8:15 p.m. - 09/08/02
we now return to my regularly scheduled personas. (please?)
If you haven't seen Daria, this is going to be very very boring for awhile...
I have a theory (or a hunch, as my psychology book would be quick to correct me) that one could achieve inner balance by cultivating all of the Daria characters to some extent or another. Well, perhaps, all of them minus Kevin and Brittany. I'm sure it says something about me that I'm less scared of Mr. DeMartino than I am of Brittany, but nevertheless, 'tis the truth. Lately, I've felt my Quinn-ness on the rise, a not-altogether, but still *somewhat* disturbing reality. A rise in my materialistic desires, I suppose, though said desires are by no means directed toward arenas the fashion club would approve. I would definitely be put on fashion sabbatical for the clothes I drool a bit over. And the shirt I made today. (Fabric markers make a girl feel crafty...) Even though as I prepared the design and stressed about how the lettering would turn out, I did think to myself, "This is important! This is *clothes* we're talking about; it's not like it's a school assignment or something."
At that point, I was very much disturbed.
I mean, it's good for me to keep my straight-line OCD to a minimum, and I definitely have enough school stress without worrying about doing the projects perfectly, but all the same putting fashion before school frightened me a bit. Even if it was cool, self-designed, fuck-the-system wear. I had a pained moment at having thought this.
But...I finished the shirt, and- lettering and all- it turned out really nice. I'm amazed at the marker quality; I should make a note of what brand they are. It was my first shirt-making experience since my friend Ann's 10th birthday party, where we painted fish onto t-shirts and I left earlier to see my sister star in "Carnival." No fishies this time, but all the same, an enjoyable experience. The shirt has a wooden mirror (the old antique-ish kind, with the feet) showing a thighs-to-shoulder outline of the body we're conditioned to fear. Inside the black outline are red words like "poisoned" and "unworthy" - "needy" and "gross." Basically everything I was afraid my body represented when I was really sick, and am still scared my person represents in general. Above the shirt in larger lettering it says, "Maybe she's BORN WITH IT" and below "Maybe it's MEDIA." I adore it.
No, really I do. I want to run out to the stores and stack up on the boring one-color tees (some baby ones, too, because all my statement shirts are basic tees to this point) I usually avoid. I want to make the I *heart* therapy t-shirt that everyone makes fun of me for wanting, and all sorts of other things. Something with Ramona, I think, and others designs based on quotes that matter. Maybe an atom shirt. I need an atom shirt. I could very easily become addicted to this. Do me a favor, please-le. If I happen to fall into complete obsession and not do anything toward my actual life goals, plans, dreams, purposes- could you possibly blame it on my "fashion strategies" class? Because I seriously did not feel so compelled to act out against the system until I was being beaten over the head and forced to regurgitate its messages. Ok, maybe I did. But it'd make me happy to blame the class.
Other reasons I want to be hitting my parents up for money we *so do not have* right now, and thereby affirming my Quinn-ness:
-the new Ani CD, which is basically "Mary's favorite Ani songs, minus Independence Day but with the added bonus of Self-Evident"
-the new Tori CD, which is less than two months away
-a general deficiency of kneesocks and tights, which make me ever so happy (I have a thing about liking to wear layers of clothing- the other day I wore pink fishnets over black ribbed tights and felt so wonderful; it isn't an "I want to hide" thing- it makes me feel protected, and I dig the look)
-a general deficiency of skirts (so very much meaning knee-length) to wear with said tights (the pink/black ensem described previously was worn under jeans...yes. I was *that* desperate for some sort of self-expression - I also wore my fairy wings until the miserable state they're in became depressing)
-all the books people are telling me I need to read and I am wanting to read and not able to read because I am missing one) a library card, two) a way to the library, and three) money for bookstores
-and a bunch of other things, I'm thankfully, forgetting...(like blank tapes for mixes and new indie music and the still-fairly-new melissa ferrick and and and...)
I'm very afraid. Commit me. Send me to the deep brush of Africa. Do *not* let me sell out to capitalism. I will not buy shirts saying don't buy shirts; I *will* not...
I talked to Sara this afternoon for the second day in a row, and for the second day in a row, it was really great to hear from her. It's hard in some ways, because I know she's struggling so much, but it's nice in others because I'm struggling too, and she understands that, and because we're *struggling* which means we haven't completely given up and let It overwhelm us. I think maybe she needs to give up school, but obviously, I can't know that type of thing until she tells me. She's majorally struggling with giving herself what she needs and letting herself let go of the paths-to-success drilled into her head by the public school system. (Doesn't sound at all familiar, does it?) I asked her if she'd ever taken time off- in all the time she's been out of school, if she'd ever *stopped* school, and she laughed a little nervously and said she hadn't. I was afraid of that. I know how terrifying it is to have to give it up- I remember. And I know how painful it is to think, "I can't not go to college with my class!" (though I have the other, "I can't go to college next year!" voice running simultaneously.) I didn't know how to give school up; I had to push and push until it was *taken away.* But Sara's really strong, and I know she can do it if she needs to, if she lets herself. And it's such a gift, even a year or a semester later when you're back inside, to know that you can live without school. That you have worth and an identity outside of it, and no matter how much you get caught up in the pain of it, you can't get caught up completely by the lies...because...you've seen differently now. And they can't take it away.
As much as the forces-that-be-evil want me to believe that I don't deserve to be loved and I'll never be safe, I can't be supported and I'll never find peace, I have the added ammunition of my past now. I have the added shield of, "and why not? Don't you remember one year ago? *one year ago* I had it; who's to say I won't again?" and as much pain as there is in "one year ago" there's joy, too. Because a year from now, it will be two years, and that makes me glad it's only one.
I will wear my "one" necklace with my designer-original (*wink*) t-shirt, and I will keep in touch with a girl who sometimes scares me with how much of me she's seen, at the same time I'm so grateful for it. I'm so grateful for the girl...
My own schoolwork is going...ok. I split the class-load into what I considered a decent amount of work for today and tomorrow, and I got almost all of today's done before I was hit by about an hour of feeling absolutely dead-ish. Nauseous, dizzy, sinus-ridden. I worked on the shirt while my body rested, and I feel ok now, just tired...though I'm trying not to be too cocky about that. I think I'll be able to finish the extra today-work tomorrow, and if not, I'll be "behind" on my self-inflicted schedule. And that will be ok.
I'd feel fine about school (if I hadn't gone to Neverland and) if I didn't have that blasted Physics test to finish tomorrow. I hope I get a B on it. If I get a B, I'll gain a little confidence, and I'll feel less like physics = geometry, and any moment now The Evil Ones will show up at my door to beat me. I'll gain some confidence and remember I've escaped. Somewhat. Geographically, I'm gone, and that's no small feat, in truth.
So yes. In truth, I leave you for the night. I so want to sleep tonight; please God, let it be possible.
*cuddles to the dearlings*
chord
�
�
