Drained
So after receiving a number of pleading emails from Cricket I switched on my phone to be greeted with seven voice mails and twice as many text messages from him alone. I didn’t get the chance to go through them all when he rang. ‘So why was your phone off?’ 'Oh God', I thought to myself ‘here we go’. He started going on and on, scolding me for everything he could think of, then finally he said: It’s almost like you’re trying to be depressed. I think you like the romance of it all.’
I put the phone down. He rang and rang until eventually I picked up.
‘It is. It’s like you’re trying to get attention’ he said. I could feel the tears welling up. I closed my eyes, took a breath and said: ‘ I can’t do this anymore.’
And then came the usual flood of questions: ‘Why? What have I done? Is there someone else?’ and then like a bombshell ‘ Are you sleeping with Graphix boy?’
I nearly laughed, out of frustration you understand. And totally composed and unaffected said: ‘Of course I am, shouldn’t I be?’ I knew that would irk him, I said it so it would. ‘ I knew it!’ He screamed. I didn’t have the energy to argue, so I let him carry on only answering with: ‘Yeah’ and the occasional ‘ No.’ until he collected himself and said: ‘I thought you had feelings for me.’ Surprisingly, I didn’t even need to ponder this and replied: ‘No, I don’t.’ It sounded almost callous, maybe that’s how I intended it. I felt absolutely no guilt while telling him he meant nothing to me. ‘You’re hurting me’ he said. ‘I need to go’ I replied. He interjected with ‘Say something nice before you go’ . I said: ‘Take care of yourself’ and switched my phone off.
We had an almost identical conversation, again, today during which I lost the will to live. I told him as much. He insisted I still come to the gig. I told him I won’t. He kept insisting until I finally made an excuses and got off the phone. I knew it would come to this. I knew it. Why did I get involved? And, more importantly, what do I do now?
I feel nothing for this man and frankly he is beginning to grate on me; his snide remarks incited by jealousy, his infantile tantrums over the phone, his general clinginess and obsessive nature is growing more evident and thus more unbearable. I certainly don’t need this. And I certainly don’t need him, telling me: ‘We’re made for each other’. Because we are not and frankly this whole situation is beginning to worry me. It has also made me realise one thing namely that I attract seemingly stable, well adjusted men who after spending time with me turn in to emotional wrecks. It’s a pattern, and what’s even more worrying is that almost all of them develop obsessive tendencies which turn my life and theirs in to a sort of living hell. I am keeping my fingers crossed, this doesn’t happen with Cricket but…his latest email, consisting of the following two lines, doesn’t inspire much hope: ‘Remember when I told you: You’re the one? Well, you are and I’m gonna do everything to keep you in my life.’ First thing that came to my mind was; ‘even if it means trying to make me stay with you, by force?’ And lets face it that’s not a good thought. The alarm bells are definitely going off. Panic mode: I am already thinking about changing my number, moving house. Oh fuck, FUCK! fuck. I can’t go through this again. I can’t. Deep down inside I hope it won’t come to that.
Feel drained; in need of a good night’s sleep. But first things first: my phone is getting switched off.
Acknowledging May be A Start
Woke up this morning in a rather strange mood; tired and slightly disorientated. I think I underwent some psychotraumatic experience in the night, which I couldn’t quite remember. It may have had something to do with the truly appalling film I watched before finally falling asleep. The Rules of Attraction, based on Brett Easton Ellis' second novel by the same name, was so incredibly bad I wanted to make a public plea to the director asking him to find a new vocation and save the world from having to endure anymore of his tiresome and alarmist directorial attempts at ‘teen angst’. But I suppose the ‘art’ in cinema is secondary these days as the average cinema goer will gladly consume whatever shit’s put in front of them.
Had a really happy moment today, too, as three new books were dropped through my letter box. I left the house with a smile on my face, which felt nice – then got swept up in errands and forgot all about it. I’ll have to make it last, next time.
Been thinking about my life and all the things I want to do and see and be. I had forgotten how many ambitions I had, I wish they’d return to me but at present I feel a little like the misfortunate Madam Bovary, who spend her days '… waiting for something to happen. Like a sailor in distress, she kept casting desperate glances over the solitary waste of her life.' But I can’t go on like that forever, I need to snap out of it and acknowledging that maybe a start?
Never Say Never Unless You Mean It
After speaking to Sal, I tried to write some poetry but kept getting interrupted, first, by Cricket who kept insisting on seeing me. Then, by Graphix boy, then by Hack and Architect, and then by BF, all of whom insisted on the same thing. My answer to the lot of them was a resounding; No.
In the end, I switched off my phone and that’s how it shall remain because frankly I can’t face another conversation, begining with: 'When am I going to see you?’
I’ve taken the cowards way out, but I don’t even care anymore cos the truth is I don’t have energy to carry on the way I have been; talking on the phone, being coaxed in to making promised and feeling guilty for braking them. I just can’t. I’d rather not communicate at all. I’ve isolated myself from people before and sure I’ve lost friends but…but I can’t help wanting to be alone. I can't.
I remember Jean Rhys once said: 'I wanted to be loved & I wanted to be always alone.' I never fully understood what she meant until now. Like her I want to be loved, but right now I also want to be alone so that takes priority.
I guess, depression’s tricky. At least I'm coping, or am trying. It would be easy to give up, I’m always tempted. I hated being on anti-depressants though ;they made me numb. Maybe that was the point?
My doctor didn’t want to continue prescribing them, she feared I might o.d Her fears were justified. I wanted to. It’s been a few weeks since I’ve stopped taking them, can’t say I’ve noticed any change. Still feel numb, inert, sad, fascinated with death and so on. I guess, I need time.
Work was tedious, but at least I managed to last the day. Didn’t have the heart to do much else except read a short story by Hack Then had the misfortune of receiving an email from mother asking me to do this and that and the other, to which I replied; I can’t, I won’t – basically, go to hell. She's relentless.
One day, when I am strong enough I will walk away and never ever look back. These words have my life in them.
Found and Lost
I'm on my twenty forth cigarette. I'm wasting money killing myself - death should be quick, cheap? and painless. Never mind.
Work was uneventful unlike the rest of my day. The idiot cashier at the bank, with an unpronounceable name, looked shocked when I asked for a mini-statement. I repeated:'Yes, I'd like a mini-statement please' unless it's yet another service you can't provide me with. I wonder where they find those brain-dead idiots. The money situation is certainly something to cry about, but frankly I think I'll save my tears. I'll go and sell some valuables instead; a G _ _ _ _ silver chain and bracelet set (of great sentimental value), some dvds (of none), some other bits of jewellery and whatever else I can find. It's not the first time. Things are just things; they mean nothing. Having said that, there's one thing I would never part with; a first edition of my favourite book, given to me by Sal(the man who tried to save me at nineteen), although I'm sure it could fetch quite a bit.
Slightly irked by the idiot cashier, I headed to the supermarket to buy some food for me and my neighbour's cat who's like my own and therefore has to be fed.
A few hours after getting home, I got a phone call from an unfamiliar number. I picked up and recognised the voice instantly. It was Sal. 'I've been trying to reach you for months'. I felt ashamed of myself, because the last few time he called I didn't pick up 'I know I'm sorry, I've been going through a bit of a taught time' I explained. He offered help, I declined. Then finally he said: 'Ok darling, I just want you to know that you can always come to me.' Thing is, I've always known that I just didn't want to burden him. I still don't but I know, when (and if) I fall he'll be there - my safety net. It's always been this way. We lived together for two years until I broke his heart, and even that he's forgiven me. I don't know why I did it but maybe it's like Kierkegaard said:
'When two people fall in love and suspect they are made for each other, the thing is to have the courage to break it off, for by continuing they have everything to lose and nothing to gain.'
I guess I found the courage, but lost something else in the process.
The Scary Big World Beyond
Graphix Boy was on the phone yesterday trying to encourage me to get back in touch with Uni and ask them if I can proceed with the course despite being absent for most of spring term. I’ll have to phone them in the afternoon and find out where I stand. It’d be a shame if all that effort and money went to waste. GB has been a good friend but lately he’s been more forthcoming about his feelings, which makes me a little uneasy since I can’t reciprocate them. Sometimes, I think I inadvertently lead him or do I merely humour him? I really don’t know. To be completely honest I don’t know why he finds me so appealing. He offers: ‘Because you’re the most beautiful, intelligent and fascinating girl I’ve ever met.’ Personally, I think he needs to get out more, but then he does – he gets out plenty. He has a hectic social life which sees him surrounded by gorgeous, willing women and yet he’s been single for as long as I’ve known him. I remember when we first met, he confessed he’d never been in love. I said: One day, you’ll fall for someone and they’ll change your life.’ It’s almost been four years. He hasn’t yet but sometimes, sometimes I think... The things he says and does seem more than simple gestures of friendship. He goes out of his way to keep in touch everyday and tell me how ‘amazing’ I am. He draws for me, he buys me little gifts, he talks of taking me on weekend breaks, for picnics, dancing, for romantic walks along the river, for lazy Sunday lunches. He’s also in the process of painting my (second) portrait. I don’t know what to make of it; does he have real feelings for me or is he just being overly friendly?
I’ve got to go to work today, can’t say I’m looking forward. Don’t really want to face the day, don’t really want to leave my little universe. Thinking of the scary big world beyond my front door and Lewis Carroll's symbolic logic:
(1) None of the unnoticed things, met with at sea, are mermaids;
(2) Things entered in the log, as met with at sea, are sure to be
worth remembering;
(3) I have never met with anything worth remembering, when on a voyage;
(4) Things met with at sea, that are noticed, are sure to be recorded
in the log.
Last Night
A phone conversation with Cricket didn’t go quite as well as I expected. I couldn't get a word in edgewise; I felt like I was being interrogated, reprimanded and ordered-about all at the same time by someone who has neither the right nor the authority to do so. His argument was that he cares and wants to look after me, even if it means he has to be harsh. And he was, all for my own good mind you. Or was it? I couldn't decide, but after he uttered: 'I'm only trying to help you' for the fifth time, I retorted: 'Well, don't then. I never asked for your help!' I didn't want to seem ungrateful, but he was driving me in circles. After my little outburst; his voice softened, his tone mellowed and his tactic changed altogether: 'You know, I love you.You know I only want to make you happy, right?' I didn't say anything. He kept on talking in order to avoid the meditative silence which would of lead to me verbalizing the unsaid, the unsaid being: It's over. But seeing as it wasn’t over, he expressed his need to see me: ‘Perhaps, tomorrow after Cricket?’ I kept silent, which denoted a no on my part. In an attempt to sway me he said: ‘I want to make love to you’, which only confirmed what I already suspected.
All that aside, he did convince me to ring up my Uni in order to explain my ongoing absence. Unfortunately the person I had to speak to wasn’t there. The disobliging secretary suggested I call tomorrow. So I suppose I’ll have to otherwise I’m as good as off the course. I should of gone for a Masters in the Mastery of Fucking Up – I would of graduated with honours.
James Dean & Me
They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.
Philip Larkin
My parents made ‘neglect’ in to an art form. Perhaps that’s why watching the James Dean biopic last night evoked such sad memories for me. The film itself was a poor cinematic endeavour with many inconsistencies, casting blunders and over-the-top performances, but the essence of Dean’s story had some pull; namely his fruitless pursuit for paternal approval. ‘Everyone loves me, everyone wants to talk to me except you!’ Those words transported me back to my own childhood fraught with desperation and an unyielding quest for love and acceptance. At first I hoped my academic achievements would suffice, then my creative exertions, but everything I did was overlooked and ignored until I finally realized that ‘going off the rails’ was the quickest way to garner attention. At the age of sixteen, I found myself in rehab. It was taught, but not as taught as being poked and prodded by an unsympathetic psychologist who maintained I was a ‘troubled child’ without any cause to be troubled. A bit like a ‘Rebel Without a Cause’, a bit like Jim Stark, a bit like James Dean himself who, no doubt, like his on screen character often thought: ‘I don't know what to do anymore, except maybe die’. I did, I often thought that. Once, that thought manifested in to action. I lived, still troubled by the feeling of being lost. After that, the situation at home deteriorated in to awkward silences and thorny exchanges between, what seemed like, three strangers living together. Then at the age of nineteen, I met a man. A lovely man, who wanted to save me.Who tried. A week in to the relationship, he asked me to move in with him. I did. I got up one morning, got dressed and left my parents house, without anything except the clothes on my back, slamming the door on my way out.
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