It’s all confusing all of the sudden. I don’t know what I want. Or maybe I do, but I feel like an asshole for admitting it. I want a relationship without the work. Dating is tedious and expensive and, most often, a waste of time.
I don’t feel like I belong anywhere now. I have no structure within myself, no sense of security. A giant part of what I thought I knew about myself collapsed and I feel lost and bewildered, and grasping at the air for answers.
If I were a Deadly Sin, I’d be envy.
I envy those who are happy. Those who don’t have crippling mental disorders. Those who don’t need to take medication after medication. I envy heterosexuals. I envy homosexuals. I envy people who know their place. I envy people who have the confidence to flirt, to smile disingenuously at another person and get their shit for free just for passing as objectively attractive. I envy people who simply fuck, just fuck someone because it’s what they wanted. I envy people who get what they want.
Tomorrow I will wake up and be the same as I am now. I will not have a book, or even a novella, or even a single story or poem, in publication. I am not going abroad, ever, in my entire academic career. I don’t have money, but I do have a spending problem.
I’m going to wake up and make tea, eat a banana, fall asleep on the couch, and smoke cigarettes on the patio by myself, all the while wishing for something, anything. Water to close over my head forever. A mouthful of blood. A new self.
Your room is beginning to feel like a prison.
Even outside doesn’t feel much better. The air is thick and oppressive and you feel like you can’t really go anywhere–not that a change of scenery would really make a huge difference. Your problems follow you everywhere you go because your problems are, quite simply, yourself.
You want to eviscerate yourself and inspect every organ, every muscle, every piece of tissue that spills out of your belly. Your throat burns. You light another cigarette and feel like you might fall over for a split second. The phone rings but it’s not a number you know.
Hearing about everyone else’s lives is exhausting. You have nothing to say. Yet being alone wears on you–you want someone else to talk to. The silent conversations that take place in your head make you feel insane. But again, everyone else is exhausting. The way they smoke their cigarettes annoys you. The way they purse their lips when they want to say something cruel but don’t. The way they sigh. The way they look at you in anticipation of some sort of emotion, some sort of visceral reaction, only to be dumbfounded when they receive nothing.
Your self-deprecating remarks have worn down on those you call your friends, and you can feel them distancing themselves from you. But you are not happy, not even close, and you don’t know what else to say.
You may be completely lucid, completely self-aware, but that is not always a good thing.
You want to be able to breathe without feeling like you’re suffocating.
You want everything to stop hurting your heart so much. That’s all you really want.
What fucking day is it? The calendar says July, I don’t want to believe it, don’t want to believe it’s been that long, that so many days have swept past me, left me in the dust. I am dust. My brain is turning to mush, my eyes are melting out of my skull as I attempt to weep in front of technicolor screens. Did I take my medication(s)? I don’t want to check my email. Spam, spam, spam, no hope, no light, spam, spam, erratic thoughts and as I’m sleeping I imagine a man walking a winged dog down a highway guardrail. My kneecap aches. Politics I don’t care about. My hands are dry, nails bitten, skin bleeding. Scars, so many scars. I’m always waiting for thunder inside. Remember drinking on the patio alone? Yeah, neither do I. Casual conversation involving being asked no personal questions. The cards are on somebody’s table. My Queen beat your Jack, but Ace trumps all, so I’ve been told. Are the pills kicking in? Can somebody dismember my body, please? I miss sitting in those uncomfortable chairs outside the cafe with an overpriced Italian soda with too much ice and listening to the music that was too loud, the best part of it all being able to smoke my cigarettes without judgment, watch the couples hold hands, watch the singer take a sip of water in between songs. I was once an embryo, soft and pliable, unthinking and sane. My anger is with me always, the darkness crushes my spine.