love's no trifle

I found angsty from a few months ago, just sitting on my harddrive. I'm only sharing it because I've noticed how different my thinking is now. What with being medicated, happy, moved on, self-assured...doing well.

I tried to untangle some bundles in my head:

I remember feeling out of place in my oversized too-bright green and stained jeans. Next to this lanky pretty with painted denim and hair that could (has) make (made) girls swoon, it’s impossible to not feel inferior. Somewhere between discussing traveling Europe and a heartfelt recommendation I make for Albert Camus, I start to notice just how pretty he is.

This is dangerous territory. This is bad news bears.

Weeks pass. You grow closer. A casual hi turns into an hour-long conversation, when your family back home is dramatically altered, he’s the one you turn to and rant at. He’s the one who lets you. It’s still dangerous territory, and you’re starting to care a lot less. All you can feel is the press of his body against yours, a tongue darting into your mouth. Not hesitant. Not hesitant at all. You’d never really encountered that confidence, and you were anxious to see more of it. You end up getting a bit more than you bargained for.

You swear it’s a case of happenstance. A party that only you and another friend attend, hanging out turns into snuggling turns into “Be right back, I’m going to go ravish her.”

You find out afterward it’s his first time having sex in a bed. You feel oddly honoured, and hope you were as good as he hoped you would be. You talk, you tell him things you don’t tell many others, and you sleep. Something about the planes of his body against yours and the morning light from the window above his bed feels right. Something about waking up next to him feels right. It’s a feeling you’ll get used to over the next few months. It’s terrifying.

Your terror turns inward.

A comment that won’t strike you as odd until much later: “To me, this is almost better than sex.”

And then I tried to untangle some really really really big bundles:

You never expect her the first time. She’s got a way about her, too subtle to be trusted. It’s not a big event, doesn’t proclaim itself with fanfare and trumpets, it just rests in the quiet sound of metal slicing skin. A sound you’ve known intimately, a sound you’ve taken in and made a part of you for the past five years.

He’s the gentlest lover you’ve ever had, and you can find him in the strangest places. Broken utensils, rough plastic, bobby pins left to rust in the forgotten backs of your dresser drawer. You’ve always preferred him hiding in plain sight, the plastic disposable razors gave you in an ill-conceived acknowledgement of puberty. So many in a pack, one set of blades would hardly be missed.

Painting a tree in your blood, rooting. Against your body, with your body.

bodies under siege

"you will get sick again because sick is what you know" -- Marya Hornbacher

Not quite there yet, but I'm sliding. I was cleaning at work today and dropped a glass paperweight and it broke, and I'm ashamed to admit that my first instinct was to grab a particularly sharp looking piece and pocket it. I'm even more ashamed to admit I did so.

I threw it out a few hours later. That counts for something, right?

"I know that a life is possible where every sharp object you pass does not whisper seductively to you, where you want to get out of bed in the morning, where you can stop wearing long sleeves all summer and lying to people you love." -- Iris, a recovering self-injurer, as qtd. in A Bright Red Scream

the mosquitoes are not vampires, the moon is not your mother

A few weeks ago, Erika stuck a few star stickers on one of my bedposts. I was just laying back in bed a few moments ago, and noticed that said star stickers have somehow managed to transplant themselves from the bedpost onto the inside of my jacket which is hung up on the bedpost. Funny, that.

My room is cluttered, but I spent three hours outside today reading. I'm somewhat sunburnt, but it was impossible to waste such a gorgeousness cleaning.

"He said, 'Why don't you tell me some things you think you can do, things to keep in mind. And then next week we'll talk about how succesful you were.' 'I'll try to go to school.' 'Good. Really good. What else?' 'Maybe I'll try to be more patient with morons.' 'Good. And what else?' 'I don't know, maybe I'll try not to ruin things by getting so emotional.' 'Anything else?' 'I'll try to be nicer to my mom.' 'And?' 'Isn't that enough?' 'It is. It's more than enough. And now let me ask you, how do you think you're going to accomplish those things you mentioned?' 'I'm gonna bury my feelings deep inside me.' 'What do you mean, bury your feelings?' 'No matter how much I feel, I'm not going to let it out. If I have to cry, I'm gonna cry on the inside. If I have to bleed, I'll bruise. If my heart starts going crazy, I'm not gonna tell everyone in the world about it. It doesn't help anything. It just makes everyone's life worse.' 'But if you're burying your feelings deep inside you, you won't really be you, will you?' 'So?' 'Can I ask you one last question?' 'Was that it?' 'Do you think any good can come from your father's death?' 'Do I think any good can come from my father's death?' 'Yes. Do you think any good can come from your father's death?' I kicked over my chair, threw his papers across the floor, and hollered, 'No! Of course not, you fucking asshole!'
That was what I wanted to do. Instead I just shrugged my shoulders."

-- Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close, JSF