True story. Not that it matters.
"You didn’t want it to work."
Last Night is one of my all-time favorite films. It is beautiful. Every time I watch it, I find myself analyzing it more and more. Every look, every gesture communicates what is impossible to articulate. Sad as it may be, this film provides an amazingly poignant study of relationships.
… is unattainable. He’s never going to say anything that will ever make this experience any less painful. If anything, talking to him makes it more painful.
Next time, do yourself a favor: do not take that call.
Stagnancy and The Bell Jar
When I was 16, I checked out a copy of The Bell Jar because I had heard it was something angsty teenaged girls read and I wanted to fit the part. I read it and I thought I got it. I had no idea.
When Plath writes about feeling suffocated by the stagnant air that is her life, I think what she’s talking about is this insane self-hatred that makes some people hate even the imagined sounds of their own thoughts. Being alive is like pure torture - like when you are holding your breath under water until your lungs start to burn. Except there is no popping your head up for air, and there is no death for relief.
She locked herself in the crawlspace because she wasn’t able to plaster a fake smile on her face anymore. When the mask started to melt, she had to do something. She was quarantining herself.
I think that in most people, there is a kind of panic that sits hidden under the surface. I see these happy family photographs, cute couple portraits, hugging ladies and snuggly pet photos - and all I can think is how fucking miserable everyone must be under all this show.
I don’t believe anyone is truly happy. I think most people hide their unhappiness beneath the surface and pile on layers and layers of fluff to hide the fact that secretly, they are this close to going all “Girl, Interrupted.”
Plath didn’t put her head in that oven because she was insane. She put her head in that oven because she saw the utter hopelessness that is disillusionment. She simply couldn’t live a lie anymore - so, she couldn’t live.
hello there, stranger.
Oversharing, per usual.
I don’t want to be someone that is full of anger or hatred. I guess it is naive to believe that one can escape it. As I said myself, “damp environments promote mold growth.” But maybe I can take a bleach bath.
I know it isn’t unique or even very interesting, but I’ve noticed some patterns to my behavior. Obviously I have some “daddy issues.” What female doesn’t, right? I find myself in relationships with men that have qualities that I despise, yet I can’t figure out how I got there or why I’m in it. What is appealing about the painfully familiar? Why do I gravitate towards these types, or why do I attract them to myself? And why can’t I stop it?
Someone recently told me that they could tell just by looking at me that I had been hurt in the past and that I could be easily taken advantage of. Yes, my pride flared up and I indignantly protested. But it stung, deep down. What is it that I wear on my face that tells people these things? Why can’t I just erase it, like so many other things one can erase from the body? Is there a surgery I can undergo, a peel I can opt for? Some kind of baptism that will wash it away?
The most disturbing thing about myself that I have recently been unable to ignore anymore is the fact that I crave conflict and pain. If it’s not there, I don’t know what to do, how to function, where to direct my anger or my sadness. Sometimes I will create little dramas when things are going too well. It’s as if I can’t let myself feel too good. I don’t crave that as much as I crave the satisfaction of disappointment.
Yes, I moved on quickly. I always do. As soon as he threatened me again, I was done. Just like that. After all the times I took him back, everyone expected the few days or months apart, and then the relapse. But it didn’t happen this time. For some strange reason, something inside of me finally said “Enough.” I was in bed with a stranger the next week. And another the week after that.
I’m ashamed to admit that there is someone new. That fast. Maybe a rebound. Probably. I really can’t say. And it shouldn’t take him to feel the way I do now. I know that. But he’s very kind, and treats me better than the rest have. And I’m not even committed. I don’t have to be. That is the beauty. There is no cage here, unless I choose to create one. And I’m really tired of cages.
Patterns repeat, unless you face them and break away. I can’t promise I’m done with the self-destructiveness, but I can tell you this much: I am starting to see my worth now. Finally.
I never really fully believed that whole “eternal loneliness of the human soul” thing applied to me, Queen of ever-connectedness, but I think now I’m someone that likes to mask my insecurities with outright denial - like bros and their homophobia. A hypocrite that isn’t fooling anyone, except herself.
I really hate this feeling. I know that a woman should be a person, an individual, a whole being, first and foremost, without a man… blah blah blah. And, in theory, I wholly embrace and fully believe it. In practice, it fucking sucks. I get lonely, too. Sometimes I get in such a panic about being alone that I reach out to someone I can’t even fucking stand just because I know if I throw down my hair, they’ll climb it. Better to have loathsome company than no company, right? Ugh. Makes me sick, too.
I perpetually fuck up my relationships, and I wonder why, every 4 or 5 years, I wind up in exactly the same chaotic panic. Hmm.
That was bound to happen.
It was a nice run. Now, I’m back where I started.
Yeah, I know… you told me so.
be thinking of him, but I am.
Almost everything is rose-tinted in retrospect.
I’ve been thinking alot about the past lately. Perhaps partly as a result of some dissatisfaction with the present. I’ve also had some reappearances.
I feel myself getting older. And I’ve gotta say, it seems both right and frighteningly wrong.
I finally have some things to say again.