6:05 p.m. - 12/11/02
life is never dull in your head - a sorry tale of action and the men you left for women and the men you left for intrigue and the men you left for dead.
at one point today I said something to him like, "we're not really talking about this, are we?" I wanted to cite Pandora, say something smart and silly about how I was unleashing horrors I didn't need added to my plate. but I couldn't. couldn't talk, couldn't think, could barely breathe. at one point I grazed my need with my palm and my leg sprang out, hyper-reflexive. I wanted to say, "there is so much more going on than I can possibly talk about right now. so we're talking about something else. but why are we talking about something that's only going to be more pain for me to carry during this next impossible week?"
impossible? yes, maybe impossible. I've realized in the past hour that there's honestly no way I can finish the semester by the end of next week, when it ends. I have five exams and seven classes worth of work, at least four tests before the exams, et cetera. possibly impossible. but I can't give up thinking I have to get this done. once again. I can't give up thinking there has to be a way, one that involves me not being on-line right now. one that involves me not going Christmas shopping tonight, or sleeping, or living, or needing anything ever again.
didn't we try this once before?
-everyone is talking about death. I know they don't mean to, and I'm hyper-aware of it all, but does every conversation have to remind me? I was almost grateful for the grief the other day, grateful for the anniversary that makes it suddenly ok to not be ok again, but this is getting ridiculous. it's an anniversary thrown in between school-at-full-speed and Christmas. how the hell do I fit in grief?
-my blood-family knows about the name change. I accidentally e-mailed all of them from my yahoo account, which has my name changed. and no one has asked about it, but I still wanted to throw myself through glass when it happened. because this is one thing I can't bear to have them undermine. this is one thing I can't bear to have them take away the power of. I can't hear my name on their lips. it's my shield against them, and I don't want to lose it so easily as by mistake.
-my uncle, who also received a what-was-I-thinking e-mail from the yahoo account did ask me about it. and I felt like absolute shit. I realized a lot of this had to do with his subject line: Mary Brave? as if it didn't make sense. those who know me, those of who you have written about the name, would never question it. they might ask how it came about, what I intend with it, but no one would question the name itself. everyone so far has been, "it's so you! it fits so well, and it flows, and it's wonderful." it hurt so much to have him question. and to explain, what I could explain. I did it mostly through a poem I didn't write, and added on that the actual choice- Brave- was a little too deeply-rooted to be explained now without pain, and he responded marvelously well, and I was glad that I didn't give him everything when he was happy with less, but it was still more than a little ickly.
-yesterday, after several hours of belated journal-writing on Dune, I lay in my mom's bed and listened to myself breathe. I also listened to "Tigermilk" which I haven't done in ages, and which I realized is actually not depressing. just quiet, and I always listened to it in the tolls of depression. it's beautiful actually, and it made me feel better. expectations? she's losing it? relevance is underrated.
-I'm writing the annual play. I say annual because no matter how many plays I start, I never finish any. I've finished very few, and this one, I know- will be finished. It will be a real piece, whether I like it as much as the last one or not. This means that I have a lot of creative work going on at the same time that my head is an absolute shambles, is running around at cheetah-pace. and, because Sarah is currently taking a grant-writing workshop, it also means that I've been asked to show it to someone- to my sister, no less- before it's finished. and this is really not cool because I have a hard time sharing finished drafts...and because... there are things in it I don't want her to read. like the fact that there are two female characters in love. in non-platonic love. two people who could be interpreted as two sides of the same person or could be interpreted as Mary likes girls. and I know I'm fucked. because fucked is the theme lately.
-did I think I wouldn't talk to him about relationshit? not, really. but I thought the fact that Tracy's anniversary is coming up, and I spent the weekend at my dad's, and school is driving me crazy and so on, might put it off a little while. so when we started talking about one small facet, one small history, today I was caught a little off guard. meaning I was tense and fidgeting and feeling like if I didn't find a way to cut/burn/punish/revive myself within the second, I was not going to survive. I feel it come back a little just thinking. that anxiousness that begins in the back of my head, that creeps up my skull on paths of, "he knows, he knows, he knows. bad girl, all your fault."
and I didn't even tell him about Billy. didn't even begin. I didn't even tell him about Jenna. I didn't even tell him much of anything. I just couldn't breathe. the pain was so intense ("tangible" he said) that he asked if something had happened in the past week to escalate it. but nothing has. the only possible explanation (other than that I've really been carrying around that much craziness) is that we listened to my brother Dale's new CD on the way to his office. and it's really good, and there are songs I really like, and I started to think, "if I listen to this, maybe I can find a part of Dale that I relate to." and I started to amuse myself thinking how Dale and I must have something in common, as we have in the past fallen for a few of the same girls. (a thought that only ravages my head a bit more now.) oddly, though, Dale also has that vibe of EvilBoy going for him, which led me to the very unhappy possibility that there is something in me similar to those who so frighten/ disturb. that if he's like them, and I'm like him, there's a transitory link. that I'm screwed in so many ways.
I realized today that my not wanting to talk about what's gone on in my non-relationship-relationships with guys has to do in part with my fear that I'm not allowed to like girls, that it's not ok for me. it goes something like this: I'm terrified. because really horrible things happened to me- at least, things that FELT really horrible (do they really matter? all those times I was raped without anyone touching me?) and I can't stand the idea of ever being in any kind of Relationship with someone who's a guy. I just can't. and I can't stand the idea of sex and invasion and penetration, and all those things. it's even one of the reasons I don't ever want to have a child- because I feel like the baby in my body would have invaded me, and I just can't handle that. and it's not like I'm doing much better with girls, but I just feel like I'm a little more capable, and I feel like I'd be safe not wanting those things with a girl. I honestly feel like a guy wouldn't understand. like a guy would take what I don't want to give. and it isn't fair, but it's legitimate. do I really need to tally all those boys who can't hear no and stop and go away?
anyway, I feel like because I'm scared I have to do it. that's an issue of mine. if it feels like the hardest thing in the world, you must be supposed to do it. if it feels completely painful and impossible, it must be necessary. it must be true, and true is a hard thing to ignore when you're an artist. damn. these experiences I've had with guys are in my head, my fault. and because they're my fault, I must have wanted them. (god, if that isn't the total rape-victim cliche, right there.) but seriously. I feel like, I'm pretending that I like girls. I am. and all of these things that happened to me, all of these guys that *I brought in* and *I let stay* and *I somehow seduced*- emotionally, mentally, something...are just proof of what I really want. I really want guys to chase me. I really want them to follow me. I really want them to throw cars off roads. I really want them to tell me I'm no good. I really want them to make me feel unsafe in my own skin. and ultimately, I want them to rape me. because I want to have sex with guys. I just pretend I don't.
that is what's in my head. I know it's in my head because when I thought, talking with him, "it's my fault because I pretended not to want it but I must have wanted it because I made it happen" I nearly started crying. maybe I did start crying. I was spinning at high speeds the whole session. I don't really remember most of it.
I told him I felt responsible, which he thought meant responsible for these people's feelings, which was accurate in lots of cases, but what I meant was that I feel responsible *now* for what happened. for getting myself into those situations. for being stupid. I told him that if people tell you your whole life that you aren't supposed to talk to strangers or get in cars with people you don't know, and you do and something bad happens, of course you're responsbile. and of course you don't run to tell them about it. because it's your fault, and you don't need to hear that again.
"but you never got in a stranger's car," he said.
"yes, I did."
"literally?" he asked.
"almost literally," I said. break. erm..."I got in a car with someone I barely knew."
"a classmate?"
"yes." break. mumbled: "class ahead of me." oh, shit I volunteered details. what if he expects more details? am I really supposed to be talking about this.
"did something bad happen?"
fuck. um, stall and clarify..."how do you define 'bad'?"
"something you didn't want to have happen."
fuck. shit. fuck. "by that definiton, yes."
and because I'm not entirely an idiot, and I usually know when I'm misleading someone, I know what he's thinking. I know what I was thinking that night- country roads, no gas, after midnight...I know what I was terrified was happening. but it didn't happen. it didn't happen. nothing ever happens, and I'm so sick of that shit. I mean, he can talk flourescent lights, and my experience/ my feelings are what matters, all he wants, but it comes down to this is not ok. I am slandering people here. I am saying things that aren't true. I am making something out of nothing. I am getting what I deserve.
you aren't supposed to go online because online there are old men who will find you and rape you. and if you do go online and you actually have a shitty experience, you should be glad it wasn't so shitty as an old man who finds you and rapes you. it's my fault. it's all my fault.
words that make me want to hurt myself: man, men, sex, sexual, sexuality, violate, violation, relationship. I don't want to hear it anymore. I don't want my inability to condemn these people to be taken as I cared for them. because I didn't always. no more than I care for bugs and air, no more than I care for stuffed animals. no more than I care for everything, obsessively, compulsively, codependently. and when I did, yes, it was worse. but do I really need to hear, again and again and again, that it's ok if I loved them? that it's ok if I gave mixed messages, if I cared? when I didn't. when I was just stupid and naive and dumb. when I put myself in stranger's cars and didn't expect to end up anywhere I didn't have planned.
he said that no matter what I do, it isn't ok when the sitution turns into something where I don't have a choice. but he wasn't there when this all happened. other people were there, and other people got over it. other people told me to get over it. other people said, "are you still upset about this?" other people laughed, and other people said it wasn't a big deal. other people thought it was cute when someone couldn't hear me say no. other people thought it was cute that Mary was finally having trouble with boys.
because that's what's supposed to happen. I'm supposed to have problems with guys and sex and love. and so, when I do, it isn't a big deal. it isn't wrong, even when it feels wrong. and if it is, if something bad happens, it's my fault. because I didn't listen when they told me what to do/ not do. because I did something wrong.
I let them in. so here. I'm here. just come and get me. what's the point? I'm so convinced that's how it's supposed to be...
chord
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