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He wants me to have everything my heart desires. Well, it can't be that way. I cannot have a Cuban in the middle of the week without later obsessing over my lack of will power. It's only a few days from the weekend, when all eats are permitted. So meanwhile, I'll simply fantasize about white bread, hot melted Swiss, and deli meats until my thoughts clear me of the forbidden tastes. Just as well I cannot fantasize about a Cuban without the guilt of fornicating our relationship. Food isn't the only thing off the menu when you commit to monogamy.
That's what's missing: a skill of some sort. So when people ask "What do you do?", I can answer something like, "I'm a cake maker" or "I'm a Pilates instructor". A specialty that would make me feel exactly that: special. Because I feel my talents are going to waste. They're there, untapped. I guess I'm waiting for my attention span and concentration to return so I can go back to school. But the older I get, the more my brain gets fried. I can always pick up a hobby I've dropped, but I'm bored with them. What else is new?
I should've known that having a partner wouldn't assist in fulfilling my spiritual need. A man certainly cannot get me closer to God. I have to find it myself to achieve satisfaction. So I have no one to turn to when I find myself empty and searching. I told myself I knew all these things but I find myself shocked that they're happening to me. As long as I'm looking for someone else to blame for feeling so worldly, I'm going to end up alone. I'm sabotaging my own relationship with him because I can't fortify the one with Him.
The little jean skirt worked. The mango rum helped. But what etched the evening memorable was the clear, unadulterated view of the sun setting into the ocean and his arms fighting the chill breeze for me. No depression could take away the safety, the warmth, the glimpse of happiness. No, it wasn't the perfect night, but close enough is all I ask for. My body was trying to drag me down, but my soul had finally broken through what seemed ultimately defeating. Next time I feel sorrowful, I'll ask for another ride on the yacht to catch a little sun.
"Hi baby. How are you today?"
"I'm great." I'm dying. Can't you see past the fake smile?
What do you want to do this weekend?"
"Whatever You want. Up to you!" I want to stay indoors and shrivel up.
"My friends invited me over. You can come with."
"Cool. I'm there." Save me, please. I need you to save me.
"Are you sure there's nothing wrong?"
"Mmm hmm." Do you know me? Can you figure it out? I should just tell him.
"Alright then. Eight pm tomorrow." Why can't she just fucking tell me she wants to talk about it.
If insurance weren't a rip off, I'd gladly sign up for a psyche doc. I'm in dire need of analyzing my inner workings. I need more fitting meds for whatever the hell is wrong with me. This dreadful frown and depressing gloom is unfair to the people I love. I don't want them to put up with this. Suppression only makes it worse. When I finally do burst they will have to see the pieces of my shredded heart. Yes, I need therapy. But like all other ailments that go untreated and cancers undetected, I rely on shitty health benefits.
I've come to learn to learn that I too, like the other humans that I socialize with everyday, am vulnerable to the same pesky mortal decay. Has decomposition begun before the body is even cold? Can I begin embalming now for prevention and preservation? My skin care regimen no longer provides the glowing effect it did when I was nineteen. After all, it has been about 5 years of radical abuse, sun damage, and picking fingers. It's time I begin acknowledging the passage of time. I'm in a race to save my elasticity, my regenerating abilities, my health, my youth.
Natural beauty is expensive. Oil-free silicon primer for even skin. A light-coverage foundation with SPF and anti-aging ingredients. A dab of skin color concealer here and there. A mineral translucent colorless loose powder to set foundation with a slight touch of radiance to naturally highlight the contours of the face. A cheek enhancer to bring out the god-given rose. A plumping clear gloss to fill in the lines of the lip. Clear mascara to curl, shine and enhance the eye. A black/brown nearly invisible above the lash line. Natural beauty is an obsession. It's an illusion we obsess to feed.
Weight loss fantasies:
-As long as I'm depressed, my appetite should match my mood. I would desist from eating and drop the pounds by never ending minute.
-To lose 15 pounds and gain five back without restraint of my piehole.
-That pizza were the diet foods equivalent of steamed vegetables.
-That I saw my body as other people see it.
-Gastric by-pass for people of my size.
Fantasies are all they are. I'll continue punishing myself for eating. It should be that easy to not obsess over it, but I've run out of things to obsess about.
I don't know what my biggest issue is right now:
if I'm insecure about my body or if I'm obsessing about it in order to drown out other underlying insecurities? Because I think I look good, but I spend plenty of my sanity strategizing ways to continue perfecting it. I can't control much else so I might as well focus on something I can manipulate: myself. I'm borderline OCD, borderline eating disorder, but sharp enough not to be excused by symptomatic behavior. I hate it when I can outsmart myself from becoming vulnerable... I think I just found my issue.
For the first time in months, the overcast skies were beautiful. I could lay my face on a pillow of gray clouds and sigh with contentment. The thoughts of shadow tried to encroach upon me, but there was no chance of precipitation coming from my eyes. My bones could perceive a storm brewing in the distance. There was thunder rolling by. But all those signs of rain simply washed a sense of calm before me. Maybe I'm learning how to deal with the gloomy weather in this city. I hope so because they say it will shower practically every afternoon.
I wish I had a tiny recording machine for moments like this. I can practically feel the surge of chemicals flowing and crashing back and forth through my head. I'm thinking too fast to write. I could write a book on anything, I've got a dozen lists to create. But I've been here before, and this rush will die down, mostly like after a purchase much too extravagant for my budget. Then comes the guilt and all the little sticky notes that remain while on the brain spike, the mental anomaly, the thing that makes me love and hate myself.
Journal's Galore. I used to buy journals. One for each selective aspect in life. When I spent my savings on ones too fancy to stain, I bought generic composition notebooks to keep everything standard. One was for books I read/wanted to read. My list was so long, my need to pick out the best book would override my excitement to actually settle on one. Now I own one journal and haven't read a good book in months. I've been speed writing to catch up on blank pages. There is only so much that can happen in my life at once.
Her name was Autumn. We started off as pen pals because at fifteen all I wanted was a connection to the outside. You couldn't tell how strange she was from her handwriting. Few years later she pays for my ticket to go visit her barely existing hometown in Ohio. I should've picked up on her need to buy friends. I arrive, immediately aware of the dysfunction in the people there. Could be the water. Could be the isolation from civility. Her Amish neighbors were more normal. Eventually, I stopped writing or returning her phone calls. It just got too weird.
You were expecting the perfectly white chiffon to get a stain. You were almost expecting the groom to be MIA nursing a hangover. Everyone held their breath as the flower girl paused down the middle of the aisle as she contemplated finishing the rest of it. You sighed at the foot of the altar. It all went as perfect as the shade of purity on your dress... Until you found yourself bawling through the vows instead of reciting them because the distracted guests were roaring and shrieking, captured by the attention of a little sparrow flapping helplessly through the cathedral ceilings.
The last three nights have brought disturbances in my dreams. From an overrated squeaky American Idol becoming a mass murder, to the world flooding in my back yard bringing Native Americans in canoes to my door, to growing an extra set of toes on my feet. I'm never quite asleep when this happens, but neither am I quite awake. All I know is that my stomach trembles with minor aches yet somehow I know that the next few hours brings relief. I'm glad to know this is as far as bizarre goes in my head. It does not torment me.
In my letter to Sunshine, I wrote of happiness and hope. At least I tried to. Still, the overall tone of the message had a negative connotation to it. No matter how hard I try to be positive, I still sound like the voice of melancholy. It's just so deeply woven into my language that it's going to take some time to unravel the brighter side. But I will do it. And I will be one of those perky, bubble girls you want to slap upside the face because they're so freaking bouncy. And even that couldn't bring me down.
The deranged Cho is not plastering headlines today. I needed a hint to stop reading about him, looking at his disturbing photography, reading his heinous plays, and understanding his twisted psyche. Today I'll not give him the recognition he so desperately pleaded. We're all fucked up, some of us need help. That's what you do. You get help. I don't care how lonely and demented he was, he spiraled himself to hell. I know because I've been there and back. I won't let his act of horror shake me to the core anymore. I don't want to know about it.
Look at that. I'm doing fine without the boyfriend. Not that it's preferable to be without him, but this time apart is serving to prove I don't need him attached to me for survival. My days of distorted attachment issues are over. I can love from a distance, confident he's on the other side loving me back. This here new feeling of independence has liberated a spring of emotions that have been waiting for better use. I'm sure he appreciates knowing I don't burst into hysterical tears every time we say goodbye. Instead I smile, letting the kisses sink in.
Though I love his soft little moans when we kiss, even more do I love his moans of satisfaction when he eats. I want to be the food on his fork that makes him so happy. To watch him delight in the simplest or the most lavish meals sparks a little smile inside me. He's tall, of strong athletic build, but you would think his skin is hollow inside made to hold the amount of food he could pack in. What's more surprising is that it also inspires me to cook for him. Something as simple as a tiny moan.
The world is cruel. I clearly remember the day I found out I was no exception, despite my pleasant disposition to all without judgment. Her name was Vanessa. It was in seventh grade. She had absolutely no reason to dislike me, she just did. Like so many others, she was bred with innate superiority and arrogance and decided not to like me. On the other hand, I wasn't about to be affected by it, so I mimicked superiority and evolved thick skin as well. Now I hate all Vanessa's without even giving them a chance. Bad personalities are lethally contagious.
Not all secrets should be divulged. Secrets make a part of us. No matter how hard someone may try to understand the pure essence of you down to your last secret, they'll interpret their findings to their own experiences. It wouldn't come across how you would accurately describe yourself. I've been secretly fantasizing that some of my secrets would be leaked and hence found after the matter. The dangerous ones, the hurtful ones, the mysterious ones and even the boring ones. But in the end, I could end up losing myself if I did. I'll keep that part of me.
Nothing wrong with a girl who hides flaws behind makeup. Nothing wrong with a girl who cries after shopping or freaks out when her boyfriend doesn't call her or doesn't have a boyfriend to call her for that matter. Nothing wrong with a little bit of guilt and disgust after eating or a girl who eats celery for lunch. Nothing wrong with a girl who feels a little bit plain or somewhat numb. It's okay if we stay inside for a day or two. It's alright if we take some medication to keep going. Actually, it's pretty normal. Isn't it?
How much more of this New World Order crap can I read before I become as brainwashed as those paranoid freaks? People who insist on believing the absurd are a product of cognitive anomalies. Hopefully my wiring won't trip and get caught by their nonsense ranting. I've got my rigid beliefs and they won't change, but I can't help scrutinizing the clues they may pick up that make the idea plausible. Maybe they're already growing on me. At least I don't believe the world is flat despite the evidence. Or that 9/11 was a government set up. Or was it?
Blindness kept me in a perpetual state of heartache. I saw nothing else except my pain. I resisted opening my eyes to see that everyone hurts as much, if not more. Worse was when I realize I would try to take people down with me. But now I have a clear view. I still experience heartache. But it only heart breaks when someone else's heart is broken. So I need to keep mine strong as possible to help heal the wounded. It's a cycle that requires constant attention. I want to be the one who build hearts, not shatter them.
He blatantly stared down my shirt while I was unaware. It had been some minutes since I was providing him full view. He didn't even bother to look away when I was found out. That night I dreamt he molested me. Not sexually, but he rubbed up against me. Like a hug. His gross decaying teeth, disgusting sagging belly. Scrubbing off my skin couldn't make me feel clean again. I still can't look at him while he hands me jobs to open up. I want to file a complaint but he can't be guilty of harassing me in my dreams.
For a day I'd like to be a fictional character. Leave this life completely behind. I'd be a hard ass and take up chain smoking. I'd walk with arrogance, probably with stiletto boots and a short skirt. I'd lie about my career and be something else, like a painter or a photographer. I'd start friendships and leave them hanging. But since it's for just one day, I might rob a bank and escape to Tahiti. Next morning I would wake up wondering how the hell did I get there. I'll be lil ol me again, but on a beautiful island.
There are parts of me I'm trying to shed from the past. They just won't go away. They make my skin feel dirty. I want to walk forward and forget the friends that did me over and me to them. Forget the faces of the strangers I kissed. Forget the mornings of regret. Forget the fashion mistakes and the days when things went my way. Things have changed and they need to be okay. There's nothing I could do to change tomorrow by dwelling on what could've been. I need to completely forget about him, cause he's in my way.
So yea, I'm in love. It's not what I thought it would be, but then again, I always have unrealistic fantasy-like expectations. It's easy to feel disappointed that way. But after the rush, after the fall, I hung in there long enough to know the rush comes back in a subtle way. More like a constant tingling that puts me at ease. If and when the going gets dull, I'll wait it out. It's gonna creep right back in. It's not the greatest thing that ever happened to me this very moment. It's the best thing that happens every day.
One thing I was going to drop was this. I don't want to keep finding the things that I do when I write. Granted, I haven't been digging to deep anyway. Not if I have to post this online. Not if one day I want him to read this. But here I am, still typing away to meet April's deadline. And I'll probably ignore May for a few days, then scramble to get them completed. If I can really let go, I shouldn't finish next month. So just in case I succeed, it's been a pleasure. Time to move on.
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