I already know that I'm a stress eater. I already know that I use food to comfort me when I'm sad. I use food to celebrate when I'm happy. I'm a glutton. I'm a carbaholic. I like sweets and sweets like me. Food is the only thing in my existence that makes me happy. God doesn't make me happy. People don't make me happy. Writing, painting, drawing doesn't make me happy. But food does. Every. Time.
Food is my comfort. It's my crush. I'm in love with food. I think about it constantly. I crave the textures and smells and spicy zing. I'm in love with the process of biting and slurping and chewing and swallowing. It fills me up inside in a way that nothing else can. It's an event. It's an experience. It lowers my blood pressure and temporarily distracts from the hate that boils away inside me. It's calming. It's soothing. It's destroying me in the best way.
Food always answers me when I call. It never disappoints me. Maybe I just can't deal with people like I can with food. People are fallible. Food is immaculate. Maybe I'm playing the victim and making food my savior. But it's so much easier, isn't it? Especially because the people I cared about the most, the ones I thought would be around, left me. Left me for reasons I'll never know. Left me for other people. I was a penis placeholder until someone better came along. I feel pretty abandoned and it's something that I've struggled with for a long time. The why. The not being able to understand how everything went down the way it did. But food can't leave me like that. It's always there to listen and make me feel better. It fills those spaces that people left behind.
But food isn't all that great. Food has caused me to gain a significant amount of weight since my college graduation in 2009. I don't want to go anywhere or see anyone because I feel I look disgusting. I don't want to see old high school acquaintances because I don't want them to think I was just another classmate that got fat over the years. I hate that they missed all the weight I lost after high school, how I looked decent and thin for about three years before I came home and put all the weight right back on.
I hate myself for getting this way. But I hated myself before it even happened. Which is why I ate. And now I eat to not hate myself so much. And that's how people get trapped in that cycle of pain and self-soothing. I've realized I've caught my sleeve in some machinery and I can't wriggle myself free.
I've become lazy. I feel like I've come pretty close to pinpointing my problems with food and people and myself but I just don't feel I have the energy to deal with it. It's just so much easier to grab food instead of legitimately dealing with what's going on. I don't want to deal with the fact that I'm a college graduate working in a shitty retail store. I don't want to deal with the fact that I'm one hundred grand in student loan debt. I don't want to deal with the fact that I have never had a meaningful relationship in my life. I don't want to deal with the fact that my Christianity is hanging on by a thread. I don't want to deal with the fact that I have no idea what I want to do with my life because the things I thought I was passionate about don't mean anything to me anymore. I don't want to deal with the fact that I'm fat. Maybe my mind can't handle it, can't comprehend the crap heap I've gotten myself into. So I ignore it with food.
I try not to eat so much but I've become so accustomed to this lifestyle of funneling food in every second that if I'm not eating, my body responds. I get flushed and nervous. And I tell myself that it's no big deal, that I'm just cutting back. I'm not giving up food forever. I'm just not going to eat as much. But my body doesn't believe me. I get anxious. I try to ignore it, to focus on other things but my brain gets busy and it stirs up thoughts of eating until I literally can't concentrate on anything else but the fridge.
EAT EAT EAT EAT EAT EAT EAT it tells me. It fills my head and consumes my concentration until I bust into the kitchen to soothe the sirens that blare incessantly. I give in one more time, give it what it wants, and wait for the temporary feeling of euphoria wash over me.
And then the inevitable crash. The hatred. The loathing. The sadness that sweeps in and takes over my body until I hear the EAT EAT EAT EAT EAT EAT EAT EAT again.
It'll make you feel better. You won't be nervous. It feels good. It feels right. Do it. Do it. Do it.
I don't mean to downplay the significance of an actual addiction but in some ways, I do feel like I'm addicted to food. It might be more of a psychological dependence than a physical one or maybe I'm just dependent on the way food makes me feel rather than the substances themselves but it's all I can think about. I wake up to breakfast and wait out the hours until it's time for lunch and do the same until dinner and go to bed thinking about breakfast again.
And then there's the snacking and the indulgent sweets and the high that I get from eating them. And just like an addict, the one snack high wears away after a while and then I have to have two, and then three, and then that's not enough and I have to keep eating to sustain any form of anesthetization.
I've tried replacing food with some other form of stress relief. Yoga. Meditation. Writing. Drawing. Listening to music. Petting a cat. Nothing does what food does for me. Nothing feels as good or as fulfilling as eating.
Most people treat food as fuel but I treat food as a friend. I know I have a tendency to personify objects. Not just stuffed animals but televisions and bedding. I create personal attachments to inanimate objects without thinking anything of it so is it that much of a stretch to think I would personify food as well? To think of food as an actual something that I can see and talk to and touch?
Maybe the reason I can't stop eating is because I'd feel like I was leaving the only friend I ever had, the only person who made me feel good inside. The only one who never left me. I wouldn't want to leave the way I've been left. I wouldn't want to turn my back on food.
Or maybe I just don't want to give up the one thing I feel like I have left. If eating is the only thing that makes me happy and I give up my favorite indulgent foods, what do I have? Nothing. And how would that make me feel? Devastated. Angry. Impossible to handle. I'm already on the verge of snapping at everyone and if I can't self-soothe with food, I might just blow up on someone or find life even more unbearable than I already do. I don't want to deprive myself because it's too hard but I know I have to because it's also too hard being in this body.
I feel like I can't control it. There's just something inside that clicks. All of a sudden, I get it and I can diet and deal with it and lose the weight. And then whatever it is that keeps me in control goes away and all progress is lost. I've lost weight before and I can do it again. I just have to wait for the click. I can feel it coming. I can do this.
I just have to stop self-sabotaging.
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
job prospect paralysis, part IV
Aboot a couple of months ago, there was an opening at a local company and you know I jumped all over that. Even better, I finally had connections. A former co-worker works there now and she said she'd put in a good word for me. My current co-worker's husband knows people there. She said he'd put in a good word for me. My dad knows people who work there so he got them to put in a good word for me. Another co-worker's mother works there and I asked her to put in a good word for me.
I had a lot of people on this.
I was pretty excited because the job requirements didn't seem like anything too drastic and I knew people. I felt better about that job prospect than many I had before it so that was a nice feeling.
I turned in my application and never heard anything back.
I was slightly bummed until one of the girls I work with said her mom told her they wouldn't be doing any new hiring until the craziness of Christmas was over. That relieved me and I didn't think too much more about it (except for when the frequent rude customer came in and pissed me off, rekindling my fantasies of quitting and starting the new one).
For a good month, I tried not to get too excited but at the same time I knew I had at least earned an interview. My resume was good. I had good references and a lot of inside people. Obviously, it was all up to me to sell myself during the interview but I felt confident that I could do it. I allowed myself the occasional fantasy of being able to resign from my old job, get the new one, have nice benefits and vacation days and not have to deal with the public.
The timing felt right, too. Near year, new job. Possibilities. I could see the doors opening. There was a lot of prayer and a good amount of hope and a bit of dreaming, too.
Couple of days before Christmas, one of my coworkers told me someone else had gotten the job. Boom. Just like that. Didn't even get an interview. That month of anticipation fizzled away in seconds. I was pretty disappointed. But I didn't have time to let it set in because I still had the Christmas rush to deal with. I silently swore, suited up, and carried on. I didn't have the time or energy to be annoyed because I had already reserved that feeling for the rude and smelly customers who waddled through my department.
And speaking of my department, my boss still hasn't told me what's going to happen to me in March, although a lot of other department supervisors have been informed. Pretty sure he's going to wait until maybe a week before he screws me over to tell me.
I have to say, whatever higher power in the universe and/or beyond is screwing with me is getting really good. It sucked enough not to even get to the interview stage but it made it all the more miserable for me to have to dwell on possibly getting it. I have to laugh.
All these paper cuts are really adding up.
And I love it.
The pain, the disappointment, the rage feels so good at this point. It just proves what I've been saying and feeling all along. My life is so predictably shit that I can call it now. It's confirmation. It's recognition. It's acceptance.
It's just making it easier for when I decide to disengage.
I had a lot of people on this.
I was pretty excited because the job requirements didn't seem like anything too drastic and I knew people. I felt better about that job prospect than many I had before it so that was a nice feeling.
I turned in my application and never heard anything back.
I was slightly bummed until one of the girls I work with said her mom told her they wouldn't be doing any new hiring until the craziness of Christmas was over. That relieved me and I didn't think too much more about it (except for when the frequent rude customer came in and pissed me off, rekindling my fantasies of quitting and starting the new one).
For a good month, I tried not to get too excited but at the same time I knew I had at least earned an interview. My resume was good. I had good references and a lot of inside people. Obviously, it was all up to me to sell myself during the interview but I felt confident that I could do it. I allowed myself the occasional fantasy of being able to resign from my old job, get the new one, have nice benefits and vacation days and not have to deal with the public.
The timing felt right, too. Near year, new job. Possibilities. I could see the doors opening. There was a lot of prayer and a good amount of hope and a bit of dreaming, too.
Couple of days before Christmas, one of my coworkers told me someone else had gotten the job. Boom. Just like that. Didn't even get an interview. That month of anticipation fizzled away in seconds. I was pretty disappointed. But I didn't have time to let it set in because I still had the Christmas rush to deal with. I silently swore, suited up, and carried on. I didn't have the time or energy to be annoyed because I had already reserved that feeling for the rude and smelly customers who waddled through my department.
And speaking of my department, my boss still hasn't told me what's going to happen to me in March, although a lot of other department supervisors have been informed. Pretty sure he's going to wait until maybe a week before he screws me over to tell me.
I have to say, whatever higher power in the universe and/or beyond is screwing with me is getting really good. It sucked enough not to even get to the interview stage but it made it all the more miserable for me to have to dwell on possibly getting it. I have to laugh.
All these paper cuts are really adding up.
And I love it.
The pain, the disappointment, the rage feels so good at this point. It just proves what I've been saying and feeling all along. My life is so predictably shit that I can call it now. It's confirmation. It's recognition. It's acceptance.
It's just making it easier for when I decide to disengage.
Thursday, December 29, 2011
2011 book/movie list
I've kind of
started a tradition that at the beginning of the year, I list all the
books I read and movies I watched during the previous year. I have a
terrible time trying to remember what books I've read and what movies
I've seen so I thought this might help. Even reading through this list,
I couldn't remember reading or watching some of this stuff. I need to
lay off the aspartame.
Book List 2011
Book List 2011
January
The Twilight Saga: Breaking Dawn by Stephenie Meyer (3.5/5)
February
How to Write Horror by Horror Writers Association and Mort Castle (3/5)
March
The Joke That We Play on the World by Joshua S. Porter (4/5)
Die Softly by Christopher Pike (3.5/5)
Chain Letter by Christopher Pike (4/5)
The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath (3.5/5)
April
Hater by David Moody (3/5)
The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger (1/5)
The Road by Cormac McCarthy (3.5/5)
Let the Right One In by John Ajvide Lindqvist (4.5/5)
May
Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone by J.K. Rowling
(3.5/5)
Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets by J.K. Rowling
(4/5)
It Gave me a Name by Marquis of Cups (3.5/5)
Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban by J.K. Rowling (4/5)
June
Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire by J.K. Rowling (4.5/5)
July
Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix by J.K. Rowling (4/5)
Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince by J.K. Rowling (3.5/5)
Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows by J.K. Rowling (4/5)
August
On a Forty Year Drunk by Robert E. Black (1.5/5)
Heart-Shaped Box by Joe Hill (2/5)
Horns by Joe Hill (4.5/5)
September
I am Not a Serial Killer by Dan Wells (3.5/5)
Mr. Monster by Dan Wells (3.5/5)
I Don’t Want to Kill You by Dan Wells (3.5/5)
Will Storr vs. the Supernatural by Will Storr (2.5/5)
October
The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins (3.5/5)
November
Catching Fire by Suzanne Collins (3.5/5)
December
Bag of Bones by Stephen King (only made it halfway through this one so no rating applies)
Obviously, things started slowing down in October. I don't know what happened other than just being burned out on reading, trying to work on writing my own book and hating my job/life/self. But I surpassed my goal of reading twenty-four books so that makes me feel pretty good. I hope I can keep it up this year as well. Even if I don't read a ton of books, as long as I'm continually reading something, I think I'll be satisfied with that.
Obviously, things started slowing down in October. I don't know what happened other than just being burned out on reading, trying to work on writing my own book and hating my job/life/self. But I surpassed my goal of reading twenty-four books so that makes me feel pretty good. I hope I can keep it up this year as well. Even if I don't read a ton of books, as long as I'm continually reading something, I think I'll be satisfied with that.
Movie List 2011
January
Hellboy II: The Golden Army (TV) (3.5/5)
The Wild and Wonderful Whites of West Virginia (4/5)
Red Without Blue (3/5)
The Twilight Saga: Eclipse (3/5)
Vampires Suck (2.5/5)
Resident Evil: Afterlife (4/5)
February
Catfish (3.5/5)
The Last Exorcism (2.5/5)
Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind (3.5/5)
Laughing Matters (1.5/5)
Triangle (4/5)
March
Hellion: The Devil’s Playground (1.5/5)
Bad Biology (2/5)
Devil (2/5)
Pi (2.5/5)
Once (3.5/5)
Battle Royale (4/5)
April
Scott Pilgrim vs. The World (4/5)
Children of Men (3.5/5)
The Road (3.5/5)
Eater Bunny, Kill! Kill! (2.5/5)
Nine Dead (3/5)
The Ghouls (2.5/5)
The Seamstress (TV) (2/5)
Gutterballs (4/5)
May
Let the Right One In (4/5)
Let Me In (4/5)
I Spit on Your Grave (2010) (3.5/5)
Black Swan (4/5)
Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone (3/5)
Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets (3.5/5)
June
Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban (4/5)
Sex and the City 2 (3/5)
The Horde (2.5/5)
Dead Air (2.5/5)
Paranormal Activity 2 (1/5)
Machete (1.5/5)
Mutants (2.5/5)
Quarantine (3.5/5)
Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire (4/5)
July
Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix (3.5/5)
Flight of the Living Dead (2/5)
Insidious (3/5)
Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince (4/5)
Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Part 1 (4/5)
Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Part 2 (4.5/5)
August
True Blood: Season 3 (4/5)
My Soul to Take (2.5/5)
Hell Hath No Fury (1/5)
It’s Kind of a Funny Story (2.5/5)
September
The Vampire Diaries Season 2 (4.5/5)
October
Can you believe I didn't watch any movies in October? It's like that month is made for me, especially with my penchant for horror movies. Unfortunately, I didn't know of any television channels that played any really good scary movies. There was the obligatory Halloween movie marathon, which I did browse but I didn't watch any of the movies all the way through to warrant including them in the list.
Can you believe I didn't watch any movies in October? It's like that month is made for me, especially with my penchant for horror movies. Unfortunately, I didn't know of any television channels that played any really good scary movies. There was the obligatory Halloween movie marathon, which I did browse but I didn't watch any of the movies all the way through to warrant including them in the list.
November
Bridesmaids
(3.5/5)
Scream 4 (3/5)
December
Twilight Saga: Breaking Dawn Part 1 (3.5/5)
Thursday, December 22, 2011
twenty-six degrees of separation
"I am the lowest thing. I am the bottom of the universe."
-Warm Bodies by Isaac Marion
Last Friday night, yeah, we danced on tabletops and we took too many shots, think we kissed but I forgot...um, I mean I just had a birthday dinner with a high school acquaintance. Our birthdays are two days apart and so it seemed appropriate to have a meal to celebrate at least one of our births. The meal was enjoyable and mine was free because earlier in the day my supervisor gave me a gift card to the very restaurant we went to.
And then when we were done, we went to a funky yogurt shop with pastel striped walls and do-it-yourself yogurt assembly. And I got hit on by the guy at the counter, some college-age kid with swooped hair and an hoop through his upper left ear. Although he was a dude, it still felt kind of nice to have someone show some kind of interest in me. It's been a while. Damn, I've really reached a new level of lameness. But the yogurt was good.
Saturday, I went Christmas shopping for my family. I spent nine hours at the mall and various other retail stores. It was kind of nice being off on my own, venturing out of the same four walls and the same arrangement of furniture and forlornness. It was also weird, uncomfortable. I've wallowed in my own world for so long that it felt uneasy to stretch myself past my perimeter. Usually, when I have a day off work, I just want to stay at home. Going out and doing things makes the time pass by faster, which means work comes sooner. When I'm at home, the hours go by slower, allowing me to savor the reprieve just a little bit longer. It's sad that I dislike my job so much I'm willing to sacrifice a social life in favor of feeling a prolonged sense of time away from work.
The drive was relaxing, however. An hour or so of smooth movement, singing at the top of my lungs and distancing myself from the damage of being at home and surrounded by damaging people. I was in my own world in my car, the only place I felt safe back at school when things got tough. It was my tank, my asylum, my music player and motivational speaker, my confessional, my best friend.
Eventually, the urge to use the bathroom got the best of me. As much as I tried to ignore it, I really needed to go. I went from place to place, resisting the urge to pee at every stop, wondering where I could go and find a semi-private bathroom where I wouldn't be walked in on and have my urine flow suddenly stunted. I'm pee shy.
As I walked around the mall, I felt like a lot of people were looking at me. I don't know if it was because of my usual paranoia or if there was a legitimate reason. I was sweating pretty heavily. It was cold outside so I wore a hoodie but inside each building, it was sweltering. It probably didn't help that every place I went to was crowded with late shoppers. The combination of my natural production of internal heat coupled with rowdy bodies bustling around was enough to drum up plenty of warmth. Or were they looking at me because I was sloppily dressed due to the fact that my fluctuating weight won't allow for well-fitting clothing or if it was because I was so pale and shiny or if I was just an all together awkward arrangement of face, flesh, and bodily structure.
I stopped by and looked at all the store mannequins, perfectly sculpted, clothed, and posed. I looked over the layered fabrics stretched across the headless torsos and liked what I saw. I realized I still didn't know how to dress myself. I never would have put all that stuff together but I could recognize when something worked. It was like art and writing. I didn't know how to make beautiful art or construct beautiful words and stories but I could recognize when it worked. But I imagined putting those clothes on myself and realized it wouldn't work. They were thin and hard-bodied models and anything looked good on them. But when you get to a certain size, no matter how fashionable the clothing is, it just doesn't look right. There's too much fabric, too little structure.
But we weren't all that different, the mannequins and I. We were both pale and plastic pieces of nothing. They were just dressed better.
Surprisingly, I didn't think about buying too much for myself. I felt too fat to buy clothing and there wasn't really anything else that interested me. I had enough electronics and music and hair gel. I did walk into a bookstore, though, and want to buy up every book I came in contact with. I can never shake the feeling of wanting my writing to belong to a book store, to walk along the aisles and be able to pluck my book out of one of the shelves. It was an empty kind of comfort, a nice feeling to revel in if only for a moment. A boy can dream.
My actual birthday was on Sunday and I didn't do anything. I was tired from the long day before and just wanted to ring in my twenty-sixth in a sloth-like manner. I think I accomplished that.
It was actually a pretty decent birthday. The only sad part was realizing I was another year older and hadn't accomplished anything. Physically, I get older but I'm still the same in every other aspect. Same job. Same lack of balance and faith and connectivity. Still haven't lost that weight or written that book or found anyone or anything to make me feel alive again. I still feel dead.
Happy birthday, you breathless body. Merry Christmas, you corpse.
I can wish for things to be better in the new year. I can try to make things better in the new year but if there was something I could do, wouldn't I have done it by now? So, where does that leave me for my twenty-sixth year on this planet? I've already wished and tried to make things better and it hasn't seemed to work out so I guess I have no other option than to just coast. But isn't that what I've been doing all this time? I've make a couple of feeble attempts at happiness, a stab or two at serenity but mostly I'm just too tired to try.
I think I'll just read a lot of books and watch a lot of crappy horror movies and wait for it all to be over.
-Warm Bodies by Isaac Marion
Last Friday night, yeah, we danced on tabletops and we took too many shots, think we kissed but I forgot...um, I mean I just had a birthday dinner with a high school acquaintance. Our birthdays are two days apart and so it seemed appropriate to have a meal to celebrate at least one of our births. The meal was enjoyable and mine was free because earlier in the day my supervisor gave me a gift card to the very restaurant we went to.
And then when we were done, we went to a funky yogurt shop with pastel striped walls and do-it-yourself yogurt assembly. And I got hit on by the guy at the counter, some college-age kid with swooped hair and an hoop through his upper left ear. Although he was a dude, it still felt kind of nice to have someone show some kind of interest in me. It's been a while. Damn, I've really reached a new level of lameness. But the yogurt was good.
Saturday, I went Christmas shopping for my family. I spent nine hours at the mall and various other retail stores. It was kind of nice being off on my own, venturing out of the same four walls and the same arrangement of furniture and forlornness. It was also weird, uncomfortable. I've wallowed in my own world for so long that it felt uneasy to stretch myself past my perimeter. Usually, when I have a day off work, I just want to stay at home. Going out and doing things makes the time pass by faster, which means work comes sooner. When I'm at home, the hours go by slower, allowing me to savor the reprieve just a little bit longer. It's sad that I dislike my job so much I'm willing to sacrifice a social life in favor of feeling a prolonged sense of time away from work.
The drive was relaxing, however. An hour or so of smooth movement, singing at the top of my lungs and distancing myself from the damage of being at home and surrounded by damaging people. I was in my own world in my car, the only place I felt safe back at school when things got tough. It was my tank, my asylum, my music player and motivational speaker, my confessional, my best friend.
Eventually, the urge to use the bathroom got the best of me. As much as I tried to ignore it, I really needed to go. I went from place to place, resisting the urge to pee at every stop, wondering where I could go and find a semi-private bathroom where I wouldn't be walked in on and have my urine flow suddenly stunted. I'm pee shy.
As I walked around the mall, I felt like a lot of people were looking at me. I don't know if it was because of my usual paranoia or if there was a legitimate reason. I was sweating pretty heavily. It was cold outside so I wore a hoodie but inside each building, it was sweltering. It probably didn't help that every place I went to was crowded with late shoppers. The combination of my natural production of internal heat coupled with rowdy bodies bustling around was enough to drum up plenty of warmth. Or were they looking at me because I was sloppily dressed due to the fact that my fluctuating weight won't allow for well-fitting clothing or if it was because I was so pale and shiny or if I was just an all together awkward arrangement of face, flesh, and bodily structure.
I stopped by and looked at all the store mannequins, perfectly sculpted, clothed, and posed. I looked over the layered fabrics stretched across the headless torsos and liked what I saw. I realized I still didn't know how to dress myself. I never would have put all that stuff together but I could recognize when something worked. It was like art and writing. I didn't know how to make beautiful art or construct beautiful words and stories but I could recognize when it worked. But I imagined putting those clothes on myself and realized it wouldn't work. They were thin and hard-bodied models and anything looked good on them. But when you get to a certain size, no matter how fashionable the clothing is, it just doesn't look right. There's too much fabric, too little structure.
But we weren't all that different, the mannequins and I. We were both pale and plastic pieces of nothing. They were just dressed better.
Surprisingly, I didn't think about buying too much for myself. I felt too fat to buy clothing and there wasn't really anything else that interested me. I had enough electronics and music and hair gel. I did walk into a bookstore, though, and want to buy up every book I came in contact with. I can never shake the feeling of wanting my writing to belong to a book store, to walk along the aisles and be able to pluck my book out of one of the shelves. It was an empty kind of comfort, a nice feeling to revel in if only for a moment. A boy can dream.
My actual birthday was on Sunday and I didn't do anything. I was tired from the long day before and just wanted to ring in my twenty-sixth in a sloth-like manner. I think I accomplished that.
It was actually a pretty decent birthday. The only sad part was realizing I was another year older and hadn't accomplished anything. Physically, I get older but I'm still the same in every other aspect. Same job. Same lack of balance and faith and connectivity. Still haven't lost that weight or written that book or found anyone or anything to make me feel alive again. I still feel dead.
Happy birthday, you breathless body. Merry Christmas, you corpse.
I can wish for things to be better in the new year. I can try to make things better in the new year but if there was something I could do, wouldn't I have done it by now? So, where does that leave me for my twenty-sixth year on this planet? I've already wished and tried to make things better and it hasn't seemed to work out so I guess I have no other option than to just coast. But isn't that what I've been doing all this time? I've make a couple of feeble attempts at happiness, a stab or two at serenity but mostly I'm just too tired to try.
I think I'll just read a lot of books and watch a lot of crappy horror movies and wait for it all to be over.
Saturday, November 19, 2011
identity
"Most of the men and women in whom Momoulian had placed his trust had
betrayed him. The pattern had repeated itself so often down the decades
that he was sure he would one day become hardened to the pain such
betrayals caused. But he never achieved such precious indifference.
The cruelty of other people- their callous usage of him- never failed to
wound him, and though he had extended his charitable hand to all manner
of crippled psyches, such ingratitude was unforgivable."
- Clive Barker, The Damnation Game
When I put off writing, the pressure builds up inside me until I feel like my brain is going to explode. The world is knotted up inside my head, pulsing to try to untangle itself but it only manages to strengthen the stranglehold on me. It feels a lot like going on a diet. When I can't eat, I get irritable, angry and confused. After a period of deprivation, the cravings become too much for me to handle and I want to eat everything in sight.
It's the same way with writing. I crave writing. It's another form of nourishment for me. Writing is another feel good food. But when I can't write (or am too lazy), I start feeling deprived again and just like I want to eat everything I can get my hands on, I want to write about whatever pops into my head, from the mundane (which toothpaste is best?) to the profound (what, who, and where is God?).
And when I'm actually able to write, the world finds a way to uncoil itself, it's tendrils stretching out in all directions like inky black octopus arms, writhing to get my attention, yearning to be written about. All the small stuff, all the large stuff gets trapped inside and I feel like I can't properly let it go unless I get it all out.
It's usually not too bad when I'm good about writing but lately, I haven't been doing well at all. I'm exhausted from work and when I get home, I just want to watch a dumb horror movie, eat a pizza and then go to sleep. When I'm at work, frustrated with customers and fellow associates, my mind buzzes with subject matter. The words flow freely from a cut sliced open in my brain but by the time I reach the safety of my bedroom, the cut has sealed itself shut for another day. The tendrils collect themselves into a tangled ball again and I can't get anything to come out properly. But, I've noticed there have been a few limbs that have managed to remain free from the swirling mess inside my mind, recurring themes in my thought process that continue to hang down around my heart and squeeze: food, work, my aspirations and people, specifically the broken connections with people that are still scabbing over.
I can't seem to let go of all the people who let go of me. Especially those who made me feel good. I don't get many people who can do that for me so when they do come around, I get attached to them, probably too quickly. They made me feel good, like I mattered. And then they quite literally vanished. Gone and away without a word of warning. The worst part is it wouldn't even hurt that much if these people had not specifically told me they would be the ones to stick around.
I don't think anyone left me on purpose. I don't think anyone meant to hurt me. But they still did. They hurt me more than they will ever know, especially because I'll never tell them. The reason being is because, as I mentioned, they didn't mean to hurt me so why should I hurt them by telling them that they basically destroyed me? I'm not sure that would benefit anyone. It might benefit me in the short-term, to let all the anger out on them, to tell them how much they screwed me up. It feels unfair to let these people go unaware of the pain they caused.
But it also feels vindictive, like I'm being spiteful to tell them such things. I'd like to think I'd want to know if I hurt someone, especially if it was unintentional so I could first apologize and then correct my actions in the future but I'm not sure I'd be able to live with myself if I knew the depth to which I hurt someone like how I was hurt. To know that I got right to the core of that person and cracked it would devastate me. And no matter how broken I felt, I wouldn't want to do that to anyone else. There are enough broken people in the world without me adding to the crowd.
The difference between the ones who left me and other people I've lost contact with is the people I just lost contact with never said they would keep in touch or stick around or never leave me. People come and go and I can accept that. With the regular people who slip in and out of my life, we all knew it was ending and there was a mutual interest in keeping in touch but no one made these grand claims or promises they couldn't keep. And I wonder why the ones who did make these grand claims couldn't keep their promises, why they would even make them in the first place if they wouldn't put in the effort to keep them.
The worst part is it wasn't even just one person. One person would be hard enough but I'd like to think I'd move on eventually. No, this wasn't just one good friend who got up and walked away. It wasn't even two people but a slew of individuals who abandoned me. Individuals I truly thought cared about me. And they left me, one after the other, taking turns crushing my heart. By the end of it all, I found myself on the floor, trying to collect what was left, scooping up the sinew and and smearing blood on my cheeks, amazed by the rapid succession of stealing away and leaving me alone to atrophy.
And it isn't just a simple case of breaking a promise. When these people left me, it made me feel inadequate, like I wasn't not good enough to keep up with, like my friendship wasn't valuable enough for them to want to hold onto. It has really messed me up because these were not just acquaintances to me. They were beyond friends. They were special. And I thought I was special to them. Maybe at one time I was. Something somewhere changed, however. I don't know what I was to them before but now I know I'm nothing more than a ghost to them.
When I died, I always wondered what kind of dead I was. I sifted through the different ghouls and goblins and tried to categorize my corpse. I wasn't a poltergeist because I didn't haunt or harm others. I wasn't a vampire because I didn't feed on other people for sustenance. I wasn't a zombie because I wasn't quite mindless, or cool, enough. Plus, I was a vegetarian at the time. Nothing seemed to fit. Finally, I realized I was just another restless spirit, an unsettled spectre with unfinished business bolted down to Earth.
And through it all, these people are the ones who still haunt me. They are not completely gone, occasionally popping in to say hello but it feels more like a seance than a salutation, a greeting over the grave that means nothing to anyone. They swoop in to say they are thinking of me without actually thinking of me, a shallow connection as a way to soothe their own souls and feel good that they at least made contact before blowing out the candles and slipping back into silence again, breaking the bond of the spirit board and sending me back to dissolve into death one more time. But if they really cared, they would have done more than summoned my spirit. They would have conversed with my corpse, no matter how buried I may have felt.
What's it feel like to be a ghost? It's not great. I float around, seeing people but never feeling them, hearing people but never being heard. Transparent as glass and just as cold. I want to shout and scream but my voice carries no weight. I am nothing of substance.
It's the duality of the ruse of red cheeks and pumping blood that I show to the world while inside myself, I am dead, cold and incapable of feeling anything but insecurity and hopelessness. The emptiness is as far reaching as the tentacles of my messy mental faculties. It's the wanting vs being, the heartbeat vs blood loss, the sadist vs the soother. It's a constant battle of expectations and realizations, what people think I am and succumbing to what I've become. It's trying to maintain a semblance of normalcy, trying to fight off the hatred and fear that bubbles up inside me every day, trying to put on the face of the boy I used to be, pure and innocent and loving. It's pushing down everything that everyone thought I was going to be, everything everyone thinks I am now.
The appendages not only hold tight to my head but who I am as a whole. Pull back the layers of limbs and you'll find a blank space where only emptiness resides. There is no core because I am anything and everything. Therefore, I am nothing. I am potential and possibility and failure and freedom. I am breathing and broken bones. I am writer, artist, storyteller, maniac, restless, actor, mediator and yet I am really none of those things. I have nothing to hold onto. I have no identity. I am not defined by my job or position within my family or passion. I cannot follow through with anything or align myself with a movement, idea, or belief. I do not move within this world. This world moves within me. I am pinned in place as it all rushes through me. I can hear, smell, feel, and taste a sample of it all: the joy, the sorrow, the hope and disappointment but the only thing that's truly palatable is pain.
I suppose I wouldn't be so heartbroken over these people if I cared more about myself. I wouldn't need them to make me feel special and wouldn't be so distraught over their disappearance. But the truth of the matter is I needed them to feel good about myself and because of them, now I can't feel good about anyone else. I am trapped inside myself with no solace, no one to turn to in times of need. The ones I used to be able to count on are unavailable. I want to reach out and touch them so bad, to grab them and absorb them into me, to recapture that good feeling but it's gone, pulled apart and burned away. Never to be mended.
All I ever wanted was to show love, to love everyone and eventually find someone I could love in a special way and hope that they would want to love me in that same way. And the very thing I wanted is the very thing that destroyed me. It was that love that lynched my capacity to care for anyone else. I see now it's not possible for me to love or be loved but that doesn't mean I don't crave it every once in a while. It's that duality again. It won't even let me give up on the ghost of a good thing.
The tendrils constrict.
- Clive Barker, The Damnation Game
When I put off writing, the pressure builds up inside me until I feel like my brain is going to explode. The world is knotted up inside my head, pulsing to try to untangle itself but it only manages to strengthen the stranglehold on me. It feels a lot like going on a diet. When I can't eat, I get irritable, angry and confused. After a period of deprivation, the cravings become too much for me to handle and I want to eat everything in sight.
It's the same way with writing. I crave writing. It's another form of nourishment for me. Writing is another feel good food. But when I can't write (or am too lazy), I start feeling deprived again and just like I want to eat everything I can get my hands on, I want to write about whatever pops into my head, from the mundane (which toothpaste is best?) to the profound (what, who, and where is God?).
And when I'm actually able to write, the world finds a way to uncoil itself, it's tendrils stretching out in all directions like inky black octopus arms, writhing to get my attention, yearning to be written about. All the small stuff, all the large stuff gets trapped inside and I feel like I can't properly let it go unless I get it all out.
It's usually not too bad when I'm good about writing but lately, I haven't been doing well at all. I'm exhausted from work and when I get home, I just want to watch a dumb horror movie, eat a pizza and then go to sleep. When I'm at work, frustrated with customers and fellow associates, my mind buzzes with subject matter. The words flow freely from a cut sliced open in my brain but by the time I reach the safety of my bedroom, the cut has sealed itself shut for another day. The tendrils collect themselves into a tangled ball again and I can't get anything to come out properly. But, I've noticed there have been a few limbs that have managed to remain free from the swirling mess inside my mind, recurring themes in my thought process that continue to hang down around my heart and squeeze: food, work, my aspirations and people, specifically the broken connections with people that are still scabbing over.
I can't seem to let go of all the people who let go of me. Especially those who made me feel good. I don't get many people who can do that for me so when they do come around, I get attached to them, probably too quickly. They made me feel good, like I mattered. And then they quite literally vanished. Gone and away without a word of warning. The worst part is it wouldn't even hurt that much if these people had not specifically told me they would be the ones to stick around.
I don't think anyone left me on purpose. I don't think anyone meant to hurt me. But they still did. They hurt me more than they will ever know, especially because I'll never tell them. The reason being is because, as I mentioned, they didn't mean to hurt me so why should I hurt them by telling them that they basically destroyed me? I'm not sure that would benefit anyone. It might benefit me in the short-term, to let all the anger out on them, to tell them how much they screwed me up. It feels unfair to let these people go unaware of the pain they caused.
But it also feels vindictive, like I'm being spiteful to tell them such things. I'd like to think I'd want to know if I hurt someone, especially if it was unintentional so I could first apologize and then correct my actions in the future but I'm not sure I'd be able to live with myself if I knew the depth to which I hurt someone like how I was hurt. To know that I got right to the core of that person and cracked it would devastate me. And no matter how broken I felt, I wouldn't want to do that to anyone else. There are enough broken people in the world without me adding to the crowd.
The difference between the ones who left me and other people I've lost contact with is the people I just lost contact with never said they would keep in touch or stick around or never leave me. People come and go and I can accept that. With the regular people who slip in and out of my life, we all knew it was ending and there was a mutual interest in keeping in touch but no one made these grand claims or promises they couldn't keep. And I wonder why the ones who did make these grand claims couldn't keep their promises, why they would even make them in the first place if they wouldn't put in the effort to keep them.
The worst part is it wasn't even just one person. One person would be hard enough but I'd like to think I'd move on eventually. No, this wasn't just one good friend who got up and walked away. It wasn't even two people but a slew of individuals who abandoned me. Individuals I truly thought cared about me. And they left me, one after the other, taking turns crushing my heart. By the end of it all, I found myself on the floor, trying to collect what was left, scooping up the sinew and and smearing blood on my cheeks, amazed by the rapid succession of stealing away and leaving me alone to atrophy.
And it isn't just a simple case of breaking a promise. When these people left me, it made me feel inadequate, like I wasn't not good enough to keep up with, like my friendship wasn't valuable enough for them to want to hold onto. It has really messed me up because these were not just acquaintances to me. They were beyond friends. They were special. And I thought I was special to them. Maybe at one time I was. Something somewhere changed, however. I don't know what I was to them before but now I know I'm nothing more than a ghost to them.
When I died, I always wondered what kind of dead I was. I sifted through the different ghouls and goblins and tried to categorize my corpse. I wasn't a poltergeist because I didn't haunt or harm others. I wasn't a vampire because I didn't feed on other people for sustenance. I wasn't a zombie because I wasn't quite mindless, or cool, enough. Plus, I was a vegetarian at the time. Nothing seemed to fit. Finally, I realized I was just another restless spirit, an unsettled spectre with unfinished business bolted down to Earth.
And through it all, these people are the ones who still haunt me. They are not completely gone, occasionally popping in to say hello but it feels more like a seance than a salutation, a greeting over the grave that means nothing to anyone. They swoop in to say they are thinking of me without actually thinking of me, a shallow connection as a way to soothe their own souls and feel good that they at least made contact before blowing out the candles and slipping back into silence again, breaking the bond of the spirit board and sending me back to dissolve into death one more time. But if they really cared, they would have done more than summoned my spirit. They would have conversed with my corpse, no matter how buried I may have felt.
What's it feel like to be a ghost? It's not great. I float around, seeing people but never feeling them, hearing people but never being heard. Transparent as glass and just as cold. I want to shout and scream but my voice carries no weight. I am nothing of substance.
It's the duality of the ruse of red cheeks and pumping blood that I show to the world while inside myself, I am dead, cold and incapable of feeling anything but insecurity and hopelessness. The emptiness is as far reaching as the tentacles of my messy mental faculties. It's the wanting vs being, the heartbeat vs blood loss, the sadist vs the soother. It's a constant battle of expectations and realizations, what people think I am and succumbing to what I've become. It's trying to maintain a semblance of normalcy, trying to fight off the hatred and fear that bubbles up inside me every day, trying to put on the face of the boy I used to be, pure and innocent and loving. It's pushing down everything that everyone thought I was going to be, everything everyone thinks I am now.
The appendages not only hold tight to my head but who I am as a whole. Pull back the layers of limbs and you'll find a blank space where only emptiness resides. There is no core because I am anything and everything. Therefore, I am nothing. I am potential and possibility and failure and freedom. I am breathing and broken bones. I am writer, artist, storyteller, maniac, restless, actor, mediator and yet I am really none of those things. I have nothing to hold onto. I have no identity. I am not defined by my job or position within my family or passion. I cannot follow through with anything or align myself with a movement, idea, or belief. I do not move within this world. This world moves within me. I am pinned in place as it all rushes through me. I can hear, smell, feel, and taste a sample of it all: the joy, the sorrow, the hope and disappointment but the only thing that's truly palatable is pain.
I suppose I wouldn't be so heartbroken over these people if I cared more about myself. I wouldn't need them to make me feel special and wouldn't be so distraught over their disappearance. But the truth of the matter is I needed them to feel good about myself and because of them, now I can't feel good about anyone else. I am trapped inside myself with no solace, no one to turn to in times of need. The ones I used to be able to count on are unavailable. I want to reach out and touch them so bad, to grab them and absorb them into me, to recapture that good feeling but it's gone, pulled apart and burned away. Never to be mended.
All I ever wanted was to show love, to love everyone and eventually find someone I could love in a special way and hope that they would want to love me in that same way. And the very thing I wanted is the very thing that destroyed me. It was that love that lynched my capacity to care for anyone else. I see now it's not possible for me to love or be loved but that doesn't mean I don't crave it every once in a while. It's that duality again. It won't even let me give up on the ghost of a good thing.
The tendrils constrict.
Thursday, November 10, 2011
on a cold dark street
"I don't know if I want to live, or if I have to...or if it's just a habit."
-The Walking Dead
The other day, I was standing at work and I thought to myself that I was getting closer and closer to not caring if I died. Probably closest I've been in years, like since I was a kid and prayed for death in my sleep every night.
I've casually thought about offing myself before but nothing substantial ever came of it because of small factors like devastating my family, leaving them with my debts and the concept of everlasting hell kept me from pursuing expiration.
But lately I've been thinking more and more that I'm probably going to hell anyway so that's a moot fear. The family devastation and debt is another thing, though. If I were to die by other means than my own, I wouldn't have to feel bad because I wasn't the one who finalized the physical aspect of my demise. Maybe I'd get hit by a bus or inherit my father's colon cancer and experience The Great Release guilt-free.
I can't really see my life getting better. I know this is a gaping fallacy most suicidal people fall into, thinking life will never get better, that things will never ease up. It's hard to see past your own pain. You can't visualize the grand landscape of life when the world weighs down on your mind's eye. But pain is fleeting, right? Things do get better. It won't always be this bad. But who really knows that? In my experience, things have only gotten worse the farther I've come. High school was terrible and college was a colossal disaster, one I'm still paying for physically, emotionally and monetarily. And because of that monetary consequence, I can't get my feet off the ground and move away to a place of better opportunity for jobs and friendship. I'm stuck.
But what does any of it matter? I don't have any passion for drawing or animating or writing. Food, my only true comfort, isn't even all that great anymore. And I don't feel connected to anyone. I think about the people I used to care about, the ones who left me, and I can only feel a burning resentment toward them for ruining our relationships.
So, if I die then whatever.
But that night, I actually had a dream where I was back in Savannah. It was at night and I was just leaving an illuminated auditorium. The light from the building spilled onto the cobblestone road, transitioning from white to yellow to gray. The air was cold and blue and I walked down a series of brick steps and turned left. The space in front of me was obscured by the dark night sky and expansive bushes. I took a few steps and then hesitated. I felt a sweeping sense of unease and decided to turn around and go the other way.
I thought to myself, "Who knows what's in those bushes. This isn't a good part of town. I don't want to get killed tonight." Then I walked up another set of brick stairs and turned left into a water fountain. Suddenly, I was barefoot and splashing in the icy cold water, looking down and watching the clear liquid froth at my feet.
Then, I remembered what I had felt in the waking world, about not caring if I was dead. But I kept walking forward, still not wanting to risk the chance of encountering a gun or a blade in my fleshy stomach.
I woke up and had to wonder what it all meant. Was it my subconscious telling me that I really didn't want to die or was it just a case of focusing on something so much that you carry it over into your dreams? You know, like if you do something repetitive over an extended period of time like wrapping loose change or spending the day with a person and suddenly that loose change or that person appears in your dreams.
Was it just a case of life infiltrating dreams or am I still unsure about my existence? I don't have much hope that it's a sign of anything significant. Why should I? Who's out there looking after me? Who has something grand planned for my existence? What do I have to live for? I don't want to fall for another false hope. I don't want to once again think things will get better only to be slapped down one more time. No, I think I've finally cracked, fallen too far to see any way out.
The worst part, and the part that makes me feel the most selfish, is the fact that there are probably some people who do care about my fate but I don't care about their opinions. It's the ones I want to care for me, the ones I want so desperately to love me, the ones I want to take an interest in my life and writing and thoughts and feelings, who remain indifferent.
Yeah, I'm definitely thinking it was a "loose change" kind of dream.
-The Walking Dead
The other day, I was standing at work and I thought to myself that I was getting closer and closer to not caring if I died. Probably closest I've been in years, like since I was a kid and prayed for death in my sleep every night.
I've casually thought about offing myself before but nothing substantial ever came of it because of small factors like devastating my family, leaving them with my debts and the concept of everlasting hell kept me from pursuing expiration.
But lately I've been thinking more and more that I'm probably going to hell anyway so that's a moot fear. The family devastation and debt is another thing, though. If I were to die by other means than my own, I wouldn't have to feel bad because I wasn't the one who finalized the physical aspect of my demise. Maybe I'd get hit by a bus or inherit my father's colon cancer and experience The Great Release guilt-free.
I can't really see my life getting better. I know this is a gaping fallacy most suicidal people fall into, thinking life will never get better, that things will never ease up. It's hard to see past your own pain. You can't visualize the grand landscape of life when the world weighs down on your mind's eye. But pain is fleeting, right? Things do get better. It won't always be this bad. But who really knows that? In my experience, things have only gotten worse the farther I've come. High school was terrible and college was a colossal disaster, one I'm still paying for physically, emotionally and monetarily. And because of that monetary consequence, I can't get my feet off the ground and move away to a place of better opportunity for jobs and friendship. I'm stuck.
But what does any of it matter? I don't have any passion for drawing or animating or writing. Food, my only true comfort, isn't even all that great anymore. And I don't feel connected to anyone. I think about the people I used to care about, the ones who left me, and I can only feel a burning resentment toward them for ruining our relationships.
So, if I die then whatever.
But that night, I actually had a dream where I was back in Savannah. It was at night and I was just leaving an illuminated auditorium. The light from the building spilled onto the cobblestone road, transitioning from white to yellow to gray. The air was cold and blue and I walked down a series of brick steps and turned left. The space in front of me was obscured by the dark night sky and expansive bushes. I took a few steps and then hesitated. I felt a sweeping sense of unease and decided to turn around and go the other way.
I thought to myself, "Who knows what's in those bushes. This isn't a good part of town. I don't want to get killed tonight." Then I walked up another set of brick stairs and turned left into a water fountain. Suddenly, I was barefoot and splashing in the icy cold water, looking down and watching the clear liquid froth at my feet.
Then, I remembered what I had felt in the waking world, about not caring if I was dead. But I kept walking forward, still not wanting to risk the chance of encountering a gun or a blade in my fleshy stomach.
I woke up and had to wonder what it all meant. Was it my subconscious telling me that I really didn't want to die or was it just a case of focusing on something so much that you carry it over into your dreams? You know, like if you do something repetitive over an extended period of time like wrapping loose change or spending the day with a person and suddenly that loose change or that person appears in your dreams.
Was it just a case of life infiltrating dreams or am I still unsure about my existence? I don't have much hope that it's a sign of anything significant. Why should I? Who's out there looking after me? Who has something grand planned for my existence? What do I have to live for? I don't want to fall for another false hope. I don't want to once again think things will get better only to be slapped down one more time. No, I think I've finally cracked, fallen too far to see any way out.
The worst part, and the part that makes me feel the most selfish, is the fact that there are probably some people who do care about my fate but I don't care about their opinions. It's the ones I want to care for me, the ones I want so desperately to love me, the ones I want to take an interest in my life and writing and thoughts and feelings, who remain indifferent.
Yeah, I'm definitely thinking it was a "loose change" kind of dream.
Monday, October 31, 2011
do you know a killer?
Several weeks ago, my sister's coworker, Jon, went to a man's house to sell him car and homeowner's insurance.
As Jon was assessing the house, the man's wife went up to him, a bit frazzled, her eyes enlarged with fear, and said, "Don't sell him any insurance. He's going to burn this house down and then kill me." No doubt, Jon was startled by the statement. What do you do in that situation? Do you take her seriously or blow it off as her being crazy or paranoid? Jon decided to shrug it off and sold the man the insurance anyway.
He didn't think too much about the lady with the large eyes until he got a phone call two weeks later.
It was the man.
"You can take my wife off the policy," he said. "She committed suicide a few days ago."
Jon, concerned, called the police to let them know what the man's wife had told him but they refused to look into it, saying the case was officially closed.
.
.
.
So...he killed her.
Happy Halloween.
As Jon was assessing the house, the man's wife went up to him, a bit frazzled, her eyes enlarged with fear, and said, "Don't sell him any insurance. He's going to burn this house down and then kill me." No doubt, Jon was startled by the statement. What do you do in that situation? Do you take her seriously or blow it off as her being crazy or paranoid? Jon decided to shrug it off and sold the man the insurance anyway.
He didn't think too much about the lady with the large eyes until he got a phone call two weeks later.
It was the man.
"You can take my wife off the policy," he said. "She committed suicide a few days ago."
Jon, concerned, called the police to let them know what the man's wife had told him but they refused to look into it, saying the case was officially closed.
.
.
.
So...he killed her.
Happy Halloween.
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