Therapist said I should keep a journal. I'm already ready to tell her that it's a bad idea when I see her on Saturday. Because every time I've tried writing since I saw her last, I cried. I cried because it brought me back to reality. I don't like reality and I don't want to live in it. I want to sit in my bed and not think about anyone or anything. I want to fantasize about things that aren't true and think as little as humanly possible.
I want to be a lump in my bed waiting for fate to rule in my favor. Because I've already put in my appeal and now it's up to fate. I'm done. I'm done I'm done. And I remember when I met Andrew and knew I would have met that fucking pesky mosquito regardless of the circumstances. I could have lived anywhere in the whole entire United States of America and I would have met him.
I know it.
But why?
There's something that's coming and regardless, it's good. Even if I die a miserable unhappy lump in my bed, I'll be happy, because at least I'd no longer be in misery. But I have this general feeling that it's not going to be the case. I'm not going to die in misery in my bed, and all of my problems won't resolve in one night.
This is going to take awhile and there's a light on the end of the tunnel, but that light isn't in death. It's somewhere here with the living. I can't have it yet, for some reason. I don't know why. I have to sit here in the darkness in the meantime, but one day it will all make sense like it did with Andrew. With one look into his beautiful eyes I felt comfort and everything made sense.
And then it was all washed away like a tsunami engulfed my whole entire life.
But my therapist said it will get better. It has to. I've had a broken life for many years. Growing up I wanted nothing more than to die. Dad used to threaten to kill himself. Mom sat in my bedroom crying. Dad drank and drank. I got out of there. Moved in with an abusive man who'd choke me, throw things at my head, put holes in the wall. I'd lie there and think to myself "I don't care if I die." So I'd let him beat the absolute shit out of me. Then I was afraid of everyone, so I promised to not give my heart away. To stay single. To fuck, move on, fuck, move on. That wasn't healthy. I learned it when I took an HIV test, scared out of my mind. I knew it was time to heal myself from that. So I did. And then I found beautiful Andrew. An angel in my eyes. He didn't beat me. He treated me like gold.
But he was an alcoholic. And he had horrible depression.
I've been given shit my whole entire fucking life. But there is ONE LAST THING that is not complete shit. Myself. I'm a beautiful young woman who double majored in college, took that degree and made something of myself- And that's all that I have.
That's it. I have myself. The one person who didn't give up on myself. The one person who is stuck to live with me every single day. The girl who looks in the mirror and sees her teared-up red eyes most nights. The woman who is scared that she is going to be alone for the rest of her life. The girl who is afraid that she is broken, because her entire life she was around others who were broken. I don't give myself any credit. I don't really love myself anymore. I'm in lust with myself- I appreciate my curves and ability to lure a man with my bubbling charisma..
But I don't want to lure anyone anymore. I want someone to lure me. Someone worth taking. I turn down men left and right and I have yet to find one worth keeping. Why is that? Is it my station in life? Is this what it is? I'm only 26, I know..
But I feel like it's hopeless. I feel like I've never had anything worth having. I feel like nothing is perfect. I feel like nothing will ever be perfect. Is that how it is? Is true love and perfection a myth?
I don't want it to be a myth. Please, please don't be a myth.
Monday, September 29, 2014
Saturday, September 13, 2014
all of this pain
I woke up to the sound of someone blasting one of those stupid wedding line dance songs in the alley behind my house. Then two men passed by and were shuffling something around in the same alley. I thought to myself, "I went to bed at like, 8pm. It's time to get up." It was 5-something.
Now I'm sitting in my bed and in front of me I have seven candles lit. Three of which are creating a beautiful scent of spiced cider in my room. My window is open and I hear chirping floating through the window. I'm sitting on my bed with a green face mask on and I feel extremely comfortable.
I feel like this is the calm AFTER the storm. Last night I cried and cried. Cried like there was no tomorrow. And I remember I just couldn't gain control of my thoughts so I started yelling. About how I want to die, want to die, want to die, or please make me happy, I don't want to die, please don't kill me. None of it made sense. I was being a crazy woman, tears flowing down my face nonstop. I could feel my wrinkles drying up on my face. My eyes were red and poofy.
So as I drove around listening to "Good Enough" on repeat,
Everything that you have
isn't good enough, for you.
Where you've been,
where you stand,
isn't good enough, for you.
Look out of your window,
look up at the sky,
and leave all of your sorrows,
behind.
I stopped my car twice to write bad poetry. And when the sun was gone for good I parked my car on Germantown Avenue and ate a slice of pizza by myself.
And I cried some more. I couldn't stop last night. It took over my whole body, my whole mind, my whole atmosphere. I just wanted to die. I even said, please just take me. Take me.
I don't want to die, but I sure as hell don't want to live with ALL OF THIS PAIN.
Now I'm sitting in my bed and in front of me I have seven candles lit. Three of which are creating a beautiful scent of spiced cider in my room. My window is open and I hear chirping floating through the window. I'm sitting on my bed with a green face mask on and I feel extremely comfortable.
I feel like this is the calm AFTER the storm. Last night I cried and cried. Cried like there was no tomorrow. And I remember I just couldn't gain control of my thoughts so I started yelling. About how I want to die, want to die, want to die, or please make me happy, I don't want to die, please don't kill me. None of it made sense. I was being a crazy woman, tears flowing down my face nonstop. I could feel my wrinkles drying up on my face. My eyes were red and poofy.
So as I drove around listening to "Good Enough" on repeat,
Everything that you have
isn't good enough, for you.
Where you've been,
where you stand,
isn't good enough, for you.
Look out of your window,
look up at the sky,
and leave all of your sorrows,
behind.
I stopped my car twice to write bad poetry. And when the sun was gone for good I parked my car on Germantown Avenue and ate a slice of pizza by myself.
And I cried some more. I couldn't stop last night. It took over my whole body, my whole mind, my whole atmosphere. I just wanted to die. I even said, please just take me. Take me.
I don't want to die, but I sure as hell don't want to live with ALL OF THIS PAIN.
Wednesday, September 10, 2014
February 8, 2011
Dear God,
I feel like I'm cheating on my logical self by pretending that you exist right now, but I feel like I need to right now. I need to lie to myself to give myself some sort of hope. It's like I need to start living in a fairy tale world to get by. That's why I've been reading books so much. (But at the same time, I stopped reading books over the last few days because I suddenly realized that every book has a sad part. I don't want any more sad parts. I have enough sad parts in my life). So for the last two days, God, I just layed my lifeless body out on my bed and cried. Cried cried cried. My crow's feet are burning and I feel new wrinkles forming. I tried holding in the noises so my roommate wouldn't hear. But I couldn't. There's no way. And I worked late just to get the fuck away. What do I have to come home to? I'd rather write medical summaries and saturate my brain with discovery motions.
So when I run out of things to do and I'm done crying and I have no where else to drive in circles or sit in parking lots, I think about the ways I could kill myself. By gun, by jumping. I don't think much about poisoning myself or slitting my wrists because I tried both of those on February 8, 2001. And here I fucking am. Still alive, still kicking. Flapping, really.. like a dying fish with blood pouring down the hook, gasping for water on the stony ground. And for the first time since 2001 I thought to myself (today) I wish I would have fucking died that day. It would have been a much better time for dying. My parents would have been able to find a way to reignite their happiness. Now if I die, I'm not sure if that would be the case. I love my parents with every piece of my beating heart. They are the only reason that I am here.
I have nothing else to live for.
September, 20 2014. My appointment with a hypnotherapist. Hoping she can brainwash the pain away.
Nicole
I feel like I'm cheating on my logical self by pretending that you exist right now, but I feel like I need to right now. I need to lie to myself to give myself some sort of hope. It's like I need to start living in a fairy tale world to get by. That's why I've been reading books so much. (But at the same time, I stopped reading books over the last few days because I suddenly realized that every book has a sad part. I don't want any more sad parts. I have enough sad parts in my life). So for the last two days, God, I just layed my lifeless body out on my bed and cried. Cried cried cried. My crow's feet are burning and I feel new wrinkles forming. I tried holding in the noises so my roommate wouldn't hear. But I couldn't. There's no way. And I worked late just to get the fuck away. What do I have to come home to? I'd rather write medical summaries and saturate my brain with discovery motions.
So when I run out of things to do and I'm done crying and I have no where else to drive in circles or sit in parking lots, I think about the ways I could kill myself. By gun, by jumping. I don't think much about poisoning myself or slitting my wrists because I tried both of those on February 8, 2001. And here I fucking am. Still alive, still kicking. Flapping, really.. like a dying fish with blood pouring down the hook, gasping for water on the stony ground. And for the first time since 2001 I thought to myself (today) I wish I would have fucking died that day. It would have been a much better time for dying. My parents would have been able to find a way to reignite their happiness. Now if I die, I'm not sure if that would be the case. I love my parents with every piece of my beating heart. They are the only reason that I am here.
I have nothing else to live for.
September, 20 2014. My appointment with a hypnotherapist. Hoping she can brainwash the pain away.
Nicole
Sunday, September 7, 2014
Last Days
I could die tomorrow, and that would be a shame. It’s a shame because I’m struggling to be happy today. I’d love my last day to be beautiful. If I knew this was my last day, right now I would head outside. I would walk along Germantown Avenue and grab a nice mocha and read a book. I’d walk next door and buy a pretty rose. I’d walk with that rose all the way down through Mt. Airy and back. I’d pick up a cupcake at Bradenbecks.
I’d tell my parents and grandmother to come down and I’d take them out for dinner. Keith would be invited. I’d drink a glass of red wine over some ribs and I’d stare out the restaurant window with a glimmer in my eye. I’d head down to South Street and walk alone with Keith for awhile. I’d walk to the spot where dad, mom and I wrote on the concrete together. Dad said “one day when we’re long gone, you can come back here and look at this.” I smiled, but I also knew it was only written in Sharpie and it wouldn’t last forever.
I’d go to 2nd street and get a little tipsy off of beer and cider. I’d get some ice cream in Kensington. I’d drive back to Manayunk with Keith and have a margarita or two, because I’d be dead tomorrow and so who cares about hangovers? I’d walk up and down Main Street with him, like always. I’d walk along the canal and through Roxborough with him, like always. I’d stop him to write my last three poems. Three, because I’m sure I wouldn’t be able to say everything I’d need to say on my last day in just one.
When the stars would start twinkling we’d go to Pretzel Park, lay out a blanket like we’ve done in the past and smile at the stars. Then I’d go home and thank the universe for giving me so many beautiful people in my life. My mom, my dad, my grandmother, Keith. My sisters, my brother, my nieces and nephews. My crazy uncle Glenny. The beautiful people that I met by chance under the El on Front Street one fall day a long, long time ago. The beautiful friends that the led me to, like Ms. Alyssa who is planning her beautiful wedding right now and Mr. Bruno who I made lattes with in a past life. I’d send Annie a card on my last day, for sure, because I like sending Annie a card in the mail now and then.
And then I’d close my eyes for the last time, and I’d be happy.
But I’m struggling to feel the happy these days. Why is that? WHY is that?
I’d tell my parents and grandmother to come down and I’d take them out for dinner. Keith would be invited. I’d drink a glass of red wine over some ribs and I’d stare out the restaurant window with a glimmer in my eye. I’d head down to South Street and walk alone with Keith for awhile. I’d walk to the spot where dad, mom and I wrote on the concrete together. Dad said “one day when we’re long gone, you can come back here and look at this.” I smiled, but I also knew it was only written in Sharpie and it wouldn’t last forever.
I’d go to 2nd street and get a little tipsy off of beer and cider. I’d get some ice cream in Kensington. I’d drive back to Manayunk with Keith and have a margarita or two, because I’d be dead tomorrow and so who cares about hangovers? I’d walk up and down Main Street with him, like always. I’d walk along the canal and through Roxborough with him, like always. I’d stop him to write my last three poems. Three, because I’m sure I wouldn’t be able to say everything I’d need to say on my last day in just one.
When the stars would start twinkling we’d go to Pretzel Park, lay out a blanket like we’ve done in the past and smile at the stars. Then I’d go home and thank the universe for giving me so many beautiful people in my life. My mom, my dad, my grandmother, Keith. My sisters, my brother, my nieces and nephews. My crazy uncle Glenny. The beautiful people that I met by chance under the El on Front Street one fall day a long, long time ago. The beautiful friends that the led me to, like Ms. Alyssa who is planning her beautiful wedding right now and Mr. Bruno who I made lattes with in a past life. I’d send Annie a card on my last day, for sure, because I like sending Annie a card in the mail now and then.
And then I’d close my eyes for the last time, and I’d be happy.
But I’m struggling to feel the happy these days. Why is that? WHY is that?
Saturday, September 6, 2014
Broken heart
And right now everything is alright. I had a shitty day but the crickets are chirping, the candles are burning, I just did a facial, I painted my nails, I have a date scheduled tomorrow.
Yes, my car was egged twice in two weeks. Yes, I've been feel so physically ill from anxiety that I have been struggling to make it through each day. But I cleaned off the egg. I scheduled a therapist appointment. And last night I just sprawled out on a North Philly sidewalk with chips and dip at my side. A friendly homeless man was hungry so I shared chips with him. He was grateful and came by a little later to say hi again.
I don't know. It's perspective, they tell me. Perspective. Okay. So where do I see the beautty? In my roommate's sister's new little baby girl. In the music blaring from the block party on the street parallel to ours. In my date tomorrow, where I will wear red lipstick and smile as wide as I can, as I drink down my beer in a fancy glass and wonder if he likes the smell of my perfume.
I see the beauty in my dad's eyes when he sees me. I see the beauty in my mom's morning texts, my sister checking up on me, my grandmother getting excited to gossip with me. I see it in my pedicured feet as they dangle off the bed while I read a novel try to figure out life.
There are beautiful things, there are. It's just still hard. Still so fucking hard. And you know what, life will get harder. I love my parents and one day they aren't going to be there anymore, unless I'm lucky enough to die before them (although I'm not sure if I'd be okay with them having to go through that pain). But I don't know, Life was hard in high school. Very hard. I had a good childhood but at the same time, it wasn't normal in any way, shape, or form. When I got older I thought to myself, "those were the hardest years."
No, not at all. I clearly hadn't had my heart broken yet when I said that.
Yes, my car was egged twice in two weeks. Yes, I've been feel so physically ill from anxiety that I have been struggling to make it through each day. But I cleaned off the egg. I scheduled a therapist appointment. And last night I just sprawled out on a North Philly sidewalk with chips and dip at my side. A friendly homeless man was hungry so I shared chips with him. He was grateful and came by a little later to say hi again.
I don't know. It's perspective, they tell me. Perspective. Okay. So where do I see the beautty? In my roommate's sister's new little baby girl. In the music blaring from the block party on the street parallel to ours. In my date tomorrow, where I will wear red lipstick and smile as wide as I can, as I drink down my beer in a fancy glass and wonder if he likes the smell of my perfume.
I see the beauty in my dad's eyes when he sees me. I see the beauty in my mom's morning texts, my sister checking up on me, my grandmother getting excited to gossip with me. I see it in my pedicured feet as they dangle off the bed while I read a novel try to figure out life.
There are beautiful things, there are. It's just still hard. Still so fucking hard. And you know what, life will get harder. I love my parents and one day they aren't going to be there anymore, unless I'm lucky enough to die before them (although I'm not sure if I'd be okay with them having to go through that pain). But I don't know, Life was hard in high school. Very hard. I had a good childhood but at the same time, it wasn't normal in any way, shape, or form. When I got older I thought to myself, "those were the hardest years."
No, not at all. I clearly hadn't had my heart broken yet when I said that.
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