I confess that death has a certain novelty to it. Just like the way so many things theatrically larger than life becomes, I dream about it; it provides me a certain dark comfort ever since I had enough intelligence to at least voice it aloud in my head. In the same way silence is indefinitely pronounced when you exercise it, the very novelty of ending a life seems to magically dissipate the moment you say them aloud. It’s as if death should only be a secret in your head.
When I speak of death; when I speak of the death of myself; when I think of creating the death of me, I feel I speak on behalf of another part of me that truly believes if only I had enough courage I’d find a way to put a trigger to my head. Of course I feel guilt as well. So to make up for this ugly truth it appears as if every kindness I have expressed thus far has been to make up for it. And for every gesture I have taken to show my loved ones I care, it has been tinted secretly with the fleeing thought if only they knew, except most of the time it is not even that cohesive a thought. Rather a sort of enveloping feeling in its place. Everything boils down to the touch of a feeling. An ironic sense of immeasurable gratitude for what they know of me instead. The same way I felt on Father’s Day just this past 24 hours – the sheer gratefulness to have the people around me. Simple, idealistic and soothing to know everyone is happy with the meal I made. To provide for, to care for, to love and spoil and make happy…and I’d want my father to be proud of me.
The impossible. I want him to tell me that. Aloud. Tell me and mean it. It is just like to me to put on a pedestal words from a man I have never known that well anyway. It’s too theatrical to pass up.
And that’s all I’ve ever wanted. A tragically heroic and altruistic dreamscape.
And for the briefest of moments, when I write late night confessions such as these, I dream about sharing them with my sister. I dream about being honest with myself. Another fantastical idea to be kept inside your head, because, what would people say when they read this of their little sister? What would a mother do for a daughter of hers when it’s not even their fault. Who is to blame when there was just a sad, grieving woman desperate for love who held onto another life raft while her own child brewed silently at home at how much she hated the world. And I have watched her dependency, and willed myself against it; and I have watched her emotional insecurity and I have learned to hide mine well. So is that not enough then to make her happy, except I know one feels much safer to be in the arms of a man. Understanding that, knowing where she comes from..but it’s shitty for me too I want to say. I could complain of course, but it’d be unfair because I’d feel how she’d feel too. Shitty. It’s like a little child that’s been beaten and bruised from the very hand that feeds and the mother gets caught between a hard place and a rock, ultimately choosing to grief for and with the sorrowful man for not having been there for her to begin with. It hurts. It makes you so, very, hateful. Yet we love all the same. Put in all my might to make up for the lack of in life. It’s very confusing to maintain that contentment…
With all that’s said and done, I’m sure each of us could go on forever about one family member or the other that has been the root cause of all this. What have I done but become the spitting image of the woman I did not want to become? Just alternatively fearing and longing for the opposite sex. I have become the most reactive agent in our family without thought. Don’t do it I tell her. Be strong. Teach me how to be a woman. Show me.
What’s the sense of humor in the oddity of a lioness trying to equally save the gazelle from the jaws of others just as much from itself. To urge it to be independent and lash out in aggression for its pathetic attempts. How you can just eat grass, one seems to say, why can’t you hunt for yourself? Turns out it really just made it hard for the both of them.
I find myself just as guilty now when I told my coworker that I was attracted to him. It was not strength, nor courage, or integrity that made me do so. When I told him not to freak out, it dawned on me what better advise than to take our own. Within the short 24 hours since, the same chemical reaction that previously dissolves your sense of self when you have to explain aloud doubles in effect the self-loathe that had been absence while I had remained disciplined. It’s like I have been returned to the place I was always supposed to be, to a crumbled silent figure clutching your voice down. Who are you crying out to anyway? To that extent, you even find yourself wondering where you could have been until now. Lending from Stockholm syndrome, you jump head long into the culprit and know in such a divinely visceral insight that you deserve to be punished, only you don’t ever recall what exact fault you had done wrong.
To answer that however, well it’d never come across the right way. So hard to speak when you’re alive and well, so difficult to manipulate the very words that are your best friend. Most likely that is the illusion of death – when people finally listen. (Is that why I write? Will they read this one day?) How do you express your equal fear and care. How do you explain the defense mechanism that never fails the occasion to cause you to both be fearful and attracted to one person. Coming close to even outward directed loathe for the root of vulnerability. While constructing these mental conversations, somebody always asks you why – explain yourself, how did you get to be this way – and you tell them in the best voice you can make it that you are so ugly. What an ugly person, and so small. You picture ways to make visual of that. You recount virtues that you have not acquired. Not humility, nor kindness, or patience. Not a teachable spirit, but an actively guilt driven one that knows people only think you are kind. And what if it is for show – what if I get indignant and angry – how do I make up for it ?
The word ugly just sort of beats against the grey fabric of your mind. It thickens into a deeper black, until each stroke of the word is pulsing on its own, and it would appear abysmal if you happen to stare into it for too long like a sort of swirling picture trick. You’d know you’re empty then. What do you have to offer people?
Nothing, is all I can say so far, so I guess in lesser words this is why I punish myself. To refrain from trust and love and all things inclusive of codependency; to reign a habitual practice in polishing my lifestyle choices for nobody in particular. Like prepping for prom forever and boycotting it all the while. Ha ha.
And this is my very own biggest inhibiting vice, the very mark of my youngness and immaturity that I have so come to despise. My very own unwillingness to be taught and to forgive. Though to begin with, all these almost romantic escalation of reformative ideas tend to start with an honest word for help, except I find it not uncommon for people like myself to lose our voices among the commotions of our mind. Maybe one day. Maybe another day, I would start with sending this email to somebody else who would care to read it. Picture myself fighting the battle to not fidget and guess at their expression – to hold no expectations because you can’t force them the way you force yourself.
To say these words now though, would be to belittle the very own pool I have slowly drowned myself in. Black daunting ugly. I don’t care if its illogical, it is comforting all the same. I can be in my own skin for once and accept it. So ugly..it’s a sigh of relief.