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Wednesday, February 2nd, 2005
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12:54p
My head hurts.
I realize this is all I have talked about for the past few days. It's all I have thought about.
I have these dreams and they haunt me. Two nights ago I dreamed about a couple of girls who graduated from my school last year. I barely knew them, but they still showed up in my dream. One of the girls was dating my father in the dream. Her name was Holly. My father disappeared one night. I asked her where he was and she shrugged. He does that sometimes, she said.
She was nice to me. We talked on the telephone about my problems. During one of the conversations, we were in the same room but still on the telephone. I glanced at her, smiling softly, as we said goodbyes over the phone, acting like we weren't in the same room. When we hung up, I crossed the space to her. We were only maybe five feet apart. I crossed the space to her and wrapped my arms around her waist, hugging her tightly.
Later in the dream, I was walking through a grocery store with one of my father's real ex-girlfriends. I was talking about Holly. I like her, I said, but I don't know if she knows I'm gay. The ex-girlfriend pointed out that Holly probably knew more about me than I could imagine, if she were dating my father, because my father talks about me all of the time.
Last night, I dreamed about a bookstore.
At the end of the dream, I was reading a book. It was about the boy who plays Simon on 7th Heaven. David something, right? He was supposed to be in character in the book, so he was playing Simon, but the book called him David, his real name.
There was a math contest yesterday at school. I didn't even know about it. I always thought this would happen one year, that I'd be pushed aside or left behind. But this year I thought that if it hadn't happened yet, it would never happen. I guess I was wrong. Early last week, Mrs. Butler came into my math class recruiting for mathletes. She didn't even look at me.
current mood: floundering
current music: Come Crash -- A.C. Newman (24 comments |comment on this)
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2:34p
I left the house because my mother kept telling me I looked sad.
No kidding.
Drove to Panera because Panera is where I go when I want to get away. Panera has all of my comforts in one place. Soup in a bread bowl, iced chai, free internet, really comfortable chairs, people to observe.
I love when single mothers take their young children into restaurants. Their is a baby boy three tables from me who takes turns pointing to all of the men here, saying, He's somebody's daddy. The last man he pointed at wasn't really a man at all.
He was a teenage boy who shook his head and said, I'm no one's daddy.
The little one has a stuffed dog that he carries between his teeth. I like to carry things between my teeth too, but I think people would regard me strangely. They do that enough already. Little boy and his mother left. Another little boy has taken his place, this one slightly older. He looks like the boy who played Peter in Finding Neverland.
I want a son named Peter and a daughter named Katherine Virginia. My grandma was named Katherine Virginia, but she always went by Virginia. My aunt goes by Kathy. I like that I would carry on their tradition. I think I'd probably end up calling her Ginny. Because I like the name Ginny. I think I would also call her Katherine sometimes because I like calling people who do not go by their first names by their first name anyway. One thing I never told Kit is that I think of her as Christina in my head as frequently or more frequently than I think of her as Kit.
Told Kristin another secret last night. Every time I reveal something new to her, I realize how much of myself I really hide from everyone else.
I fantasize about dying.
I think my mother will probably die of suicide some day and I think I probably will too. I am not suicidal, but that is the only way I can envision myself dying. I wonder how I will do it and when I will go. I want to live well into my eighties. Why would I kill myself at that point? Doing it for the romance and the mystery would be worthless at that point. Or maybe it wouldn't.
I found something my mom had written a while ago, talking about killing herself. I want to remember what exactly she wrote, but I can't. I think she said that I would understand and still be angry. I don't know how angry I'd be. I know I would understand.
I think we are meant to be certain ways in life. I am designed to be dissatisfied. The dissatisfaction is what drives me to write. And my writing is meant to exist. My writing could help to reshape the world. If I did not have the temperament that I have, I wouldn't write this way. I wouldn't have the compulsion or the need.
Am listening very, very quietly to Tori Amos. Her cover of 'Enjoy the Silence' breaks my heart a little. Or a lot. Oh my little girl / All I ever wanted / All I ever needed / Is here / In my arms.
Back to speaking on compulsion and need. If I were not someone who leans toward introspection and depression even on her happiest, most outgoing days, I would not have the gifts that I have.
Strange as it is to say, I am grateful for my depression.
And I think, in some respects, that because of those facts, these anti-depressants are a waste of time, money and effort. If my anxiety had not been getting out of hand pre-medication, I would stop taking my Lexapro right now. But I do need help with the anxiety. I wish there were something that could target the anxiety and not the depression. I think they're a package deal though.
I think I might get to see Kristin two weekends in a row. She's coming here on the 11th. And the next weekend is a four-day weekend for me, so I am going to ask my mom if I can go visit her at IU. I am counting hours until I can curl up in her lap again. She plays with my hair and looks at me tenderly and that girl makes me feel more loved than I've ever felt in my life.
Oh my little girl / All I ever wanted...
I watch everyone who walks past me shamelessly. A teenaged girl and her mother just walked past me. My gaze rolled down her body and then I smiled upward at the mother. Another girl just walked past me. In her early twenties. I used to have fantasies of showing up at the house of a boy I liked in nothing but a trench coat. Sometimes I wore red satin underneath.
I would look beautiful in red satin.
I love my body so much. There are bruise-colored, red-purple gashes above my hips on either side. My hipbones are rounded and the flesh creates pads of warmth. I love my stomach which curves and sections itself like a honeycomb. I love my thighs, strong, plush, as contradictory as I am.
I lay on my stomach every night when I start to get sleepy. I'm usually on the phone with Kristin when that happens. I lay on my stomach and I start to feel the weight of my exhaustion, it rolls into my shoulders. It causes my forehead to push into the mattress, for my neck to dip back. My breasts hang down more heavily. When I have that feeling, I just want to be fucked. I want someone to slide their hands around my hips and whisper all sorts of overpowering things into my ears and inside, please, inside.
I think so hard about what I want to hear that I start to hear it. I want to bleed. I want someone to take a razor blade to my skin and carve thin, sweeping lines into my body. I want the cuts to be at the sort of angle where I can't properly see anything, so that my fingers will wander. They'll wander and prod and probably split the cuts back open even after they've healed and I'll hold mirrors to myself and take pictures and do everything in my power to get a complete vision of what the cuts look like, but I'll never really know.
I have this one fantasy that someone cuts their own name into my skin. What kind of fierce possession would that take? Will someone feel that for me?
I'm not wearing my glasses. My mom called a few minutes ago and told me she was lonely, that she wanted me home. Here I sit. She made a comment while we were at the doctor's office on Monday. She told the doctor how happy she is with my improvement on the Lexapro, she said, Samantha's more agreeable, more family-oriented, much more enjoyable to be around...
It made me so angry. More family-oriented? Does she even realize that I chose to focus on my family last semester instead of school and that as a result, I am not in NHS, my cumulative GPA slid under a 4.0, I received a D in French, Shireen wanted to get me kicked out of Newspaper, and I'm not in Mathletes anymore? How much more family-oriented can I get?
But it was a cold anger. I smiled and joked and spent the evening with her, even buying us dinner and eating with her. One day, I'll want to hurt her and I will.
I am so, so cruel. I wouldn't be nearly as cruel if I weren't so deliberate. Worse. I like it. I like when I inflict pain. I'm like a cat, with a secret smile and a disguising stretch. I lash out at unexpected times and I strike the intended, who generally is someone who has already hurt me.
I savor those moments of meanness. Like chocolates or caramels, keeping the moments in my mouth, sucking at the pleasure of the memories. The pleasure of pain. My dark side.
current mood: biding
current music: It's No Good -- Depeche Mode (comment on this)
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