I’m from the class of girls who were in middle school as the chat rooms started. And who, by 9th grade, were sending emails back and forth of hundred long question surveys about your favorite movies and pet peeves.
We were always connected. We were always replying and forwarding. We were always profiling and posing ourselves. So by this time, surely I should be able to perfect the filter through which I should choose to be perceived.
Oh kittens, I’ve been through a terrible ordeal but no I haven’t really. Just the usual fair, an obstacle course of the mind, all my own doing. Unplanned, but predestined and right on time as per the usual. Predictable and formulaic. Because there’s something so artistic and not profound about the precision with which you can foresee and delay and finally release the flooding masterpiece of a meltdown.
When you’ve been at it this long, you’ve got it down. You’d better get it right.
Oh god. It still feels like I’m going to die. Oh. Oh dear. Maybe metaphorically speaking I guess. Maybe not. But who cares. As my favorite Aunt always said “we all got to go.”
And isn’t it really the way, how loss and going without will shape a woman into a pragmatist. The things she wanted out of life, the things she’d expected and which were expected for her at the time, were things she never got. But even through her trials didn’t she always have so much? She had her family and her friends and her faith and her jewelry and clothing, and plants, and her little treats, and her delightful decorations. I don’t think she was ever troubled or pained by life. Or anything that happened in the past. And if she was she certainly never let on.
Maybe I could learn a thing or two there. I let on too much don’t I? Don’t I just need you to see? And be intrigued and flatter me? And love me? And hate and envy and covet me? God I am so needy I COULD DIE.
And then you realize that’s it! Or at least you hope. Because you can’t be this pretty and smart and still not get it. After all this time!
So maybe I AM dying! Maybe it’s growing pains. Maybe I just have to fight through this monsoon, this fucking endless storm, and hold on. Maybe outside, after the pelting, whipping rain, and the snapping, slapping wind, the clouds will clear – of course they will! They always do! But this time, aha, maybe this time I’ll come out of it someone new like who doesn’t need approval or something.
Haha jk lol.
I mean maybe I will. I’m not opposed to changing. Personally, I love a good transformation. That’s why I exercise. No it’s not, I do it for vanity. I do it to get laid. But I enjoy witnessing the transformation. And I do enjoy the feeling of the work of doing exercise.
But exercising your mind is not the same as exercising your body. The mind is something else entirely isn’t it? And never mind the mind who can endure pain, and tends to lean into it. Because that mind can exercise anything huh.
There are two kinds of minds aren’t there?
And then you’ll have the emotions which are other things entirely onto themselves except they are not independent of anything. They are a sticky interlocking virus that preys on both my mind and my body and gives neither space to breathe.
So demanding, so loud, so pulsating. And sticky!
What the trouble is is that I can’t see past them. Even if there are cliches about the sun coming out tomorrow, or if I use cutesy alliteration to make a cheap and easy rhyme about the wind during a storm when I’ve never once been at sea in those conditions, it doesn’t mean that when the astrology changes I’ll suddenly know any better how to do anything with my emotions.
I have no emotional map. I know that if I run 6-7km a week and do three 40 minutes sessions of yoga I will achieve and maintain my personal ideal favorable maximum fuckable body type. I know that if I spend two hours a day writing or designing a website that I can finish a new project every 8 days, or that if I attract a minimum of 60 new visitors per week to a site that I can close an average of 3 per month.
I know all these things because I’ve done them repeatedly and they play out repeatedly the same ways.
What do I know of true emotional vulnerability?
Oh, if you think I’m going to cry that river for you here then you’ve missed the entire plot.
I most certainly will not.
Anyway. That’s the exit interview on 2023.
I pushed Victor away to drink the illusions with Roman, and then I ran away from Roman to take the familiar poison with Anton and then I broke apart that skeleton and retreated home to lick my wounds in denial, and then I burnt my kettle and cut three onions and went snorkeling, and got sun tanned, and had a fit.
Tell me what you think before we both die