an alternative to ennui
Tag Archives: anxiety
I realize I have no one. I lost my best friend when I ripped out his heart and fed it to the wolf. I keep thinking the wolf is domesticated and won’t hurt me. But the creature snarls every time I get too close. At 12:10AM I have no one but myself. And she’s poor company.
On December 30 you told me you were thinking about me. On January 24 you didn’t recognize my number. On February 10 you messaged me for the last time. It’s June and you don’t answer me. Ever. I wish you could see me. Maybe then you’d care. Sean, I think I’m going crazy.
I’ll never fight with you again. I’ll get a noose tattooed around my neck. The more we fight, the more knots it acquires. So that when it looks tight and thick, I’ll have chocked myself into being good.
The times we are together,
It hurts to be with you.
Is this what women warn each other about?
Why the feminine is associated with weakness?
Am I weak to want to be comforted and caressed by my abuser?
By the boy I love,
the cause of my cower.
You’ve pushed me to the edge.
Please don’t push my off again –
I barely survived
the first time.
Because if you do,
I will shatter.
Oct. 10, 2016.
This is a new kind of love.
I have experienced romantic love once before –
A pale, bony hand gripping my heart.
This physical manifestation trying to choke the beauty out of it,
Making me shudder violently with the pain of unabashed emotion.
This caring too much is driving me crazy.
My head taken from my shoulders and battered around like a fucking baseball.
My whole body disintegrating around me until all that’s left is my heart,
Pulsing with the illusion of us together.
I know you’ll choose her.
Every fibre of my being says so.
And yet, I still wait in anticipation hoping it could be me.
But would I really want it to be me?
I know it’s a complicated situation,
But would I want to be chosen between two?
To be chosen amongst millions makes me feel unique and special,
But to be chosen against one is…
Well, it just is.
And that sucks.
I love you and I want to protect you.
If that means doing as I am now, so be it.
It’ll be hard to see you with her,
But I’m stronger than I look.
Ultimately, your happiness outweighs mine.
I deserve nothing.
That’s what he titled his own shit.
Fuck this feeling –
this angry knot in my stomach making me sick.
Not able to eat or sleep.
She said I looked like a ghost.
A ghost of a person, not even a ghost of myself.
I hate this, but I love him…
he doesn’t believe me.
Or maybe he does and just doesn’t want to admit that he doesn’t feel the same way.
That maybe he’s a lying piece of manipulative shit who tells me he loves me and makes me feel ‘good’ but is actually selfish –
just fiends attention.
You can’t love love two things at once.
It’s fucking impossible.
And if you do, you’re lying to yourself
desperate to keep this warm feeling around because you’re scared of what lies outside.
Scared to be alone.
Scared to run to someone in the hopes of rekindling that feeling, knowing that you don’t feel the same.
Fuck love. Fuck life. Fuck fucking.
My body is nothing.
My mind doesn’t need this shit.
My body craves it because I’ve been feeding it for years.
But before then, when I knew (no) better, I didn’t need this.
I needed no one.
It was lonely and sad,
But it was deserved.
I deserve nothing.
THAT is the only lesson I will ever receive.
My purpose is to be for others.
No fucking way will they allow me to be for myself.
And I wanna say
But I’m scared.
I’m still so tied up in this mundane, human bullshit.
I feel too much to say so.
I want to reach that point where I no longer feel.
Or do I?
I continuously contradict myself because I know nothing.
He knows nothing.
We are nothing.
but mainly me
I’m going through a phase. I know it’s a phase because I’ve been in this head space before. My tastes are changing. I’ve been dressing with purpose and listening to particular music. What should I call it. This is rhetorical; no need for a question mark. How about… Grandma Grunge. Haha, I definitely like that.
My brother and I decided to label our fashion styles and that’s how Grandma Grunge was born. In high school, I prided myself on confusing stereotypes within my wardrobe. I’d wear something like black army boots, skinny black jeans, and an argyle sweater. Or my baggy KISS t-shirt dress, flare blue jeans, and Converse. I like black. Black something with a coloured something. I guess I was going for a punk(ish) look. I clearly didn’t pull it off.
I started thrifting when I was in high school too. I thought it was cool and frankly, I couldn’t afford (nor did I want to pay) for the clothing sold at regular retailers. I wanted pieces nobody else had. I wanted old, moth eaten sweaters that would make me look like a spider – boxy on top with long, thin limbs. Or, not as thin as I had thought.
I was on the pill for acne. It helped. Sort of. I no longer had a sea of little bumps across my forehead, albeit I’d get an occasional HUGE puss-popping pimple right between my eyebrows. My friends warned me that I may put on some weight, but I never found that to be the case. When I was swimming competitively, I weighed about 127 lbs. Once I stopped and stopped exercising all together, I dropped to about 123-125 lbs. I thought I looked good. I’d compare my flat stomach to other girls’ little poochy bellies and feel great about myself. But, then again, I had linebacker shoulders and needed to go up up up a size in pants to compensate for my big hips. Needless to say, throughout the majority of my high school and University experience, I thought that that was how my body was. Done. No changing. Hammered into that shape. Forever. But, October 2013, I went off the pill I had been on for nearly five years and simultaneously experienced quite a bit of anxiety. My eating habits changed and for nearly a week, I lived exclusively off fluids. I dropped from a size six at American Eagle to a size two. People I hadn’t seen in years would tell me I lost quite a bit of weight. My friends asked if I was anorexic. I’m not, I promise. I ate a whole bag of chips last night and I still look and feel the same. I don’t exercise. I don’t watch what I eat. This is clearly me, me off estrogen fuelled drugs.
So my body is a balloon – coming down from its helium high. Slowly, slowly deflating. There are days when that hole is taped shut. I’m a good weight. Any more and I’ll be too thin. But, there’s something obsessive about numbers. 115 is a nice number. 116 isn’t. 110 is even better. So, I quietly peel the tape off and watch as more helium escapes from the balloon. Eventually, it will go limp and be thrown away.
This metaphor is making me scared.
I still like my old lady blouses and black skinny jeans. I like my hipster glasses and my hipster bangs and my grungy boots and my grungy plaid shirts. I like Pop Punk and Alternative. I’m thinking about dying my hair pink again. Or blue this time. But, I also like my blazers and blue jeans. My blonde hair. My hemp bracelets. My crochet purse. My overalls. My Superman boxers. My black mascara. Indie. Rock. New Wave. Metal.
I’m going through a phase. I know it’s a phase because I’ve been in this head space before. My tastes are changing. I’ve been dressing with purpose and listening to particular music. What should I call it. This is rhetorical; no need for a question mark…