New

I was a little apprehensive about the three of us hanging out, but I'm so glad it happened. I was worried that there would be jealousy issues, or that I would feel like the 3rd wheel, or that we wouldn't have anything to talk about.

But honestly, it was the best night I've had in the longest time. It felt good to be around genuinely nice, fun people. It felt good to set the ham plant aflame and throw it into the Atlantic. It felt good to smoke and laugh for hours about Hamlet 2/feeling like Mr. Ed. It felt good to really connect and trust another female.

And then, the sun started to rise. We walked outside and the ocean was right there. It was one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen. It felt like a dream.

As we walked back inside, I realized something: I am happy. I don't know where I am, or where I'm going. I don't know what the future holds. But I know that there are oceans and group hugs and acceptance and new friends and late nights and Jeopardy. And as long as those things exist, there is nothing to regret.

One thing that has changed for the better since the apocalypse is that I'm putting myself out there a lot more. I've been making plans with people, trying to build new friendships and strengthen neglected ones.

I put everything into that relationship. I realize now how dangerous that is. If nothing else, this has been a much needed learning experience. When you put all of your expectations and desires onto one person/one relationship, happiness is simply impossible.

I've been doing things that I haven't really done in over a year--reading, spending more time with my family, writing--and it feels really good.

I'm not going to sit here and say I'm not still heartbroken, or that I don't wish I could fix things. It's definitely been a wake-up call.

I do wish I'd realized how important it is to maintain a separate identity much earlier. But it is what it is.

A few weeks ago, I missed a call while I was at work. When I got out, I called the number back. It said the number could not be reached directly. It also said something about the state of RI Howard Complex. I kept meaning to look it up, but I forgot about it until just now. I thought maybe it was someone calling about a case worker position I applied for a while ago on the state of RI website.

Apparently it's part of the department of corrections. Who on EARTH would be calling me from jail?! Hopefully it was a wrong number or something. I'm kind of spooked.

Icing on the cake

What a glorious end to an utterly FLAWLESS week. I'm not sure what unforgivable things I've done to make the gods loathe me, but it must have been something horrendous.

I was taking Casey Mae outside to pee. Gram wanted to come, so we made our way down the path. We're at the end of the driveway when Casey suddenly lunges at a dog across from us. As I'm pulling her away from the street, I turn around to see Gram attempting to pull a branch off a tree. I'm about to tell her to stop doing that when I see her stumble backwards. I try to run and catch her, but it's too late. She's on her back. Her head is bleeding profusely. I don't know if she's conscious. I start yelling "GRAM, ARE YOU OK?!" She blinks. I sit her up and run into the house to get my phone. I run back outside, on the phone with my mom, in tears, asking her what to do. She tells me to stay calm and get Gram back in the house. We walk back inside, sit down, and I start wiping all the blood away. I'm crying hysterically, feeling an enormous amount of guilt.

Gram looks up at me, laughs, and simply utters "shit."

Shit indeed, Gram.

My last post also made me think about this secret from a while ago:



I am not bipolar or schizophrenic or what people traditionally deem "mentally ill," but I am ridden with all sorts of anxiety. I don't think it's true that you can't love someone until you love yourself, but you certainly can't be with someone else until you love yourself.

Instead of wallowing, I need to channel the energy into making changes so that I can love and live with myself. I don't deserve a lot of things, but I at least deserve that.

Dylan and I were talking about how we should just sit in Starbucks and invite people to come talk with us about anything. We started talking about the kinds of people we'd meet, what they'd be like, etc.

And then we both realized that we set ourselves up for failure. WE are the people who create the jails that imprison, the movies that depict love as some sort of magical voodoo witch doctor dream, the advertisements that force us to consume.

We take a situation, and a person, and we write a mental script. We imagine the setting, how we're going to feel, what we're going to say, how the other person is going to respond, how the other person is going to feel. And then, little by little, we find that the other person doesn't quite line up with the working script we've created. In some instances, the person fits their role quite nicely. But usually, there's some level of discrepancy. Sometimes it's small, other times it's enormous. This discrepancy causes things like resentment, anger, annoyance, frustration, despair. No one wins in this situation unless both people have a similar script, and write the same roles, and speak the correct lines. Clearly, this is an impossible situation.

I think it's just human tendency to anticipate events. It would be ridiculous to think that one can stop writing scripts altogether, but maybe it's possible to write them a little more loosely. Or to not feel betrayed when someone strays from the ideal. I don't know.

It's just strange to me, because your perception can influence anything. You see a boy with tattoos sitting across from you in class, and you start writing. You start imagining his life, his dreams, his hobbies. You start thinking about what would be said in a conversation between the two of you. You romanticize this being, not knowing a single thing about him, and start thinking that he fits into this ideal role. You talk to a drunk stranger on the street, and you romanticize the conversation. You read meaning where there maybe wasn't. You see this person injected into your life somewhere, being crazy, saying beautiful things. And then you start building them up. Some of us may do this more than others, but I think it happens to all of us in varying degrees.

When I think about relationships this way, I feel sick. But then I consider what it would be like if there were no expectations or ideals. It's not clear to me which is better. At the same time, the ability to romanticize events is what makes the world beautiful. When a photographer takes a photo, many things are manipulated. Photographs rarely look like what someone saw with their own two eyes. Rather, it was an artistic representation of reality. A substitute. But if we looked a photo and simply said "this is a substitute for what really happened, this is not exactly how the world looked at this moment," there's not really any emotion or beauty to be found. There's no guesswork.

I guess what I'm trying to figure out is this: how much of what we feel and experience is reality and how much is perception? There are real, concrete events. Take, for instance, the memory I have of Jared and I riding a dolphin watch boat. Dolphins surfaced, families took photographs together, the sun was setting, and a boy was constantly talking to the captain through the small window. This is what really happened. Then we get into my head. I remember how beautiful the sky was, how warm and exciting it felt to be next to Jared in the middle of the ocean, how amusing I found the small boy, how I was imagining the rest of our night together. What does he remember? Maybe some things are the same. But maybe he remembers feeling tired, or the boy being really annoying, or being worried that the boat was going to sink. Two entirely different people. Two different attitudes. Two separate memories.

I don't know whether to laugh or cry at all of this. Part of me wants to throw my hands in the air and say "IT'S ALL FAKE, WHO THE FUCK CARES ANYMORE, THERE'S NOTHING TO WORRY ABOUT!" and part of me says "it's so heartbreaking to think that the love and warmth I felt was not shared, that what I thought was beautiful may not have been beautiful to someone else."

So I don't know. I don't know anything. Nothing.

I know I'm young, and that I have much to look forward to. I know that things will get better. I know that people get better. I know that people move on. I know that happiness is possible.

These are the things I tell myself when I look in the mirror and blink back tears, trying to remember who I am underneath all of this. These things don't seem very true right now. I wish they did.

You weren't just my boyfriend--you were and are my favorite friend. My favorite person to adventure with, to talk to, to contemplate with, to just hang out with. I loved listening to your ideas, your knowledge, your stories. Even if we can't be together, it kills me to think about you not being a part of my life. It kills me to have you not respond to me, knowing that I'm dying over here, knowing that you were always the first person to care about me and comfort me, knowing that you're capable of just ridding me from your life.

I look at everything and see you. I'm dreading the drive home from school today, because I know it will take everything in me not to drive by. I know it will take everything in me to not break down, to not want to drive my car into the nearest tree, to not knock at your door and say "please talk to me."

I know there are pieces of me in you, in your head, in your apartment. Do you not think about me when you're face to face with them?

It just kills me.