Thursday, November 2, 2017

yesterday, a journal excerpt

Wake up. Reheat a cup of yesterday's coffee.
Make fresh pot of coffee.
See FB memory of ______ . Dammit. I guess I forgot to block the person who beat and abused me. I tell myself not to click. I click. I say, don't look at her Instagram page. I do.
I see my friends complimenting her and laughing and thumbs up everywhere.
See her pictures.
Want to die.
Think about doing it.
I take a shower instead.

In the shower I am thinking of suicide letters, goodbyes, love letters.

I also thought of a short story. A soldier in an asymmetrical war zone, looking out at the machines that will surely kill her.

She is writing in a notebook, to say goodbye to those people in her life who had meant something to her.

This letter was good:

I am writing to say goodbye. I'm about to be killed. But if I survive this war, I am going to kill myself anyway. Life was already intolerable before this. I just wanted you to know that you were the one who showed me just how awful the world could really be. Imagine that: worse than war, torture, solitary confinement, humiliation and rape. That's what your love meant to me. You will have to live with what you did. I won't.

Perfect suicide note. Guilty. Mean. True.

Her story goes something like this. She was a Marine. Went through basic training. Could strip and rebuild her M16. She was tough and strong for being so light, so little. And then she was injured. Tore all the tendons in her knee. She became disillusioned. She had wanted to to do something great to make-up for a second-class life, always treated like a weakling and a nobody. She never believed in the cause. She just wanted to be admired, tough, loved.

The knee was god's mean joke. So she went to school. And became a feminist and an anarchist. She was good at it. People listened to her. People felt safe when she was around. People trusted her. And then war and occupation. And now extermination...

She's pinned down. Under heavy fire. No means of escape … writing notes to people she once loved.

After I shower I prepare to send my dissertation to my committee while crying about how I want to die and how tired I am of doing everything right and still ending up here, about to kill myself, again. And how I can't be some kind of super hero that endures and endures.

I write the emails and send the files.

Also, I message S and ask for help. 

He said that that's a good sign, making the decision to find help. I don't think it is. I think I am tired of trying...

Maybe I'm going to do everything wrong this time. Maybe I'm done caring.

Why care. Nothing gets better. No one has ever been held accountable for raping, beating, humiliating, torturing, assaulting, abusing... me.

And then B called.

I told her I wanted to die. She asked if she could come over. And I said Okay. And then she came over and cried and asked me to make a baby with her.

I say it's probably not smart to make a baby now. I want to die. It would grow up with only one parent.

She says, you've wanted to die for forty-ish years and you're still here. I'll risk it...

I know that she wants a baby to make up for something else... A trauma from childhood, maybe. She doesn't know. It's desperate. It's a disaster for sure. We fuck for an hour or more. Or less. I come in her three times, because that's what she wanted. She's ovulating. I might be a co-parent in 9 months. It could be interesting.

And then we go for a walk to buy some fabric so I can make clothes for myself. We keep walking to an open air beauty market.

I walk into the booth where I buy my lashes. I ask for the long single strand lashes, some glue, and new tweezers with a 90 degree flat head.
A guy, cute, young, points out my tattoo to his wife or partner or close-friend. I pull my boot down so they can see it better.

He says that she loves Tigger. She shows me a picture of her bedroom, filled with stuffed Tigger's.

And I tell her that I like this Tigger (my tattoo) because he's sad. And that's what I'm like. I'm like bi-polar. I'm either bouncing around or wanting to die. Usually everyday, at this hour, 3 o'clock. Smiley face.

It strikes me that this suicidal-rhythm is no longer true, now I usually want to die first thing in the morning, all day till evening when I finally find some redemption, some days.

And I ask her if she identifies with Tigger, if she's always bouncing? And she says I do identify. I'm either bouncing or really really sad.

And then her partner says that's true. She tried to kill herself the other day.

I say, me too. We have so much in common. Smiley face. Her partner stares at me.

He says, don't do that. Come here and hang out with us instead. His eyes are glassy with tears.

And then I pay and leave with tears in my eyes because we know so little about everybody around us.

And outside a woman said she could clear up my blackheads and make my skin shine, and I thought, I do shine. I am a bloom and bust economy.

No comments:

Post a Comment