I Miss Thoughtful Chaos
I'm very isolated and I find that to be quite comforting now because I want to vent my frustration and I find my ventings on LJ are always, ALWAYS misconstrued and turned back on their head and I find myself apologizing for feeling one way or the other or not looking at the whole picture or simply being whiny in my own personal free space. Which sucks. But I don't want to remove myself from the positive aspects of being there...which can be really neat.
So the thing is not to tell anyone. I feel rather subversive. In a funny, TV show kind of way. I know you don't understand that analogy but I do, and that's all that matters.
Right now I can't believe a newborn truth I'm living. Anyone who's read this journal of what, the past four or five years, holy shit must know that I've been through a lot...of nothing, and that nothingness was the basis for 75% of my angst. I felt like I was always missing out on something...something that was so obscure and oblique and yet imperative. Desperate but silent. A ghost of a need, something I've left over from a past life. It's definitely changed from those entries. In certain ways I can't even see myself in those entries, in others I'm right back there.
And then, there was this whole summer implosion...or as I like to call it, "L'ete de la fille folle." Or the Meltdown. The brain turning off, the wildly shitty period of time when I was having empathic, anxious, bitter bolts that ran up and down my skin every moment of the day. I was trying to not feel anything at all because everything was getting in. The sun was changing, its rays moving through different passages through the sky and it made me hurt. It was all really beyond handling. The whole thing with my little sister coupled with the car thing coupled with the unemployment and the returning to school with no friends and feeling so scared about it...it was, well, if this isn't impressing you with eerieness and scaryness, then I can't get you to see it. It was a BAD period in my life and I was relatively alone in it, but now, again, so much has changed even within the confines of unchanged situations.
Today I did have a nasty, unfriendly, bad time at home. This whole weekend in fact was pretty shitty, kittens. I really missed the dorms and I really missed my friends and my bed and the quiet of my room and music and really I missed being appreciated and confident.
I never noticed it before, probably, (and please don't let this read like an epiphany because I'm sick of those) because I was never in such an extended happy outside experience. It was always camp, or staying over, or even freshman year where I was desperate to get back into the arms of people I felt understood my sickness. People who saw my failings and would protect me from being seen. As if I was some kind of albino, finally able to come in out from the sun and take off all those heavy, sweat-soaked capes that kept the eyes off me. I felt as though those four people kept my secret of social ineptitude, kept the claws and horns rasped down. I really must have believed that because I can remember such sadness at being kept away a single weekend, much less two. Such fear...the anxiety of living in a world that was both set on a timer and tied to my ankle.
The ulcered monkey who could prevent a shock by pressing a button, but whose stomach was ripped open by its own acid.
Those were the circumstances of the past nineteen years.
And now, I don't know at all, what that appeal was. Where the balm was or what it really was made of? Was it just a space and I healed myself simply by feeling the comfort of those walls? I can't really define it now. I come home and answer those quiet, concerned questions and am then suddenly left alone. A flurry of activities that I'm not remotely involved in anymore. My things aren't there. The cat vomits on my bed while I'm away but no one's been in to see that.
There's no paint or pictures on the wall and no one seems to think I need them.
I feel it like a nomad would coming back to a familar campsite. Knowing where the good things to eat are, knowing what the dangers are, what can be gained from visiting as opposed to staying away. But I don't think I've ever felt like it was my home. My refuge, my trellis to climb on. I've always felt in that house like someone was waiting for me to leave. An unwanted guest. Lily Bart at Bellomont, conducting her business with little to no congruence with anyone else's life.
Maybe that's exaggeration and hyperbole for the page. I'm not quite sure. I'm upset now and that's what I've written and for the moment I'm standing behind it.
There's an undercurrent in the house, things unsaid that are clothes-pinned on a wire. Our under-conversation about what we think of eachother. God, sometimes I can hear it louder than the real words. What we want of each other is something that is hard to put into keystrokes. Hard to make diurnal and conversational.
I just wanted a happy Valentine's. I wasn't expecting flowers from anyone, nor candy. I didn't mind because I had no expectations. But I came back from a place of relative calm and the house just seemed to have turned on me. Everyone had to have a go, had to take their snap, as if I was fresh meat.
And as a result, I basically sat upstairs, finding every sugary, carby, stupid thing and just stuffing myself full in an effort to ignore it. Which I think I did brilliantly. But then, I'm accused of being lazy, of being pointless.
And there will never be any apologies. Not to me, not from me, not to my body.
And so the cycle carries on, even though the chains have been extended.
I don't know. I have to go to bed soon, but yeah. It's not what one wants for oneself.
