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| Slowly, but surely, I'm starting to feel like myself again.
It's weird, getting older, and learning the truth about adulthood. I'm always reminded (and, believe me, if the blogosphere didn't allow for total anonymity, this is something that would never go written) of that god awful John Mayer quote, "I just found out there's no such thing as the real world, just some lie you've got to rise above." Tacky, but true-- as adulthood becomes less novel, and with 23 rapidly approaching, it has become so clear that no one ever "feels" like a grown up. While it's INCREDIBLY depressing to realize that I'm never going to have a "lightbulb" moment, where every choice (past, present and future) will become easy, it's comforting to know that my life is constantly evolving.
On a less abstract note, I have no clue how I'm going to apply this newfound epiphany to my daily life. Everything is falling apart-- socially, financially and academically. After working scrupulously to put time aside for school, friends and work, I find I end up doing the same thing with every spare moment (and by spare, I mean that not spent sitting in a classroom)-- wasting time on the internet and feeling sorry for myself. Right now, is supposed to be set aside for papering, that is, writing a research paper that was due six hours ago. Conversely, this afternoon was set aside for class, which turned into me coming home at 4 (as opposed to 7:30), to find out my parents had left NY for Rhode Island, to pick my younger sister up. Rachel, as it turns out, has been having a host of pain-inducing symptoms for a few weeks time, and is coming home to see our doctor, then a specialist if need be. Ugh. I feel PATHETIC for being so nervous-- not because worrying about her is so pitiful-- but I know I'm, at least partially, doing what I always do: making a bad situation about me, as opposed to the people it actually deals with.
All in all, I'm sure she'll be fine. I'll feel better once she's back, and for the fist time in years, we both occupy our respective pink rooms, in our respective hallway, in my Mom and Dad's house. If only my older sister, Sara, could be here, too-- it would almost feel like a happy occasion.
Socially speaking, things are turning around. I'm finally ready to end 2009's essential celibacy and get back out there with the man meat, but it's incredibly intimidating. This past weekend was my cousin's wedding, and seeing her and her now husband so carelessly, effortlessly happy really made me realize how much I've been denying myself. I feel like I'm living inside a vacuum, and with each breathe not only am I contributing to the binding force, but I'm eating away at the tender bits of oxygen I have left before suffocating. Life line, anyone?
"Anyone," of course meaning whatever government officials have been assigned to tracking xanga, as it has become more and more obvious how incapable I am of getting a hang of how to "advertise" myself as a user. Not that I have any intention of penning the great American novel, but I wish I had a better handle on how to work/post to a blog ring-- it'd be a great comfort to exchange with other displaced youth.
Help?
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| i've never felt so alone.
2010? | | |
| i like him so much. so very, very much. in that fifth grade, puppy dog, lie in bed at night and imagine the way he'll look at me once it all falls into place way. i'm in the glowing phase; the, i love you, everywordissomehowperfectandeventhewrongisright phase. of course, in this phase i will stay, as i'm too scared to do anything about it. he wants me, i KNOW he wants me-- for two years he's done nothing but put up with my protective armor of games, quips and sexy rendez-vous that inevitably end in my picking a fight and telling the masses he's "deluded" in his desires. but would he be willing to spend his nights, as i so often do, imaging the color coordinated table chart for our romantic, yet understated wedding? doubtful.
i hate men. HATE. they always do this-- some how turn my own standoffishness against me. slowly melting me with every word, every understanding gesture, every sign of weakness. and then, just as i begin to believe the undeniable truth--- he GETs me, he WANTS me, he LIKES that i'm so unbearably detached.. it happens. glances become gazes, touch becomes touching, sex becomes love.. and he becomes me. i'm not attracted to me-- I HATE ME. i just want to be held, tightly and told beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and my own insecurities are merely not. i want passion, chaos-- i want my passive aggressive hints that other men could be interested, that I could be interested, to be met with fiery dismay-- not a smile, wink and brief description of chicks who feel the same. asshole. PURE ASSHOLE.
naturally, i'll do what i always do. leave this fauxlationship to wallow, while i pretend it's exactly what i want. that solitude is exactly what i want. that i'm somehow immune to the mushy bullshit that i hate about all women-- that damsels in distress are a foreign concept to me and my viral feminism comes complete with emotional independence.
i, fortunately, won't die of a broken heart-- my heart will never be shattered-- merely untouched. | | |
| i'm so.. lost.
i want to be happy. i'm doing EVERYTHING in my power to get there-- dieting, schooling, working, honest-ing. honesty is a huge battle for me. everyday that i look in the mirror and see an inadequate excuse for a twenty-year old woman staring back at me, is just another whisper from that little voice inside my head, pleading with me to taint the truth. taint the sincerity of this depression, genuine need for change, and tell other people, TELL YOURSELF that it's different. that somebody likes you. that somebody's interested. that any, anything in your life is going the way it should be, or could be.
this, as it turns out, has proved wholly unsuccessful.
the problem with happiness is that it's often learned. all too often we settle: in love, in life, in learning. i know i've found organic, honest-to-goodness joy before. i remember it. if i work hard enough, and lay long enough, i can feel the memories overcome me-- almost to the point that i must remind myself that i'm here, that i'm at a place devoid of joy, devoid of anything other than anxiety-lacking moments, hours, and when proper vigor is applied, days. days free of panic attacks, free of drug use, free of altering my state of reality. REALITY, as it turns out, is quite sobering all by it's lonesome. the world is a complicated, fast-paced place when not seen through a haze of uppers, downers and forget-me-nowers.
twenty-two is a terrible, terrible time. too old to be children, too young to be grown, i find myself in the midst of a quarter life crisis. it seems, everyone else, knows (or knew) something that i cannot seem to grasp. for years, decades, for my ENTIRE LIFE, people have told me that good is always, necessarily punctuated by bad. that it takes the sweat of one's brow, the tears of one's eyes, and a myriad of other, uncomfortably produced bodily fluids to mark moments, however long-lived, of pride. this, for me, has never been true. happiness has come via others, via handed opportunities, via instant gratification, via camel lights. and now, in the midst of what i am told is 'change,' in the midst of what SHOULD be the least stressful time of the past three years, i feel like a fraction of the person i once was.
there was a time, a time way before xanga, that i was popular. not in a, "dayummm she's one lady!" kind of way, but in a real, identifiable "she's SOMEBODY" way. people knew me, people wanted to know me, and most notably, people wanted to be around me. CONSTANTLY. there were days, days before i even drove, days before i even know what it was to feel pleasure (sexual or chemical), that i couldn't find a minute to myself, or to devote to some one else-- the minutes were already owned by the mignons of people who wanted to be around me. the limelight suited me-- and, most frighteningly, i had no idea that everyone else was not of the same breed. friendships, i deduced, must jsut be endless strings of fun, which progressed when somebody randomly opened up. this time spent together, it never occured to me, was time spent fulfilling a purpose. and now, years later, i find myself waking up alone, dining alone, crying alone, flipping through my phone book with barely anyone to call.
where are you, fallen friends? where are you, fallen vices? where are you, god?
without these outlets, i fear i've no definition. no accomplishments to separate me from the rest of the pack. no talent to bring me fame. no beauty to bring me love. no vices to bring me a deluded version of these truths. where did it all go? where did my life go?!
twenty-two might seem like a short excuse for a lifespan, but it's all i can bare the thought of having lived. i say to myself, daily, without even thinking, "i want to die." and the most peculiar facet of this involuntary habit is that i genuinely DON'T. death terrifies me, way, way wayyyy more than life. life, in all it's awful splendor, is a worthy adversary. life and i are equal in strength and weakness-- we both are without control, without companion, without balance. we know each other well enough to be friends, but far too well to be lovers. never, ever could life surprise me, because i have never surprised life. death, however, life's cruel mistress that i often fantasize about fucking, is a horse of a different color.
while the dark unknown has it's own special appeal, the same as a cat nap or an unpicked scab, it's that very appeal that makes it a fate far worse than life, a fate worse than reprieve, a fate of.. nothingness. of passing on without a chance to do or say ANYTHING to make me missable, to give me some quality of ubiquity that would force some one, anyone, to recall my name and a.o.d. thirty or forty years from now. the earth will move on without us, one day, and that day will be dark.. hopefully. a sunny funeral is not of interest, no matter if everyday of my life must be grey.
i want to grow up, i think. but, the idea of growing older, and more into this pattern of prostituting a phony version of myself is an unbearable thought. how, i ask you, if there even is a 'you,' am i supposed to get out of this rut?
i wish i were different.
i wish i were poor, sick, an invalid, a sorcerer, a leper-- an anything that had a built-in path that involved some destruction. i'm an upper middle class, overprivileged, underachieving adult, whose got nothing to show for it but an admission of failure.
are you there, happy? it's me.. bari.
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| i think about killing myself almost everyday. it used to be just a synthesis of reactions to my theoretical death- the ultimate "fuck you," to those who'd temporarily wronged me. after a few minutes of this deranged, fantastical illusion, an intense feeling of guilt would usually overcome me. an overwhelming urge to call whomever it was that i'd plotted to depress, with countless apologies and "i love you." as life progresses, and my detachment (and subsequent problems) deepen, suicide feels like such an excellent solution. no more stress, no more responsibility, no more pain. no more pain no more pain no more pain. the pain of breathing, the pain of sleeping, the pain of living a life i've never wanted: the pain of letting my family down, the unavoidable sting of disappointing them, the pain be being belittled by people i have no respect for, and then calling them my friends. disappointing and berating myself with no cause, no rhyme, no reason-- i am done. i've devoted so much of my time and energy into attempting to psychoanalyze myself while simultaneously hiding my findings from the rest of the world- well, here i stand.. done. alone. nowhere to go but up, and no desire to go anywhere but six feet under. if you're reading this, and i'm sure you're not, you already know- my name is bari, and i will kill myself this week. my only regret: lying to my sister when she begged me not to. | | |
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