What if I’m three-dimensional and I have all these experiences,
and I want to include my anger in my vocabulary of emotions?
I don’t want to leave that out of my work, yet I insist
on not being reduced to it. ani difranco
not so long ago, i used to have all this rage.
anger at the world in which we live in — on how it is being treated — on how things are done. peoples stupidity, moronic defenses we have for a government, our perceptions of each other and how we relate. i was going to change the world one day — help those who were not as enlightened as i was.
and so i wrote those same experiences down. put them in journals, on the web, anywhere and everywhere. picking fights on IRC channels, email lists and in person. Getting people to see that life was not necessarily about black or white, it was a multitude prism of gray. i used to fucking CARE!
there was a pattern to my madness. sitting for hours in my bedroom — writing. showing emotion, no matter how poorly constructed it was. FEELING pain. happiness. sadness. joy. delirium. a myriad of emotions all bundled into my nice neat 6′ frame.
But I don’t feel anymore. I’ve become this homogenized version of the yuppie life style. Po’ but still — some version that needs a cell phone, a pager and having fucking health BENEFITS. I mean, my god. I’m planning this completely materialistic career to make fucking money. for what end? what means? To get myself out of debt? What for? It just does not make sense!
i loved living on the edge. having melodrama whipped up for me, pre-packaged in a pretty box with instructions. i loved feeling that i had a certain edge over other people. It is not possible they could feel what _i’m_ feeling nor could they begin to _understand_ what i’m understanding. it just was. god, i fucking miss it. Is this what sanity is all about? being this complete pseudo-Valium induced happiness? Neither happy nor sad? Get into a car accident? shrug it off. Friends son’s father gets killed by a bullet to the brain? big deal. Completely and utterly dead. cold. frigid. lack of human emotion. me and my fucking blue spot. patterns. complete and utter static life. no change. chop hair off, dye it — hope for new vive on life. spend hours readingother people’s pain to live vicariously through theirs. spark. lack of interest. People used to comment on how special I was.
Whine whine whine. Bitch bitch bitch. I realized the other day, with he popularity of doing on-line journalling — it was becoming virtually impossible with having _your own_ life. Why? simple. you read about so many other people’s experience that you can no longer differentiate between what _you_ did and what _they_ did.
it’s become almost ironic. i bitch, yell and scream to ex-lovers about their masking of emotion and feeling. how cold and unresponsive they were. and now, almost bitter sweetly, i can see how they felt on the receiving end. as stated before, both justin and danny comment on my lack of willingness to divulge anything pertinent.
The other night, Sherry called me. She was having men problems. To console her, out of my mouth came — “Do you really want to end up living with me in 30 years with 10 crotchety old cats? Get off your high horse girl and _talk_ to the damn man.” And it’s like “HELLO! LISA!! Clue for you!” numb. this is what it has become. this numbness. i don’t care if the world went down tomorrow — good riddance. i would think about suicide — but i’m too fucking lazy to do it. back in the day, when I did think about suicide, I would think to myself “I will show those evil bastards!” *evil cackle* and now, I only roll my eyes and light up a cigarette.
So while writing this, I’ve concluded I’ve sold out to the man. No more dynamic, hello static. I cannot imagine living this sort of lifestyle for the rest of my days. It seems inconceivable! Impossible!
c’mon c’mon c’mon c’mon
give me a spark. make me still care
make me want to feel
rape me. beat me.
MAKE ME WRITE BAD CHECKS! (wait, you did. $158 for college books. but just barely.)
When I was younger, in order to get rid of the pain, I used to sew my fingers together with needle and thread. self-mutilation. pulling hair. biting nails. all sorts of crazy shit. when i got older, i used to stand in my room and throw anything breakable. after i went through the bric a brac, i started on the dishes my mother had in the kitchen. now my mothers new house (well new being operative word here) doesn’t have any bric a brac. Of course not — I broke it all.
when i got older, i started piercing my body. a nipple here. a tongue there. biting my lip till it bled. thinking of a thousand and one ways I could die. Plotting murders of anyone that had crossed my path.
I fear death. I fear dying. I cannot accept it’s a natural part of life. Something innate in me refuses to accept this. Books upon books on studies on death lying in my bedroom. I can’t even READ them. As if I was going to die tomorrow (I could…). When I travel to work, I fear an earthquake is going to throw me off the Bay Bridge and into the bay. I’ll die, trapped in my fucking car. brand new that is. 1998 Saturn. swimming pools. movie stars.
And I’m getting so fucking claustrophobic in elevators. The new renovations at work have me seething. All because I have to take the damn elevator down ONE flight. That’s all — one flight. And _every_ single time I step into that damn thing, I keep thinking I’m going to plummet to my death. Oh sure, what the fuck ever. I’m heading towards the _basement_. I think I’m going to leave Justin on the couch and sleep alone tonight.
Just me and Teddy.
And some improbable perky book that will make think I’m okay.
13.5 hours later
Per my style, if i start writing the chronicle, and it is after midnight, i date it for that day. meaning, if it is technically 12:01 am, Saturday January 30th, 1999; i date it as such. So, now you know.
Now i’m awake.
When i left us last night, I turned off all the lights, took my contacts out and got into bed. I left Justin on the couch. He eventually climbed in several hours later. I don’t remember that. But i remember waking up next to him. anything i had been feeling before i had hit the sheets was gone. except my whole lower abdomen area started to itch. i climbed out of bed and went to the bathroom. i had started my period. self-induced depression has to be good for something.
i re-read what i wrote and it sounds so final. “I had started my period. he eventually climbed in several hours later.” strange. it doesn’t seem to flow like it usually does out of my head and into my fingers.
i think i’ll end this now and spell check everything and upload it. i’ve got studying to do.
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