Wednesday, Jul. 27, 2005
Get Well Soon.
I keep waiting for the ground to open up and swallow me whole. Distractions are bliss. My life has been a constant frenzy of creativity since I realized that you hold my heart in your hands and handle it a little too roughly. I've been constantly painting, drawing, reading, writing, playing all trying to forget. But then you call. I wonder if I would hurt less if I forgot you. I wonder if losing you would make a change. We'd still be friends, that much is a given.
A dab more of green, right there.
I don't think that I can cry anymore. I don't think that I can hurt any more. I don't think I can feel, really.
Just a slight line of pink.... No. Blend. Blend. Blend.
Therapy is crap. Today I laid out on the terrace in the loungers wearing a swim-suit. The tornado sirens were blaring. Mother Nature, take me away. I wish that my life had theme music. I'm sure right now that it'd be something tragically melodramatic and under-stated. Maybe some bad coldplay. Trouble maybe?
On the ceiling above my bed, I have a bunch of paraphanelia from the plays I've been in and old album covers. They speak to me as I try to sleep. Chaka Kahn shakes her hea from behind her delicately pink-gloved hand and tells me that I need time to heal. But it seems that all I have is time. Cindi Lauper, dancing happily on the street mocks me. Betsy Ryder (from Plays in Ten this spring) understands my situation. She smiles and tells me to hold on to my wits because I'll need them in a time like this. Madonna is silent, a relic. She doesn't even shake her head at me the way that the Berlin crew does. All of my life I have been afraid of turning into my mother. Getting fat like my mother. Being blonde both mentally and physically like my mother. Unintentionally hurting people like my mother. Becoming a door-mat like my mother. Nobody else would put up with your crap, no matter how much they loved you.
The portrait of my life, as the line of abuse and self-hatred trickles down to the next generation.
Little things bother me. The use of the word "pussy" for one. The fact that I see you every where- or at least your car. My mind's eye turns you into every protagonist I encounter and myself into the ugly, rampaging antagonist. You are the princess and I am the pea. You are the perfect man, and I am the jealous ex-girlfriend. Will I be your jealous ex-girlfriend?
Your words scar me. I can't be Miss Confidence for you if you had just gotten through telling me that you'd like for us to not see eachother in person in a while because you think it'd help us "decide if we like eachother." I can't help but think of others. Of the ones I've turned down. Of the one that I thought I loved for a short while. Of the one that asked me to marry him and offered me the world. But I don't think I'd be happy with anyone but you. I know I wouldn't. And you wouldn't be happy with anyone but me.
The old me would laugh at the new me. The old me would tell me that I'm everything that I hate. The new me would kick the old me's ass. Or at least put in a good try.
I understand that you're sick. I know that I was like that when I was going through my deepest phases of depression. I know that it is depression afflicting you, because you share at least that much of me. I asked you if you wanted to see anybody, and you said they'd put you on drugs. And only pussies take drugs. Once you're on drugs you can never get off them, you say. It's just the easy way out. He has no clue. He should keep in mind, when using pussy as an insult, that he came from one. Don't get me started on his emotions towards antidepressants. I've tried. He understands that they're what work for me. I'm sure this means that he thinks of me as a weak fool, or something. I'm sure he'd antidepressants over electroshock therapy. Please. If he saw a psychologist they couldn't even give him drugs. I'm just glad that you're depression isn't as deep as mine ever got. You still want to live. You still think there's something out there for you. Even if it is a career of selling all your concert-promo stuff on E-bay.
I sometimes worry that there's someone else. But I know that you'd never cheat. You're far too noble for that. Then again, I also thought that you were far too noble to turn into a typical guy and use the term "pussy." Did I mention that I detest that word? It rattles me down to my bones.
I hope you get better soon. I wish that I could help you, but I also know that this is something only you can get through yourself. I know that I can't lighten the portait of us right now, but I want you to know that I'll always be there for you.
I'll be standing by your side, white paint in hand.
theparisian at 2:22 a.m.