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22:15 - April 21, 2002 I'm not writing like myself, partly because my eyes leaked all the way home for no reason; what the fuck? I like to know why I cry. Last night I knew. My dad threw a mug at me and Rachel and Mike were at each other's throats (they are never going to be in the same place ever again). Simple enough. Tonight... well, nothing's sad. We talked about dying, friends dying, and it was hard for me to picture any of it. Camille dying would be like some part of my brain dying, and I don't know exactly how that would feel, although lately the separation between our brains has been gaping, and it's been nice, actually, to feel the differences. I couldn't picture Mike's blue eyes fading, not at all, never. I could picture life without him; of course. Seventeen years of it, why shouldn't I? But I had eleven years without Camille, and I don't remember what it was like not to know her. But none of this is sad. The point is, we're not dead. We're sitting in a Pineyard eating moo shoo vegetables and sizzling rice shrimp and dumplings, and talking alternately about finding random people in their underclothes on our beds and dying (not the random underclothed people; us, ourselves, dying), and it's not sad, because we're here to talk about it. Two years ago, and a little over a month ago, for that week, I would not have been able to be sittin calmly in a Pineyard, eating in public, closed in on all sides by tables, with a boy I still barely know, despite everything. I would have crumbled under it all (it ALL, doesn't that make it sound so bad? and it's not; just wimpiness making it impossible to deal with a brain imbalance, to get 'technical'), but I would have. Not to mention the drive to Des Plaines, the weed, and everything else I've done for the past whatever healthy time without a third thought (I've had second thoughts, but they're quashed by the Paxil). Anyway. I cried tonight coming home, not an explosive, surprising one like yesterday, just sort of the tears are coming out and you don't know why and you're driving home thinking in the 'poor me' frame of mind, but WHY? why? it's not SAD. It's not sad, but I do feel a steadily growing void inside me; for what, I'm not sure. I'd say 'fulfillment, acceptance, and a well-rounded sense of self', but that would sound pretentious and too prosaic, (and also sort of untrue, come to think of it; I mean, it would be nice to have all those things, but I'm not really missing any of it), or I could say 'a feeling of connection and exhilaration and caring and even (gasp!) love between me and another person, but that's rather wordy as well, or I could say, 'a boyfriend who I want and who wants me' and that would be a sad, teenage thing to say, but somehow the most true out of all of them. Fucking.. I mean.. if the Paxil is going to kill my sex drive, it might as well kill my love drive too.. right? One would think.. one would hope... but then it'd be a bigger void anyway, wouldn't it? And would it matter if you didn't notice it wasn't there? ----
Sometimes I get this precious view and the grand scheme shows its face
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