This essay was originally posted to my old website, one October afternoon in 2014.
I’d left my phone on the radiator in the vestibule, and one of the friends of my downstairs neighbor’s son scooped it up. Stressed as all hell, I kept texting my number from my roommate’s phone. She gave me xanax, and I started on the mission of heading to the City to connect a spare iphone. And so I popped the pill, hopped on the M train, and took out my journal.
When I made it home that evening, the phone had been returned.
Below are feels I wrote down through the day, as they came to me.
The world was ending and I didn’t care.
I was no stranger to disappointment and no longer felt a need to dress these things up, or disguise my mood, my state, my expression. People were, and everything was, already convoluted enough. I didn’t need to add to that.
When I got on the train I’d intended to get off at Flushing and hit the bank there, but once my rhythm came on I realized that spot agitates me and I’d rather just go into the city.
I didn’t know what I thought would happen. More, I didn’t know why I thought anything would happen at all. As much as I’d have liked to be able to will my fantasies into existence the truth was I didn’t have that power. I didn’t have nearly enough of a grip on reality to actually interact with and reshape it.
Every time I faced reality I met disappointment. And I wasn’t sure how much I cared for either anymore.
Hopefully, everyone will die of Ebola.
I could hear his voice in my head.
I remembered his confession and the innocence that seemed to shine in his face when he smiled so sweetly at me. And all I felt was naïve. Because those smiles were mockery and that innocence, guilt. Those confessions were warnings I’d chosen to ignore. But still his voice stirred a chord inside me, a rhythm, a resonation, a longing, a hope, a fantasy.
I thought I would’ve made him happy. I’d thought for sure he could, would, already had, or was on his way to falling in love with me. And that’s what I’d wanted to happen; what I thought I’d wanted to happen.
I wanted my happy ending. In this foolish, corrupt, hypocritical and negligent world I’d wanted to rightly have good feelings returned and to reach my place of peaceful, faithful, knowing, of love.
That’s what I’d wanted.
This has been a difficult day and it’s still not even noon yet. I’m treating myself to sushi and choosing to suppress this melancholy. I’m not high anymore, only tired.
I’m not interested in pitying myself and I don’t.
I feel the pressure of not meeting my own expectations and I’m aware of others’ projection and reactions I’m not sorry for anything or anyone. All I want is to keep my head above the water and get to some place where I’m not readjusting all the time. If I’m going to be foolish then I want to always, constantly be foolish. And if I’m going to be rigid and disciplined I want to be constantly rigid and disciplined. But I do not want to be both, back and forth, day in and day out.
The worst is being so stuffed I’m afraid I won’t be able to finish these last two pieces of sushi.
I can only hope he genuinely feels awful. And that he resents his feelings of guilt. Because if he feels bad and angry for feeling bad then he will know that he cared about me and he’s probably lost his chance.
I can’t decide if he’s lost his chance or if I never had one.
Being told I could do better than the one I’d wanted to do doesn’t actually make me feel better. Because if I could do better but I can’t do the one I’d wanted then just exactly how good can I even?
I wonder if spending the entire day in Manhattan connecting my new phone is a metaphor for my life/love life. Like if I’m determined enough to get this through in one day then maybe I could endure this embarrassing hiccup and hopefully, somehow things will work out. Don’t know if I’m an optimist or an idiot.
The last thing I wanted to see was the last embarrassment on the same train as me. That’s just no. And the phone debacle continues. If connecting this phone was some metaphor for everything else working out then everything might all be about to go to shit. And some part of me knows I’m only being dramatic and tomorrow everything will be fine.
I don’t think one Xanax is really going to cut it. I think I’ll need a literal handful more.
There isn’t much else I want lately more than to be left alone. I need my space to recharge and regroup. I need to get my mojo back, and only I can give myself that. I’m a bit exhausted of everyone thinking they have any right to me. I wish more people actually feared me than resented my potential power.
I feel vengeful and conniving and I want to exercise and exact as much of that as I can.
I don’t actually like him at all.
I only love him more every day and I’m still not sure whether that’s because I want to or because I actually do. Because yesterday I didn’t want to, but I wanted to look at him and touch him and speak to him and I couldn’t help that I wanted to, despite not wanting to. I wanted to be able to control myself and my attraction and I couldn’t. It was just there: this longing, this desire and this accompanying familiarity, kinship; this silent resonance that I can hear/feel within me, between us. And I don’t doubt he feels it. I only wonder why he doesn’t act on it. I only wonder why he won’t, or better when he will give me something. I am literally in longing.
I’m not nervous to see him. Some days are easier than others – like the days when I don’t see him at all.