THOSE WHO SUFFER LOVE
So they cut me open again today. Dr. Arima kept making sound effects, which was actually kind of funny. He would make this slicing sound everytime he talked about it. And Dr. Laos (who I saw in between visits to Dr. Arima) told me I should tell him not to do that. Dr. Laos is very nice, and is office is very pretty. The nurse there always compliments me and asks if I have gone to the MAC store yet because I would like it.
It's a lot more painful this time than it was the last time, even though it was just a touch up. Only one tooth.
I took a vicodin, hoping that it would magically take my migraine away, but it's not really working. Well. It is on my mouth, which is nice.
I have my semester final tomorrow. I don't actually feel unprepaired, but I'm still at a "wavering C", despite my best efforts. It just moves too fast. She- Mrs. Ricci pronounced Richie, rather than Reechie, which is what one would assume- doesn't think that I'll make it through second semester, because it's so difficult.
I kind of wish I could just slack out and then get to go drive to Montana with my mom.
I don't think I will, though. Actually, no, I don't know.
Depsite my C, I feel incredibly proud of this class- But the kind of proud I don't think anyone else would actually understand. Mr. Crockett maybe. Someone. I do my work. I do all of it and I do it on time and I don't ever copy any one else's work. I just do it, and if I get it wrong, I do it over.
That's the first time I've ever done that.
I guess I'm still falling a little short of the mark, however.
Fuck.
No, this is futile.
Excuse me, I've been trying to override this tsunami of an identity crisis at the moment. Despite the obvious mental/emotional things it's been fucking, I feel like I can't quite function properly. I've been taking four hour naps every afternoon, only eating maybe one and a half meals. Migraines. I'm getting really panicky- Old panicky, old catch everything in my throat, go hide somewhere panicky. And I need to be mean. So mean.
That's all I feel.
I feel bitter and hollow. And mean.
I can't really verbalize it, right now, even though I keep trying to. It's all identity crisising, which I don't think anyone can quite understand. Or that I wouldn't let anyone else understand- Except maybe Sarah because her perception of me isn't actually going to be changed, I don't think, by any admission of personal weaknesses, and I don't think I can say that about anyone else. I feel like I need to be one dimensional for everyone else, like they just need to me to be this one thing, but can't really take the rest of it. But that's all I want out of anyone, anyway, so I guess it's only fair- But that's all really part of it, I think.
All of that- all of everything. It's like it's eating me alive.
It's all destinty and fate and skill and friendship- As fucking stupid as those all sound- About how I feel like I've lived my entire life vicariously through the stories I write, and how I can write about all of these amazing things and amazing, flawed people, but I don't really believe anything like any of that really exists.
I don't really believe that there are good selfless people- I don't believe there are really kind people, listening people- I don't believe they exist.
The only fucking people I know- The only people I know- Are all just lonely and closed off and bitter. We're all so disappointed and hurt that what we actually want we can never get because we don't know how- Because the only people we know are just like us- that we resort to just hating it. Acting like we're above it. Like we don't need it- Like we've found this secret way of living where we can be hip and counter cultural and moody and angry, and it can be all we are. Where we can just be art, or we can just be what we do, and we don't need any other parts.
And we just don't know how to get them, because, for some reason, we just don't get to meet anyone like that. Or we don't let ourselves. We're so afraid of slipping into everyone else, that we don't let ourselves have the good things that everyone else has- We just keep the bad that they don't want wrapped tight around us.
None of this is fucking identity, and I don't know why no one says it out loud. It's just protection, it's just a guard- It's just trying to scare everyone else away because we hate ourselves to much to possibly understand why anyone who wasn't angry and lonely and lazy and brilliant could ever like or understand us because you really only do accept the love you think you deserve. And we just hate ourselves out of failure- But it's all our fault.
And it feels like everyone's trying to help us, but we don't know how to just say yes, so we reflect the whole entire fucking world with wit and cynicism until we wouldn't even know honesty when it hit us.
We are fucking wasting ourselves away.
You want destructive behaviour? Tell us when there hasn't been anything different.
And I feel like I've got all these people who actually do care- I feel like everyone cares- But I still don't, so I just end up disappointing them- I keep reaching and falling just short of the mark.
I just don't understand.
I don't feel like any of the rest of the world belongs to me. I've lived my entire life preparing myself for failure- For trying and never making it. For being lonely and unfulfilled and unhappy, but keeping on. I've never expected anything, and I feel like I'm the only one who's expecting this and i don't know why.
And, you know, fuck, what is the rest of everyone thinking about, you know? Do they secretly wish to be us- These amazing nihilists- like we desperately wish to have everything they have- To have some sort of fulfillment, and have people that care about them, and be able to accept that caring and return it? And it is all just a fucking lie and is no one happy or loved or happy- Is it all just chaos punctuated by breif moments of peace?
I just don't feel like there's a reason for everything- I feel like I'm not a part of it.
And that's really it. I don't believe in it.
I don't believe in goodness in people. That anyone can actually have feelings returned when they give them. I don't believe that it's ever just truth without motive- That anyone ever just follows their heart and does what's right without personal benefit.
That's just books. That's just stories, and one liners, and lyrics and poetry.
It's not real life.
Real life is just desperate and hollow- Watching other people do what they want and trying to put that into words to, again, live your entire life through. But it's not your life.
It's not.
It's just... I don't know. Fiction.
And is this all writing is? Fulfillment where one can't get it? Creating people who can love each other, and who can get along- Who can fight and get over it- Just because nothing like that happens to you?
You can tell me it's a lonely life, but this encompasses slightly more. This is being invisible and still trying to hold onto some traces of romance and hope and purpose just because that word- just words- are all you have? All you've ever had to hang on to?
I don't understand.
And is believing the good when it's written mean that I secretly believe in good in the real world?
I feel like this is all there is.
And, despite all my efforts, nothing- Not sleep, not pills, not writing, not getting out and breathing- have made it stop.
And that's all I need.