I ate half a cookie, and left the other.
I feel like tears are my body trying to physically protect my eyes when I start thinking clearly about the things that hurt me. And I begin to see it, but I can't stop crying.
Last night I had a run-in with someone in New Haven who backed into my car and then got out to verbally berate ME, and that was the thing that allowed me to cry (but not the thing I wanted to cry ABOUT). I wandered around Yale before the Parents' Weekend Concert at Yale (a tepid performance), ripping through packages of tissues. I cried for five hours, straight. There are so many things in sight and out of reach. I don't know about this time in my life. I've been asking for things, and it's been like those fairytales where you get what you want, but you get them in a way that's twisted to ensure you can't enjoy it.
Andre isn't here. It's not such a big deal that he's physically absent, as much as it is a big deal that *because* he's absent, I can't afford any place that could let me get AWAY. Nor do I have someone around to talk to who knows my secrets, or is at least obliged to talk to me about boring shit I have to say. I feel left-behind. Lost.
And had I actually been FOUND? Until that twist I talked about came up and now it's maybe worse to have been found, because I have to pretend to be all right.
The women writers, who turned an age and killed themselves, was it because they realized who they were and what they wanted? Did they realize it was impossible to have? Did they feel like monsters for wanting it? Were they so horrified by the reveal that they couldn't stick around? I am maybe beginning to understand how this could be.
I want a lot of things. Some of them make me feel, occasionally, like I'm a terrible person. Like maybe I'm a "part of the problem" kind of girl. But maybe I'm just the unpopular side of a scale that's more balanced than it seems. I need to be alone. When I was little people thought I was arrogant (well, that's true) and that I didn't care about anyone, and that wasn't the reason I wantd to play by myself. It was being around other people made me crazy.
Andre asks, isn't it possible that other people didn't like you, so you decided not to like *them*?
It got worse as I got older, meaning that I got more and more anxious in social situations. I hypothesize that this occurred because as I got older I realized more and more how inappropriate it was to dislike being around people. Even Andre, today, told me that "loving [all] people is for everybody." My efforts to make myself agree with that statement, as a kid and all through college (even now?), comprise what *I* believe to be the cloud of social panic that has tortured me for what seem like the vivid years of my life. Not-liking-people is not my PROBLEM; my PROBLEM is trying-to-like-people.
And it's not like I'm a total misanthrope, although it's possible that the people I *do* love, I love because they seem inhuman to me (in various wonderful ways, rest assured). And although I have problems being in love, I can do that, too, as hard as it may be to believe. I'm maybe like Ally Sheedy in Breakfast Club (which was on daytime television today), except I don't look as nice under the hair.
My whole brain is scattered around. RealPlayer plays the same 15 songs of a library of 1858, for hours and hours. I run outside and can't go far enough away. I cut my hair off and there's still too much left. Every time I get this way I feel like I'm about to have some magic breakthrough, where I'll finally Get It, or my life will transform into some well-intentioned thing with predestined potential. But that never happens. I don't know of anything I can mention that has ever frustrated me more.
Today I dressed up as Don Juan and handed out love poems on the streets in New Haven. So many people wouldn't take them. But I ran out of 60 poems. I did this in honor of my anniversary with Andre, which is Halloween. I think he liked it, but not as much as I thought he would. He would probably rather have another homemade book, but I've made a lot of them and they're losing their shine for me. It's like, another Andre holiday, another book. Time to find something else, I guess. I'm unmotivated.
He'll get another, real gift, so he shouldn't worry about it. Probably a nice gift (well, not really) would be to not be sad as all hell on our anniversary. He's coming in for one day, instead of a whole weekend, so he can be here on Halloween. It isn't what I would chose, and I'm going to be a mess with him arriving and leaving in one day. Maybe my gift is that I'm going to endure that shit.
Maybe gifts are overrated. If he were with a less creative person, he wouldn't ever get handmade books. On the other hand, if he were with a less creative person, he wouldn't have to deal with a habitually mopey counterpart.
This is why I shouldn't talk about my relationship while depressed. But when I'm happy, I don't have anything I can't say to anyone else.
You know when you've been describing something to people for years and years, and you've been writing about it and drawing it and trying to get at it in a hundred different ways, and people tell you it isn't even real? Or laugh because it's so silly or old-fashioned or even ridiculously majestic-sounding? And then you fucking FIND it, and you can't even say, "look over there! I told you!" because you're ashamed that, in all your deliberation, you never thought that it would be so utterly NOT a part of you? Goddamighty.
What HAPPENED to me? I never figured how much my arrogance would edit my vision of myself, but here I am, completely without the amazing nucleus that I would need to actually gather the electron cloud.