He is not prone to terms of endearment. This isn’t a man who slips into language like a diner’s waitress.
After no communication for days. Maybe a week.
I’ve lost track of time.
These days time is like taffy. Stretching, clinging, sticking.
The point is it just slipped out so casually.
And I want to bash my head into a wall repeatedly.
There’s a reason I grew up loving paperback mysteries, Stephen King, and Wes Craven movies. This isn’t a girl who believes in fairy-tale-happy-ending bullshit.
I am my father’s daughter.
And I know better.
I know that there isn’t some white knight who is gonna swoop in at the last minute and make all the hurt disappear. There isn’t even a constant weight on the other side of my bed, much less in less explicit facets of my life.
I am on my own. Always. Regardless of where I’m stuck in time.
Only a single friend has told me “You deserve to have him stay. You give so much.”
All others are silent. And it shows me what I already know, in that deepest heart of mine. That truest heart. That constant companion that’s been there since when I was little.
There’s no point in giving. There is no deserving.
There is only the taffy stretch of time and the constant stickiness of pain.
I don’t understand why the universe is the way it is. I know you’re a realist but I can’t make myself be that every moment like I’d like. I don’t understand why people like Rogers who do so little adulting, don’t try to look for a job or way of income; keep getting these windfalls that allow them to continue living in the avoidance way of life they’re used to.
Meanwhile I work so hard at trying to get the sort of position that could actually handle my bills and way of life and come up wanting every time. So many job applications. A handle of interviews. Nothing further. At all.
I won’t say “it isn’t fair” because you and I both know that’s a trite excuse for the cards the universe deals each and every person. I get that it isn’t supposed to be fair.
But it certainly isn’t easy to process or handle or deal with.
And I can’t deal. I would if I could but there’s only so many “no’s” and turn downs a person can take. I don’t know what I’m doing wrong and I don’t have the drive, desire, or energy to continue to try to discover how to solve this problem.
I don’t have the friends or relationships to give me any level of support to get through these black thoughts. I learned early to not share those inner thoughts and keep that mask on, but usually I had at least one person in my life I could let it slip with a bit.
No longer.
It’s exhausting having to keep this mask on all the time. I just can’t keep doing it like I have.
I just want to sleep.
Take care and enjoy all that perfect family portrait life that Teresa’s family offers. It’s better that way anyway.
But in the days following my stark refusal to release my pride…
It’s sharp regret.
I find myself unable to say what I think is expected.
It’s like dirt in the throat. Sand in the mouth. Broken glass along the tongue.
Wishing I had learned differently.
Grown up in a house of strong affection and open emotions.
But such is not my world. I wish it were.
It’s entirely a weakness, pride is. I know this. I know this with every fiber of my being.
And yet I still cannot break the habit.
The masks, the boxes, the robotic responses.
Co-dependency crippled me all those years ago. I carry a scar so long, so deep that I can feel the rippling skin tightening with thought. So calloused yet so paper thin.
Don’t show weakness. Don’t show need. Don’t show want.
Don’t break character. For the love of god, do not cry.
Do not ask for help. Do not show desire. Do not be vulnerable.
Just let him go. Just like you let them all go.
Pride is a prickly bedmate. A cold companion.
But I know no other better.
Humility…
That fear bubbles up and locks my tongue so neatly when I think to be otherwise. And the moments happen more and more. I think of every bright shinning piece of the past years.
When he’d go out of his way to check on me when I had been my quiet, reclusive self.
When he knew what joke to make to get me to smile.
The way the heat rushed through me so easily when he brushed his fingers over me.
The natural way my head tilted against him when I sit close.
The way he knows to stroke my hair when I’m feeling nervous.
The way he gets just the right level of teasing and sarcasm to make me smile.
The way he kisses the top of my head as an afterthought of affection.
The way he knows I carry all my tension in my neck and shoulders.
The way he recognizes the look of self-loathing in my eyes and knows the right words to make me actually feel solidly beautiful..
I miss that syrupy thick feeling while lying on the cool sheets and allowing his fingers to dance over me.
But that fear, that victim mindset leaps to attention.
It hisses-snarls-screams at me…
“Remember what happened last time.”
The one time I tried handing my heart over. I tried full, unconditional trust.
Unconditional trust is overrated.
Unconditional trust is what turned me into the victim.
Putting a fitted sheet on a mattress fucking sucks. I swear it’s the workout of a marathon in one room.
You try that whole “diagonal sides first”; the whole “back sides first”; whatever other “trick” you got from family or Youtube. They make it look so simple. A breeze. Obviously a fucking simpleton should be able to get a damn fitted sheet onto their fucking mattress.
That’s the metaphor of my life right now.
I have thislife“fitted sheet” that is well-worn, perhaps a bit faded. The pattern is super funky. Couple decades old.
But it’s mine. And I’ve heard it isn’t easy to get another.
I also have this brain“mattress” that I think may have somehow obtained the incorrect size. I’m not sure whether I meant for a full instead of a queen or maybe I need a king?
Honestly, it’s sort of hard to tell whether the mattress is too large or the fitted sheet is too small. Or perhaps the opposite. It’s all just wibbly-wobbly.
No matter how much I fucking groan and shove and twist into all sorts of fun shapes, the damn sheet never seems to fit properly onto the mattress.
I think I’m going to have to saw a corner off. Which is a bit sad, as I love this “mattress”. I don’t want another. I don’t want to really change it. To trade it out for something else. This one is just so familiar, despite the stains and weird lumps and sort of frayed bits on the corners. The whispers in the stuffing and the smudged sort of writing in spots that never seems to rub out.
If I can get the sheet on after cutting a corner off the mattress, then I can just face the weird malformed corner to the wall so no one visiting can tell.
Yeah. I meant clusterfuck, but I thought that might be an inappropriate blog post title.
I know a lot of my blog friends are from the U.K. and I’m not sure if they have the expression “clusterfuck” over there, but that is the only apt descriptor for my current situation.
(I’m gonna borrow lovely WeeGee’s footnotes style for one entry because I cannot express myself in this entry without a lot of quick abbreviations and expression because my mind is a great big swirly mess of horribleness*)
Clusterfuck. It means that basically, some big universe-controlling person** took the ingredients of my life and swirled them around in a bowl. Then they were supposed to add the ingredients to create a semi-passable cake or brownie; but instead, this idiot PTB*** added the WRONG ingredients that turned my bowl of a life into some awful casserole of fuck-uppery instead of a good sweet dessert of yumminess like I desired.
Clusterfuck Casserole
Take:
1 part Pen who is trying to get her butt into more a healing gear lately
Add:
1 part messy “vacation” with her father to her hometown that was a mix of good, bad, and utterly horrible****
1 part her grandfather (the local/maternal one, not Chicago/paternal) going into a risky surgery this past Friday*****
1 part things going all roller coaster-y in the relationship with Army******
1 part having to spend time with a lot of family and be near/in a hospital
1 part making the mistake of going out drinking with people she barely knows Friday night
Season with:
a sprinkle of taking care of puppies for extended periods of time (as well as another one getting adopted)
a pinch of no communication or spending time with close friends in almost a week
a dollop of next to no sleep for going on 4 days now
Stick in the oven at about 400 degrees for 5 days.
The blog world is a bit much right now. I’m trying to ease back into reading and commenting on some. Sorry it isn’t everyone. I’m doing my best. Bear with me. I’ll eventually be back to normal. Hopefully. For the moment I’m going to attempt pretending at being a normal person at work when all I really want to do is curl into a ball of self-loathing and debate on sobbing.
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*i.e. Clusterfuck
**I don’t mean a god, necessarily. Maybe I mean FSM.*******
***Powers That Be. I took this from Cordelia’s expression of them in the show “Angel” (Joss Whedon!)
****Yes, that was over a week ago, but I am still recovering due to the extreme backlash of drama that happened from it
*****For which I was just told the night before. The night before. About surgery that he could easily DIE from.
****** Of course, when is it not?
*******Flying Spaghetti Monster
First of all, I had a lovely “Hump Day Dinner” with Texas and another girl friend of mine that I rarely get to see. It was a lot of fun. There was sangria and calamari; both of which I adore.
We had fun joking around and talking about nothing.
But then it went downhill…
But Texas has been acting weird. She’s seriously contemplating breaking up with her longtime boyfriend of…4 or 5 years now I think. I dunno. Awhile. Mostly due to not getting the attention she needs, but also a lot of money disagreements (basically he wants to use her money for his shit).
While having this crisis of romance, she starts making this really weird deal about how pretty I am and how all the men around us want me (…what?). I’m not really sure how to deal with this. Besides the fact that I have awful self-image issues and can’t even process what she’s suggesting about me; I’ve always thought Texas is a really beautiful woman.
She has this flawless skin I’ll never achieve, shapely legs, gorgeous curly dark hair, and an actual chest region. There’s a reason she was so easily able to steal my high school boyfriend not once, but twice.
Anyway, I am completely befuddled by her behavior. She’s always been nice to me about my looks in that “normal girl friend” way (“Oh you look great in that shirt!”) , but I’ve never experienced such dogged references to me. It feels like she goes out of the way to point out that the waiter is flirting with me and our other friend joins in. I’m completely wigged out at this point. The sangria doesn’t help.
I texted Army to try and get some sort of stabilizing opinion and explain that Texas is making me a bit nervous by pointing out these things. Apparently it comes out wrong because he lashes out at me about trying to “make him jealous” and that if he “said the same thing” to me, I’d be “furious”. I have no idea what he’s talking about.
The words and tone sound like Katherine.
My vision starts swimming and shifting and my head is spinning and I can’t do that again. I can’t be a possession again. I can’t be a slave, an object, a thing. I can’t belong to a person again. I can’t handle over-jealously again. I can’t I can’t I can’t I can’t.
Texas notices the shift and comments. I briefly explain, but not entirely. She gets it a bit, but has no words. I understand, she’s dealing with her own frustrations. The car ride home is quiet.
I think about how he doesn’t even acknowledge me on Facebook. I know it’s a shallow teenage thing. I’m not asking for “in a relationship” bullshit. I don’t much care for that. But he mentions when he’s hanging out with friends. Or even his roommates. But he’s goes out of his way to never ever mention my name on there. Even when he uploads pictures of my puppies for his friends to see.
And yet he wants to start talking jealously?
Hell no.
If he wants to be in the “deeper level” of a relationship and it means this sort of stuff, I’m out.
Out out out out out out.
I won’t do the crazy jealously game to myself again. I won’t. I won’t do it.
I spent some of it with Texas and a chunk of it with Army. The distraction of friends was nice.
But I am worried about the direction of things. Like I always am when things get too intimate. I want to skitter back. I want to run. I want to bolt.
Army’s roommates are moving to Connecticut. They’re giving him a little over 2 months to find a new place.
And he asked me to move with him.
Technically my lease isn’t up at that time, but there have been such fuckups made by the landlord/property management that I can easily get out of this lease whenever I want with some legal magic dancing. And Army knows this.
He says he wants us to get a house.
Half of my head lights up with blaring neon sirens.
The other half murmurs dreamily as images of a backyard and bigger kitchen spin lazily around.
I think about before. He swears the issues I had with him have all changed. I think about the good aspects. I miss them.
But I don’t think I deserve to play house. With anyone. I don’t deserve a healthy relationship.
I thought about Jeff a lot this weekend. I’m not sure why. Texas mentioned something to me that had me worried about him. I know I fucked things up. I know I don’t deserve to even be around him.
And I know that I can’t be anything close to what he needs.
But before we tried (and I destroyed) that whole romantic possibility, we were friends. For almost a decade. And close friends for the last four years.
I miss him.
I miss having someone I could just be honest with. I know it completely blew up in my face (and my mind tells me never ever to trust to that degree again), but I can’t help but push that fact aside.
I just want to make sure he’s all right. And that things are good with him. He deserves that.
There’s blood in my mouth ’cause I’ve been biting my tongue all week. I keep on talking trash, but I never say anything.
And the talking leads to touching, And the touching leads to sex, And then there is no mystery left.
And it’s bad news, baby I’m bad news I’m just bad news, bad news, bad news
I know I’m alone if I’m with or without you, But just being around you offers me another form of relief When the loneliness leads to bad dreams, And the bad dreams lead me to calling you, And I call you and say “C’mere!”
And it’s bad news, baby I’m bad news I’m just bad news, bad news, bad news
And it’s bad news, baby it’s bad news It’s just bad news, bad news, bad news ‘Cause you’re just damage control For a walking corpse like me, Like you, ‘Cause we’ll all be portions for foxes. Yeah, we’ll all be portions for foxes.
There’s a pretty young thing in front of you And she’s real pretty, and she’s real into you And then she’s sleepin’ inside of you.
And the talking leads to touching, then the touching leads to sex And then there is no mystery left.
And it’s bad news. I don’t blame you, I do the same thing. I get lonely too. And you’re bad news; my friends tell me to leave you, That you’re bad news, bad news, bad news
You’re bad news, baby you’re bad news And you’re bad news, baby you’re bad news
And you’re bad news I don’t care, I like you And you’re bad news I don’t care, I like you I like you
Edit: I’ve had some very lovely and sweet blog friends/supporters suggest the idea of emailing me to distract and cheer me up. I think it’s such a lovely idea. You guys do such a great job in the comments, but I feel like it always stops so abruptly after the reply.
If you feel so inclined (absolutely no pressure) to drop me a caring, funny, insightful thought or pictures, my email is kneargarder@gmail.com . Any distraction helps.
Trigger warning for sex/BDSM/abuse talk
______________________________________________
Somehow in all our teasing, flirting lighthearted talking last night, Army convinced me to text him a picture of me in stockings with garters.
I’ve never done such a thing before.
I’m sure that seems surprising, with Charlotte’s sexual nature. I’m not 100% sure that she’s never slipped out a risque pic to some stranger that meant nothing but pure sex, but I can say pretty confidently that I’ve never sent such pictures to anyone who meant anything to us.
I was nervous about it, and to his credit, he wasn’t being pushy. It was that gentle sort of prodding that got me to finally gather up some of that elusive courage and manage something relatively sexy.
It was pretty much just my legs crossed in stockings with the garters peeking at the top. No face, nothing X-rated. Just in case it were to find it’s way into the public eye.
And I still worried. Something tugged at the corner of my mind.
My fingers moved on their own.
“Just yours, right?”
He texted back almost immediately.
“Only mine. No sharing.”
My brain seemed to explode.
Voices started screaming at me.
Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. No sharing. No one else. No touching. Mine.
A cascade of memories of Katherine’s games of possession and branding wash over me.
I touch my left hip nervously. The scar is very faint now. That means I’m no longer branded, right? I don’t belong to her. I’m not breaking it. Not violating the pact.
She violated it first.
But she was never marked. She could do as she pleased.
Only me.
I am the property. I am the girl. I am the claimed.
I am splintered. Really struggling with the whole unity and “I”. Feeling only like a “we” the past couple days.
And we are not agreeable or allies in any way.
__________________________________________________
I’m not sure what made me decide to confide in him over text about being fat and ugly and needing pills and laxatives. I’ve never spoken to anyone about it before. I did take some pills and washed them down with a couple shots of liquor. It makes it easier to not think about food. I don’t need food. Food makes me fat.
Then he texted us. And sent everyone into a tailspin. Charlotte is squirming in that nasty way she does. He asks if I’m all right. If I’m coping with all my new stress. He says he misses me. He asks about the new guy. I don’t want to talk about Craig. He says he’s worried about me. He wonders if I’m handling living alone all right.
And I tell him.
I tell him I’m so fat and I have to take the laxatives on the weekend because otherwise I can’t go to work. That during the week it’s hard and I struggle so bad to be a good girl. That the other ladies at work always look so chic. And they notice when I lose weight. They notice every single pound. And they are so happy for me. So very happy. They praise. They congratulate. They sing and shout and smile. Their white teeth take up their whole face like fence posts in front of a perfect house. A house a lady would have.
He cuts off my rantings and calms me down. His encouragement and praise for my body being the way it is skitters into my brain and wraps around me like a blanket. He dismisses the thoughts of blubber, of fat, of sludge. I tell him it’s been weeks since he’s seen my anyway.
He says it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t like me being so cruel to myself. He says he cares.
How can he care? He just leaves and dismisses me. He doesn’t care at all.
He never cared when Audrey was hurting from the mess he made. (he never thought the pregnancy was a two-personeffort)
Why am I the one who feels pain at his words? I don’t care what boys think. What is wrong with me? Charlotte’s affecting me too much.
I’m not exactly sure who told Craig our address. My best guess is Charlotte or Kit. It’s hard to know. All I know is this boy stands in my living room, offering gifts of chocolate, ice cream, diet coke (Kit’s weakness) to try and make our back pain better.
But I barely know him. I certainly don’t know him well enough to chose to let him into our residence. But someone thinks he’s safe. I think about enlisting Rika to help me boot him out.
It’s Charlotte that surfaces instead. She entices him into the bedroom, saying they’ll watch a movie. I wrestle control enough to stiffly watch a movie with him. The damn muscle relaxers are messing me up badly. Me, who can handle most pills like a trooper. It is my talent, after all.
The rest of the evening slips past me. I doze at one point.
The body dozes.
The boy doesn’t leave.
It’s me who wakes up in the cold light of morning and feels the pressure of an arm slung over my waist. Rika fights her way forward but is caught by something. By someone.
no one knows self-sabotage like i do. the boy moves closer, muttering something about mornings and food. i remain perfectly still. i am a statue. i am always a statue when they want me to be.
but he wants to get up and go get food. i stare at him. he remarks that i can’t go to a restaurant in pajamas. i look down and notice that i am fully clothed in a t-shirt and the loose pants that say coca-cola in red. i glance back up at the boy. he is fully clothed in jeans and a black t-shirt. he tilts his head slightly and says something. then he smiles in a sickeningly honest way.
I could eat. I change clothes in the bathroom and accompany him to Bob Evans. Breakfast sounds the best.
I am a little disappointed over the lack of activity last night, but he seems to be the type who isn’t into a quick roll in the sack anyway.
In my disappointment, my thoughts easily drift to Army as he natters on about his antics with friends back during his school days. I wonder how much Victoria’s craziness scared Army. It doesn’t seem like much, considering he last texts are about how he’ll always listen to us if we need it and all he wants to do is help. I idly wonder what sort of help I might be able to get that offer to extend to….
I snap to attention when Craig mentions children and stare at him. He speaks again, talking about how he-wants-a-family-and-he-has-name-ideas-and-he-thought-his-ex’s-baby-might-have-been-his-but-the-timing-wasn’t-right-and-that’s-probably-a-good-thing-anyway-because-he’s-done-with-her-and-a-child-should-be-with-someone-he’s-attracted-to-and-cares-about…
His eyes focus. I blink. And frown.
No fucking way.
I fucked that shit up before. I am not gonna be the one to crack open that jar this time. Not to mention that the last time was a complete accident. This guy sounds like he’d hide our birth control pills.
pen, paper, and crazy 