his face is a grave. i cannot look at him for long without getting annoyed. we spend time together because for right now, this is the best either of us can do. i do not like it when he touches me, it is automatic, so i'd rather he not and just let me do all the work. he touches me and i feel distracted, almost confused as to why he's there. after all i'm not the one looking. he wants to play games while i watch horror films in my mind. there he is now, on the floor, passive, rolling around. i want him to leave and stay. he looks at me and i become apprehensive but he isn't. i want to tell him he should be.
i've been hurt, oh yeah, and sure, we all have but i've been hurt to the point where my sanity is definitely questionable and my perceptions are jagged glass waiting for you to get cut on them.
awaiting the day for you to be raw like me.
people wonder what we see in each other, honestly, i don't see much. this is no buddhist reflection pool. the days are cold-shouldered into months. i always find some person to latch on to. it's all contrived. i am a parasite that is constantly looking for a new soul to call home. myself has never been enough for me. i know how i came to this, almost down to the date. i was always aware of other peoples' hands in my psyche, changing me.
survival by any means necessary. i'm only one generation removed from russian street kids huffing paint fumes from a bag.
it is safest to love at a distance. i tell them all, i am no one you want to be involved with! they think i'm being cute and self-depreciating. they don't realize i'm psychotic. i take time to tell them about the abuse, about the drugs, about the constant paranoia. i suppose i don't spend enough time telling them how i change, about how i get bored, about how they will eventually no longer interest me and that i will be as confused by it as they are. that i will suddenly and quickly lose the ability to love them. and then i will leave. abruptly, relentlessly. perhaps it's emotional paralysis. after i've gone through enough pain and discomfort with one person, instead of wanting to get closer, i want out. i associate them with discomfort, with aggravation, with my own decaying dreams, with the pain they have been precised as causing me...and with my guilt towards hurting/abusing/discarding them.
there was a time, inside of my life, where i was utterly non existent. people could walk all over me as long i was later given a few semi-affectionate pats. i drifted on from person to person. the concept that i had needs was something i was shut off from. i stopped looking to other people for comfort and started looking towards myself. a world was internalized where i was saved. i used fantasy to preserve parts of my self when the worst of the abuse took place. i learned to stop existing in time and space. out-of-control, off the deep edge, insane, cracked, snagged, beserk, oblivious, delusional, i can be all of these, and more often than not i am several at once.
behind this persona, an empty shadow, full of misplaced rage and fury.
my back turned on all things.
and dear, when you read this and you want to know where your relationship with me fits into all of this, i'm spelling it out as clearly as possible.
the fact that i live is mocking and disappointing. i always thought that you are suppose to get used to it, life i suppose is what i mean, but i have miserably failed to do so. i have never adapted to being a human in an inhumane world.
get used to it? just get over it, get over life. kill your feelings, deny them. this is what so many subcultural icons, rejects and dejects, prescribe as a way to save yourself from the horrors of existence. drown out the way you have failed yourself and are now living in the cage of your own failure. find a doctor with a willing r.x. pad and then chemically fake it until you make it.
keep drinking the champagne even after you've realized it's made from your own piss.
weak and in pain. realize that no one is coming to save you. no one out there to help you besides yourself and when your self is ruined and wrecked...it becomes apparent that elusive "self-improvement", that "change" you have to make to become "stronger" isn't as simple as everyone else seems to think it is.
CHANGE. o-he-he-ha-ha. fix your life! there are people making millions selling others the idea that salvation can be found in change. impossible. what's "wrong" is fundamental and cannot be corrected. what and who i am, is what is wrong. you can put a million different bandages over lacerations, but when what you need is stitches and staples your attempts at healing will fail. they sell the lie that once you get skinny, once you get off drugs, once you stop compulsively eating, once you start working out, etc. everything falls into place.
This is a lie. it is the lie of my lifetime. and after the $50,000 grand wasted on rehab could have been spent on drugs. what a shame.
kept breathing in emotional limbo. no one to blame. at least i accept this whole fuck as my mess, i understand i've done it to myself and the only guarantee is that it will go on. i will remain fully aware and in tune with the horror, the bad luck story that made me. it's nothing more than a fucking shame. a pitiful sideshow extravaganza. to say i was half-dead, that i was barely alive and just rehashing the same old shit would be a blessing but everyday i suck it up a little more. i become more aware of the absentee warmth and comfort while refusing to roll over. facing the torture, self-torture, loveless, listless and ultimately cruel masochistic life i've fashioned.
no going back. i have the capacity for real enjoyment, life, love and the rest of the things that form the noose. to stop looking for the infinite in a finite world, born to die. growing in a steady rate of decay. the only one who cannot accept the way things fall apart. trying too hard to save and retain the transient.
new feelings,
remind of those times
spent in a murky addiction
labeled help.
Anne McMillen has sold out, trading heroin shriek for methadone mindlessness. She still somehow manages to spend a grand on drugs per month, according to her accountant. In a world driven by capitalist greed where people daydream of fame and fortune Anne spends her days wishing for a poppy field and mud hut somewhere in the mountains of Afghanistan, a goal just as equally unattainable given that she's American, queer, and female. Her books of poetry are available through Unlikely Books.
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