Dismantled.

For years it haunted me– that is, the house itself and all it represents.  Now, years later, I drive past its boarded-up windows and filthy siding, remembering the singular instance of being inside.  Now no one goes inside. The house sticks out like a sore thumb against a drab but drastic backdrop of construction equipment and newly laid, jet black asphalt. And normally, I wouldn’t like the idea of destroying the past and of paving more square feet of this earth. But this house, which has always awkwardly stood on this preposterously busy corner, must go.

En route home from work, for weeks, the house stood, still boarded, still surrounded by construction. And then, almost magically, it was gone– knocked down, pieces collected and trashed.  I wished its absence would have been more cathartic, but nothing short of a stroke could completely erase the memories from my mind.  At very least, the entity was gone.  At very least, nothing would physically house the discomfort of watching her put her hands on your thigh and refer to you, almost jokingly, as a friend. You let her assign me a vegetable peeler and introduced me as a friend while she puffed a cigarette she lit with a grill lighter.  And me, just 18, against her 25.  How did you think that would make me feel? And the fact that the only reason I was brought along was because I caught you in the act of secretly planning to go see her?

And here I am, on the verge of 25, looking back and realizing how unacceptable it was to take me to that house, to make me look her in the eye.  She didn’t want me there, and you didn’t want me there.

Now there is no kitchen left standing where I could again be handed a wooden spoon and instructed to stir while you get the grand tour of the house.  It can’t happen again.  I won’t let it.

Maybe it’s good that the memory still stands despite the house’s demise.  It can always remind me of that most uncomfortable evening of cooking dinner for your ex-girlfriend, pretending I was no one (a secret you liked to keep).

Now I keep few secrets, only enough for a bus ticket away from a preposterous house full of ex girlfriends.  I’m hoping I never have to go.  I don’t think you, new and wonderful boy, would make me.  I’m hoping I don’t need to wait another six years for a bulldozer.

move outside the tangle of fear-thinking

I am unable to work because I feel so inferior.  I want to be the best at something, or be known for something big.  Perhaps it’s the territory of being a leo, or maybe it’s my well-disguised but all-engulfing insecurity.  It’s not even worth figuring out why i feel like this.  I just want it to stop.  I feel completely inadequate and fake.  My life feels like a sham.  Somehow I went to a good college, somehow I graduated, somehow I got a job, this job, any job.  Nothing I’ve ever done has been borne completely of my own effort.  I have always had referrals, recommendations, half-assed experiences, or flukes pushing me along.

My life could be so much more than what it is now.  What it is is a joke, a sham, a front.  How did I let it get this bad?

I don’t know the answer, I know only that I can’t. I don’t want any more vicissitudes, I don’t want any more of this try, try again stuff. I just want out. I’ve had it. I am so tired. I am twenty [four] and I am already exhausted.

Turn and face the strange

I’m not happy with my life right now.  I told J. that I’m going to be applying to law schools elsewhere.  I can’t stay in Western Massachusetts forever. I’m simply, very simply, not happy.

don’t look at the clock

Today is inching by.  The weekend is still hours away.  I have a horrific tension headache and allergies.  I took some Excedrin, but now it feels like my stomach is rotting.  It’s 10:56 a.m., which means that I still have 5 hours and 34 minutes until I can leave this office.  Then I have a half hour drive home.  Post-grad life really is depressing, but maybe that’s my own fault.  What I wouldn’t give to quit my job and write, grow plants, and make some kind of discernible difference in the world, however small it would or could be.

J. and I got a new bed yesterday.  I thought it would immediately solve all of my problems (most of them have to do with sleeping, anxiety, depression, tension).  But, of course, life is more complicated than anything I could imagine, and I in fact slept worse last night.  I’m getting really frustrated with being so anxiety-ridden and insatiably tired.  I have horrible dreams every night and I wake up frequently, angry at Jeff, my family, myself, because of the horrible dreams I have.  It’s almost more exhausting to sleep than to stay awake.  Maybe I’m starting to live in a dream world during my waking hours– unable to fully concentrate on anything in front of me, I daydream and occupy myself with meaningless tasks.

I don’t know what to do.

Missing miss maggie.

There’s no figurative language in the following statement:  Apparently, Jeff’s dog was bitten by a venomous spider, and now her kidneys are shutting down.  Maggie is only four.  I can’t deal with the prospect of never seeing her again.  She’s such a sweet pup.  Jeff and I can do nothing but wait, and hope that she recovers.

I’m tired of losing things.  I don’t want to lose this dog.

want to punch. want to plant.

I want to punch everyone in the town of amherst.  I hate this place.

I want to plant my seeds. They aren’t nearly as obnoxious as everyone in Amherst.

bow ties and baby cats

he came back into the office smelling of cigarettes, visibly downtrodden. to forgive, divine. he said. how apropos. i try not to sympathize, but can’t help it.  sure as i am that he is immoral, i’m the same am0unt of immoral, or could be.  and you can’t help but think his bow tie is pathetically endearing. but today he’s wearing a suit, and an ugly knotted blue tie.  so maybe I don’t feel bad for him– he’s hurt people in the worst way, the way i fear being hurt.

the air is dry. the dryness imparts loneliness and solitude. skin cracks and itches. touch is electric, touch stings, and the sun sets before our hands can meet.

i woke up last night gasping for air, my mouth completely dry.  i woke up with him next to me. i woke up not knowing who he was, or why i was there, or why he was there. it takes me a while, sometimes, to realize my life exists, to separate that from the dreams i have about birthing cats and getting paid in handkerchiefs.  i need to distance myself, only briefly, for the perspective, for the magic to reappear.  i feel like i’ve been living in a dream for 363 days.

my new mantra is to focus: to focus on the present

work is work. home is home. the present is all i have, and the future is on its way.  work stays at work. home stays at home, or at least for the most part.

focus.