It is 10:14pm at the moment.
My heart never seems to fail to drop into my stomach when My boyfriend tells me that he’ll be going out. Though it’s worse than slowly realizing he’s not coming home by the passing of time. It takes all the hope of my evening out. The entire day then seems pointless. The reward at the end being snatched from under me...
I’m pregnant now. If he goes out later on in this, I don’t think I’ll be able to bear it. Tonight, I understand that it is a little different. His cousins are in from out of town, several of them, and them and several of his friends came by. They invited him out, and this being a mix of his favorite family and friends, he didn’t even ask, he told me that he was going out. I understand. I’m just hurt. I don’t know how to not be hurt.
One night shouldn’t be so hard to ask, should it? So why do I feel this, each and every single time I feel this way. My emotions are set to "down" and I feel alone. What keeps me from crying is the logical thought that says that it’s only fair, and that it is only, after all, one night. It is, after all, following what I said, once a week. So why do I keep hoping that he’ll choose once in a month or less out of choice? Why do I keep believing that it will work out that way?
Even if my brain computes that as impossible, my heart won’t let go. I want him all to myself, and perhaps that’s just greedy, but perhaps it’s because I can’t relate with wanting to go out. I don’t know how it feels to enjoy being out with a group of people. Perhaps I have enjoyed it on occasion, but not often enough, not consistently enough for it to ever amount to beans for me.
I’m trying so hard to push away what-ifs like, "What if he continues to follow his pattern of leaving me once or twice a week for long periods of time, forever, no matter what happens?"
It’s not fair. Him and I don’t argue when he doesn’t go out. There is nothing to argue about except him going out (and doing drugs while he’s out.) I called him back and told him that this means he is not going out New Years Eve with his boss and his boss’s husband/boyfriend. He told me that it wasn’t fair, but I really didn’t want him to go out New Years Eve anyway. Perhaps this is better, assuming he comes home without being tipsy. Assuming he doesn’t take until six o’clock in the morning to arrive. Assuming he does indeed stay in for New Years Eve.
Would he defy a direct "order" from me if I’m pregnant with his child? If I told him he couldn’t do something, would he still do it to spite me? Please, please, please tell me he wouldn’t. I don’t think he would, but god the what-ifs are attacking me.
It’s just painful knowing I’m alone tonight I suppose. Is there anything really else that could be to it? I don’t want to be alone, and I can’t relate with wanting to go out, and even if I did, I don’t have anywhere to go, so of course I’m going to feel alone. I’ll never be used to it, I’ll never accept it. I’ll continue to pray and hope for him to decide staying in is better, and if he won’t come around on his own, then he’ll be forced to come around when he sees his baby.
But he has been spending more time with me. I just hate that it’s our only problem, and that it can be so easily deflected. Just don’t leave me My boyfriend, that’s it. That’s all I’m asking.
Sunday the 30th of December, 2007.
It is 1:41pm at the moment.
Everything has come full circle. The last two weeks might have well have never happened. I’m not pregnant, and I’m about at the edge of my stamina for meaning. I don’t have any sort of meaning. And I’m shown that. I’ve had it proven to my face. Maybe men just hate me because I’m worth hating. I’m too fucking demanding. I changed my mind about things, and now look what happens. I wanted to be pregnant. The more I thought about it, the more I wanted it. It’s like running towards everything you always wanted up a path floating in the air, to a cloud with a castle in the sky, and then, out of no where, you hit this glass screen. I never saw it coming, and then I’m falling, falling, falling back to whence I came.
No, the last two weeks did happen. And now I’ve gone from a break-up that would have caused me three months of turmoil to a break-up that would give me a year. I’m so sick of starting over with everything. My art is still garbage, and don’t try and tell me otherwise. I stopped writing on my novel, again, and now I’ve come to realize what I really need to write, and it’s going to be very different, and it’s going to be very hard, but it will be all I can write with any sort of feeling.
I feel like the two halves of my body are not quite connected. I’m all emotion, or I’m all logic, and funny enough, they are telling me the same things... Fuck everything.
There’s El. He’s here already. With that my heart sinks so far inside that I can’t even dig it out. I’m not sure if it’s good or not that I’m not pregnant now. I hate myself. I hate myself for being so ignorant, for not knowing anything useful! I hate myself for not being useful.
I will myself not to speak. I will not speak. I will keep a blank face, and say nothing. I need to just ignore this. If I put my headphones on they’ll be more likely to put music on.
They’ll be leaving soon enough. My boyfriend is going to go buy some new pants, so he has something new to wear tomorrow when he spends Christmas Eve away from me, with his boss. He says he has to go. That this is so he "can eat" as he put it.
I’m not convinced any of it’s worth it any more. Am I going to regret all of this?
I have a new idea. But it’s a bad one. It’s a very bad one. Actually, it’s not a new idea at all. What if I just went out? What if I went and made friends and came home high? Well, perhaps not that last part.
So much for not speaking. I can’t help it. I thought this up and down was done dude. I believed it. He’s leaving, again. I threatened to break up with him this morning again, and it was the same, even before El got here. Everything is all for not. It’s all a waste. Everything I’ve tried to do, everything I’ve tried to say. It’s all nothing. It’s all worthless.
It’s so painful. I want to be hit. I want to be thrown out the window, and shot three times before I hit the ground. Fuck everyone else’s feelings, just kill me. I don’t have the strength to do it to myself, so just do it to me.
I don’t have many more words to describe this... "Beautiful Liar" by Shakira and Beonce, "Breakin Dishes" by Rihanna. I leave it at that. Let me just go lay down and cry now...
Sunday the 30th of December, 2007.
It is 2:37pm at the moment.
They’ve been gone for forty minutes now. I feel that desolate empty feeling that I get when some part of me, conscious or not, decides to shut off the water works. The part of me that wants to shrug and walk away and say, "it was just another year of lessons." That part of me knows how to stop crying.
Breakups shouldn’t be the tip of my tongue. We were just talking about having a baby. We’re still engaged. My fiancé is out right now... Looking for a new outfit to wear to go out with his boss. I’m, of course not being fair, not being understanding. I’m still a sucky a girlfriend.
I think I know why Tre keeps coming up in my dreams right now. I’m usually running from him in these dreams, in one way or another. In the dream I had last night, there was this bug that resembled a scorpion, but it was hard to tell what it was because it kept growing and changing, and then, suddenly it grew to full size and it was Tre. Suddenly it seemed obvious that it had been Tre all along. In the dream My boyfriend is calm about this. I think this is a metaphor for my fear of My boyfriend turning out to be just like Tre. That is probably my greatest fear of all.
But comparing the two is completely moot, especially at this point. This is about now. There is a rift between my father and I, and this is because I’ve went from one man to another, never asking for his approval. At least, I think that is what’s happened. It seems like the rift just gets bigger and bigger. Whenever him and I talk about anything personal, it’s a dead conversation, or it’s an argument. I’ve unknowingly sacrificed my relationship with my father in the hopes of having a better marriage than he did. In the hopes of finding Mr. Right.
I’ve stashed away my own ambitions, and subsumed myself into one man’s dreams or another. I’ve let myself be controlled, belittled, smothered, abandoned and miserable. I’ve let that happen. This is my fault. I can always leave. I could have always said or done something differently. I could have cut things off before I got attached, this time, last time, or the first time. I should know better. I’m the one crying, and being pathetic.
I can’t blame him. He believes he needs new pants before he shows himself tomorrow. He thinks it will be beneficial to his job to go out on New Years. Just leave me. Fine. I’ll sit here, by myself, and I’ll go ahead and be pathetic some more.
Why am I still so upset that I’m not pregnant? Isn’t it just completely stupid of me to feel like that is going to fix anything? Why is babies another tear jerkier?
A giant spider landed in my face last night before My boyfriend got home. A large daddy-long-leg. A deadly spider that can not penetrate human skin because it’s mouth is too small. A cannibal spider that eats it’s own kind, that gets larger and larger for all the time that it lives. It was probably an inch an a half tall, two inches wide. It’s legs that is, while bent. It’s body is actually rather small. The thing was terrifying though. I leaped out of beg, thrashing my hair, my face, my arms. I checked myself thoroughly in the mirror and then returned to the bed, pulling the covered apart one at a time, and moving the pillows, until finally it emerged. I was ready for it, and I heard it crunch inside the tissue. Totally grossed out I laid back down.
A sign? How could it not be? I have not seen a spider like that in so long, and then My boyfriend gets home and we argue about this and that until we come to an understanding. An understanding that was completely negated first thing this morning.
Perhaps right now I’m checking myself in the mirror for the problem. What is the problem? Is it El? Is it My boyfriend? Is it his work? Is it me? Is it just everything? Can anything be done about it?
And then, when I find it, carefully I have to pull the layers away, lean in, pull more layers away, until finally it emerges, and then, squashed the deadly thing with only a tissue to protect my hand. (I don’t think there is enough venom to kill you from touch or anything like that, but I wouldn’t squash that thing in my bare hand even if it was harmless.)
Too bad human emotions and issues are much harder to locate than spiders. I’ve been awake for two and a half hours. One of those hours he’s been gone for. The half-hour before that, El was here. The hour before that My boyfriend and I argued. This is just so stupid. I think I’m going back to the old approach of not reacting to anything in does except in private.
Let him leave. How will he feel if I don’t care, or at least don’t seem to? It probably won’t help. I don’t know what would help. I’ve tried explaining, and listening, explaining and listening, and then compromising. Then he just breaks the compromise and goes back to his original argument. Back to square one again, and why is that so familiar?
Start over. Start over. Our anniversary was going to be a start-over. He was really going to change. It’s not like I even want who he is to change. I just don’t want him to go out. I want him to be the him that he is when he’s inside the room, cuddling beside me, talking, drawing, reading, writing, designing, watching TV, eating, laughing, playing, sharing computer interests, sharing memories, sharing love, sex and attention. Why the fuck isn’t that enough? Why can’t I relate to wanting to be amongst people? Why can’t he keep a promise to me?
Why are all promises made to be broken? Why are all hearts made to be broken? Why am I so fragile? Why is everything so breakable, so hurtful, so hard?
It’s like him and I said last night: if our relationship was perfect, karma would come along and fuck up everything else. So him and I are doomed to fight, and fight, and fight until we get fed up enough to call it quits for good. Is that the way of love? Or have I still, yet, to this day, never known a real love? Am I still floundering in false realities? Is there such thing as reality? Perhaps reality is only pain, and everything else is a blissful illusion before we return to base one: hurt.
Two-thousand-and-seven is about to end. I’ll be kissing the year goodbye without him, and perhaps that’s just another sign. Maybe this is building up the exact same way. Rocky and beautiful after a year, with discouraging signs creating further determination, stubbornness living on, wearing down the heart, wearing down the connection, until there are sparks, an outage, until I shut down, and tearless, give up after two years of fighting. Am I doomed to that same pattern?
Up and down, up and down, up and down, perhaps emotions are just sex. On the out-stroke we’re scared for a moment that the pleasure won’t come back, we’re anxious, desperate, were not in a position of enough control, and then it comes back, and we’re in ecstacy, the moment in between lost in our memories, only existing in it’s present, it’s now, never there when we look back for it, trying to remember it. The orgasm abolishing the worries, the pain, for a few seconds at least, maybe even a few hours, before "reality" comes back to us, smacks us in the face, and makes us realize we’re dripping and dirty, sweaty and tired, and that we’re meaningless beings addicted and chained, helpless slaves to our own desires. Helpless slaves to our need to be loved, and to love back fully, unrestrained.
It is 3:16pm at the moment.
I am your lover, your slave.
I’m a typical woman to my grave.
I’m a bitch and a brat,
I’m as slick as a cat.
I’m pretty and plain, not fat.
I’m a trickster, not to be trusted.
You say a lot, until my heart is busted.
Held up so high, on praise and joy.
It hurts more as I fall into another ploy.
I’m a lover, a slave, a liar to the grave.
I’m a bitch, a brat, a player, a cat.
I’m stupid, retarded, demented, twisted.
I’m the girl next door, plain.
Easily slain.
You like me like this, you like me in pain.
I have everything to lose, everything to gain.
Go ahead, call me one more name.
I’m a lover, a slave, a bitch to the grave.
I’m a brat, a trickster, a woman, and I crave.
I’m stupid, twisted, demented, retarded.
I’m dirty. I’m crazy. I’m flirty. I’m lazy.
I’m a typical, lying bitch; my words hazy.
A snake, a sliver, totally untrustworthy.
I’m alone picking a daisy.
He loves me, he love me not.
He loves me... Fuck – He loves me not.
I’m a girl, a babe, a sweety, a shorty.
I’m a brat, I’m a bitch, it’s all the same.
How come I’m nothing despite all my names?
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