miserae

I must have missed the memo that informed me there is a Mature Man that is capable of verbally slapping my ass after said Mature Man solicited my attention.  Unfortunately, this Mature Man has not chosen to pursue grammatical excellence or an expanded vocabulary along his journeys.  Tragic.

Plagued by odd feverish dreams that whip up old insecurities.  I wake with the taste of rejection on the back of my tongue.

"You had sent me a bloody journal with some story about a sexual assault.  I assumed it wasn't true.  The journal is somewhere in a California landfill."

I what?  I don't remember it, and yet....and yet there's something that tugs insistently at my mind.  It's a blank, there's nothing there.  My video reels are erased and dark.

A fragment of a sensation, something hard - a chair - pressing into my right shoulder.  I am slouched awkwardly on the floor, my right shoulder against this chair.

And then nothing.  I remember nothing.  For days.  But now I can't leave it alone....what is it?  What happened?  What do I not remember?  What did I inscribe in a bloodstained journal and ship cross country?  It returns in pieces, in isolated sensations that gradually fall into place until I remember what I worked so hard to forget.

The carpet is dusty and rough against my forearms, the chair boring into my shoulder.  The ceiling is plastered with a random swirl; my eyes search for any kind of reoccurring pattern.  Reoccurring patterns generally center me; I can find order in chaos, even if it is relegated only to my mind.  My skirt is tangled around my hips.

There's someone else in the room, between my legs.  The fishnets I am wearing get ripped.  What does it matter?  Fishnet stockings are a construction of holes; does a new addition matter?  *I* am a collection of holes, of voids, of dark abysses.  Does another one matter?  If a broken woman is given another crack, does anyone care?

His hands are rough, the skin hardened.  It abrades my skin, my pale pale skin and I desperately search the ceiling for a sequence to take me away, take me away.  I remember a hunting knife in the bathroom and fixate on this - not to defend myself but to flay my skin of impurities when this is over.  If I can just get to the bathroom and slice open my skin, if the hot red blood runs, I will be absolved and cleansed.  It will be as if nothing ever happened, reborn in blood - in the sacrifice of myself - I will be pure and maybe in than purity I will finally be good enough for J.  Lie still and think of the Queen while that rough carpet chafes against my skin.  I am anywhere but here, any time but now.

ahhh.....there it is....a restored memory, a sudden insight into the motivation behind old behaviors.  An epiphany?  Am I now better for remembering this thing?  Am I better for understanding this part of my old self?

Let's talk about this - without being absurd and overly dramatic.

1/5/2014 11:20:09 PM: Bear with me on this one, but in general, I'm a pretty nice guy. I will give a person a million chances, even if they lie to me or just flip out for no reason. A king without any sense of humility loses his throne. It's a fact.  

Nonetheless, this person had been viewing my profile from time to time (every day or so), and usually I don't send a message if they view and don't write (why would I... they looked at me); however, this time I did.   With the boldness of Achilles, I asked, 'Alright, who are you?' (Very bold... hush you.)   And then it goes insane. Hmmmm...I see. One can only slink in the shadows for so long, I suppose. I'm a traveler, a watcher, a questioner. Who are you?  

Well, something more than a serial killer would give might help. Try to save that for when the victims are already in your custody? Look, I like horror movies, but I don't like where this is going...   Yet, I asked again. What did you expect, a deep confession of how I've been obsessed with forensic science since I was 13? Or perhaps that I'm a perfectionist with a penchant for well written words? Maybe that I'm an icy bitch that shows no quarter....? Bingo, but a little heavy on the throttle! I asked who you are because you've been viewing me, and in two messages, you've revealed that you are a bona-fide sociopath. Delightful. Who in the hell talks like that? It's like I'm the Mayor and just rang up Batman or something awful where his caller ID showed me as the Joker?! Showing no quarter means you don't take prisoners and kill the enemy-- Good start. Strong start Mademoiselle! As I've always said, give me one nice girl. We'll negotiate my soul later. And she doesn't have to love everything I do, or anything like that... but one, nice and decent looking girl.          

 Here we go with actual definitions!

• Glibness and Superficial Charm Manipulative and Cunning Well, I'd truly love to take credit for all of these.  I CAN be manipulative and cunning!  As for glibness and superficial charm?  Well....not likely.  I'm more often prickly and socially awkward, at least until I get to know you.
• Grandiose Sense of Self  Ha!  I wish!  That certainly would've avoided years of depressive issues rooted in poor self esteem.
• Pathological Lying  Nope.  But I dated a pathological liar, years ago.  It wasn't until after we broke up that I uncovered the layers upon layers of lies.  The elaborateness of the construct was incredibly complex.
• Lack of Remorse, Shame or Guilt  Hmm.  I suppose I'm not generally troubled by such things these days, but I would surmise it has more to do with the way I live my life.  I certainly struggled with all three in the past.
• Shallow Emotions  Ugh I wish.  I've speculated before that to be bipolar is to feel emotions more strongly, more keenly.  My emotions, like my passions, run deep and intensely.
• Incapacity for Love/ Need for Stimulation  Can't say this one describes me either.  I've loved - and do love - throughout my past and into the now.  Wasn't always the right love, but there it was.
• Callousness/Lack of Empathy  I AM guilty of trying to cultivate this, but that's more related to the fact that my tendency towards empathy and defending the underdog or wronged has gotten me into a lot of trouble over the years.
• Poor Behavioral Controls/Impulsive Nature  Not applicable.  I am very deliberate and controlled.
• Early Behavior Problems/Juvenile Delinquency  Nope.
• Irresponsibility/Unreliability  Yeah, not so much.  If anything, I'm the opposite and tend towards thinking that everything will fall apart without me, which is why I went to work the day after a bike accident that broke my hand.
• Promiscuous Sexual Behavior/Infidelity  Absolutely not! 
• Lack of Realistic Life Plan/Parasitic Lifestyle I think my life plan is pretty darn realistic.  Definitely not parasitic, either.  I'm rabid about being self sufficient.
• Criminal or Entrepreneurial Versatility Sadly, no.
• Contemptuous of those who seek to understand them  Contemptuous, no.  Suspicious - yes.
• Does not perceive that anything is wrong with them While I like to jest along those lines, I don't actually believe it.  The shortest of reads throughout my journals makes that abundantly obvious.
• Authoritarian  Hmmm...that's a maybe?  I DO like to be in charge, which is why I make a good project  manager.
• Secretive  Guilty of this one, although I tend to call it 'private'.
• Paranoid  Not really.
• Only rarely in difficulty with the law, but seeks out situations where their tyrannical behavior will be tolerated, condoned, or admired.  Nope.
• Conventional appearance  Heehee...certainly more than I once was, but the touches of alternative are still there.
• Goal of enslavement of their victim(s)  Good lord, no.  Too much work!
• Exercises despotic control over every aspect of the victim's life  See above.
• Has an emotional need to justify their crimes and therefore needs their victim's affirmation (respect, gratitude and love)  I believe my attitude since I was about 8 was a complete disregard for anyone elses' opinion of me.
• Ultimate goal is the creation of a willing victim Again, too much work.
• Incapable of real human attachment to another  I don't attach to many, true, but when I do it's intense and lasting.
• Extreme narcissism and grandiose  Not narcissistic in truth; again, perusal of my journals does indicate a tendency towards self examination and introspection, which in combination with depressive disorders and poor self esteem  can be a very dangerous combination for one's health and welfare.
• May state readily that their goal is to rule the world  I generally say the opposite.  I'd NEVER want that much responsibility...

So.  I'm awfully far off from being a 'bona-fide sociopath,' although it is certainly worth noting that CEO's and other individuals that ascend to great heights in the corporate world often exhibit most of these traits.  I wouldn't say that I'm always a 'nice girl', but I'd also hazard a guess that not too many 'nice girls' frequent these pages.  Let's be honest -we're all here because we have a streak of nasty.

I am supremely annoyed with deliberate ignorance and melodrama, aren't you?

A random Google on an ex turns up an obituary.

Your stomach jerks oddly at that news.

Regardless of the slaps and pushes, the bloodstains and tears, there was love, twisted as though it sounds.


That's the SECOND of my ex's that are dead. 

At the bus stop a young man sauntered by, long dark hair cut straight across his back.  He wore long black coat, still creased and hung with shiny silver hardware.  Tall black leather  boots  encased his shins, the tops of the boots spilling over with jeans of a dye that  hasn't been seen since the early eighties.  His step was bouncy, a spring in the toes, his arms held somewhat akimbo, almost as if he needed them slightly awry to balance him in the tall boots.  The effect was rather like a Golden Retriever dressed for Halloween.

And I thought of my days in long black coats and tall black boots.  Walking with a menacing drama always came easily to me, and I refined it by watching J.  If you are going to attempt to broadcast your otherness to the world, then for heaven's sake, you must do it with panache. 

You must let your heels sink into the earth with force and purpose, while your torso stays erect and mostly still. A purposeful stride that hints at danger, a bit of sway of the hips to suggest delight. Any movement from the upper body must be fluid, graceful, and dangerous looking.  You must tilt your chin ever so slightly down and regard your surroundings with a piercing glower that sees everything.  Movements of the neck and head must be sinuously swift, a snap, or painfully slow and deliberate.  You must capture the attention of everyone who passes you, and you must hold that attention until you decide they can look away.  You must be alien, desirable, frightening,  intriguing, a whiff of sweet poison in the air.  You should be able to part crowds and stop traffic merely from the way you move. 

I always could.

And then I turned my head and chuckled.  In my younger days, indeed.  Who was I to pass judgement on shiny buckles, coats in the summer, and perfectly faded band tshirts (metal, of course).  A corporate drone, shackled in a  cubicle, who commands the attention of a conference room, whose otherness is likened to a movie star - elusive, icy, distant when I walk past the copier.

From the journals of my fucked up youth

October 14, 2002
I struggle to find the balance in myself.

Sunday, November 10 2002

I crush prescription morphine - any opiate - and put it up my nose until my pupils disappear into euphoric pinpoints. I stumble when I do so much my knees no longer want to support me and I babble randomly and constantly...not babble, I think. It's not mindless drivel. But inhibitions are lowered and floodgates unstopped and I spill to the world thoughts best kept private. Lately I hate it while loving it. My body wants it; wants the relaxing and the lethargy and even the rush of warmth. My soul does not and I loathe myself while bitterly continuing in sporadic inhalations. NiV says he believes I can quit; my mind is strong enough. It is. I think? Maybe I'm really good at fooling myself and the world into thinking I'm this obstinate pillar of determination when I'm not. If I'm not, then I don't know what I am. Lonely? Insecure? Directionless, confused, I could go on. It's not funny anymore. I hate it and I hate me for wanting the pleasure it affords. Yet since I desire it, I cannot directly condemn it or myself for using...there are no long term effects, I can't OD, it doesn't really impair me. Those that are possible from an EXCESSIVELY large amount, like the stumbling and momentary blackouts don't really present a threat to myself or another because the times I DO large quantities, I am accompanied. We stay in the house. My thoughts are slowed to the point they actually become MORE coherent as opposed to the supposed less, because the slowing of my body allows a thought or idea to develop to its furthest extent...I'm justifying this wonderfully. Hate it and defend it...I remember not too many months ago sick with drugs and alcohol...
Look at me now....

November 26, 2002

13 days narcotic free and it's driving me crazy...

December 16, 2002
Sunday night and I am NOT high...maybe this is a turning point? I know by now that I am physically capable; can I be mentally focused as well? Why not? Will the junkie slur I still hear lead me to accept the role, fall back into it? So much of my writings are drug inspired/related. I tell myself that my thoughts are freed. Is that the case?
Driven by that urgency beyond words and inexplicable searching for the new, perfect perception..the one that embodies perfection, leading to a stellar experience that will provoke genius.

December 18, 2002
...If this then is a logbook of what I find difficult, my struggles, then here's my dilemma: Could I do my drugs once in a while, like a treat or a reward? Is it any better or worse than the occasional drink? Does it land simply in the realm of law enforced morality? If I'm not hurting or affecting anyone, can I justify it?

December 20, 2002
I am so tired...tired of scrounging always for something to distract me. I seek to eradicate what makes me ME.

January 1, 2003
...If you jump into the blackness of your own self, do you find your way out again?...Betray yourself and life begins to lose meaning. I guess it fucking broadsided me. I mean, it wasn't just a remark, it was an attack, wave after wave pounding into my psyche. If anything, shit like that makes me more willing to head for the bottom again. If I'm such a failure/disappointment, who am I trying to fool by being clean and well behaved?

I don't want to think about this anymore...make it stop. I don't want to be responsible anymore. Someone else can make decisions for me.

June 24, 2004
Maybe I just want to be noticed after all...the KEY is to promote elegant curves of apathy...

July 6,2004
Go ahead and cage me in further guilt...remind me again of what a disappointment I am or how I've fucked myself on so many levels. In case I forgot...I try so hard and it seems as if I get nowhere in particular while the struggle wears me away....For me, I find that I want to know someone that knows all my shit, but believes in me regardless. Honestly, truly, believes in me, no clauses, no amendments. Someone who isn't disappointed in me. The whole mess becomes more complicated and tangled until I cannot - or do not - want to deal with it. In regards to the drugs, this is the first time I've had established boundaries. It's as of I stand at the edge of a cliff and move towards stepping over, but suddenly a fence is in the way. I'm grateful for the intervention, yet I find I have to push on it from time to time to make sure it's still there...I must do that for my own peace of mind. It makes me feel secure to run into that, like maybe everything will work out and I can too do this. What I fear is that the constant barrage will stress my 'fence' to the point of breaking and over i'll go.

July 13, 2004
J will inexorably demand these eternal 'whys' and I don't think there really are any. I don't really believe there was any reason or motivating trigger. I think as time went on it was more a natural progression, an inevitable downward trajectory.

August 7, 2004
Simplicity is dichotomy; how can that be complicated?

I remember when my life was one of 'quiet desperation'.  Maybe the desperation wasn't so quiet.  So many times, it was as if I was staying afloat by the tiniest of margins, barely hanging on, barely finding the desire to continue. The internal chaos threatened to consume me so, so many times.  And there were so many times I wanted to let it.  I would sit in a bathtub of cooling water, staring at the ceiling while a bottle of alcohol dangled in my fingers, debating myself.

I never was the kind of child who spun sugar castles of future ambition.  It was enough for me to pursue the things that interested me in those moments.  I think I simply wanted to be left alone to indulge my interests. I just never had that one overarching passion that turned everything else to shades of grey to become my driving force.

Maybe I was too curious.

I watch coworkers drift along, existing through our five days together, dutifully executing steps that are expected.  Every now and then there is even a glimmer of critical thinking that comes through.  Like the old teach-yourself-to-dance methods, we all trace the patterns laid out on the floor for us to follow.  These people go home to empty lives of bars, or  television, or  excursions to restaurants.  It seems the only hobby is whiling away the weekend hours until Monday morning rolls around again, when they stumble bleary eyed to the confines of cubicle walls, to loathe the next five days.  The cycle repeats itself again and again.  They hate being at work, but it's so painfully evident that this thing they do is the largest thing in their life.

That's what I was terrified of, years ago.  I couldn't imagine being someone who let their life slip into obscurity and misery.

Ironic, if you know me.

For a moment, I wanted to be someone who made a difference.  Occasionally, I watch a movie about inspirational teachers, and I consider that nobility of spirit.  It used to affect me more deeply than it does now.  Now, I am less enticed by the idea of inspiring the next generation by being that one amazing teacher.  The whole system is woefully flawed and flagrantly wrong.  There is no part of me that wants to be a shining beacon in an unhealthy system.

There are so many things about the average American life I reject, and I refuse to assimilate even slightly in the hopes that I can make a positive impact.  Why would I lower my standards drastically in some misplaced idea that I can cause someone else to raise their standard slightly?  When I observe others my age, many of whom came from privileged backgrounds that I would never understand, I feel like they are missing some essential force.

What makes a generation willingly accept what they are told?  What created the anomaly that became me and (most of) my siblings?  Was it the religious background, starting so early with logical foundations of this belief system that would structure our lives?  Was it the homeschooling that so many are convinced is a terrible option?  Was it the neo-Amish style way we lived, or the tiptoeing along the poverty line?

I can't tell. 

I watch several of my siblings question the values of their respective generations.  I see them think, weigh, and reject.  In our own ways, most of us choose to be removed from the expectations of living in this time.  These are not easy ways to live.  I do believe that the homeschooling is responsible for most of us developing the strength to follow our convictions, popular opinion be damned.  We willingly remove ourselves.  In my case, we dream of removing ourselves even further than we are now.

I don't care to concern myself with making an impact on the lives of others.  Is this selfish or shallow?  I can hardly judge.  Those who have influenced me the most are similar to that - they have not designed their life for maximum impact on others.  They concern themselves with living in a manner that illustrates their convictions - with courage, grace, and strength.  If I influence someone else because I have the courage to live what I claim to think or believe, so be it.  I can only strive to be the kind of person that lives in such a manner others would be inspired.

Oddly enough, I am more happy and fulfilled now, even with that way of thinking.  The barely contained chaos that would rattle the walls of my psyche is silent these days.  I see people who destroy themselves in quiet desperation, and I wonder why they don't go out to the woods and sit a spell.  There is a clean honesty in removing all distractions and simply sitting to listen to the natural world.  That's part of what calls me to the wild, untamed spaces.  The winding of a river punches no timeclock, and takes no weekend calls.  It simply goes, the way it is supposed to, and everything around it does the same thing.

I don't worry so much anymore about falling into the trap of a small life.  My life is simple, but so rich.  Hedonistic, in the most joyful, innocent way.  I don't live hemmed in by my devices, turning from one screen to the next so that I don't have to live in the moment.  So much excitement comes from being alive in the way that I live it; new flavors, a perfect sunset, the comforting dreariness of a rainy autumn morning.  I've come to savor so much of experiencing life in a way I never used to.  I reject the burden of intellectual cynicism for the delight of seedlings pushing up through dirt, for the ache in my shoulders after kayaking down the morning stillness of a river.  Even that broken hand - the pain of impact followed that most glorious sensation of being so free as you cycle down a hill.

There is a part of my soul that yearns for a vast wild loneliness of the country I love so much. I am drawn to the unapologetic viciousness of adhering to natural cycles and patterns. I crave to be where I can feel the pulse of living under my feet, where I am connected to the earth itself and the trivialities of modern life are irrelevant. I want to raise my voice and not be heard - not because I am lost in a cacophony of noise, like downtown, but because my voice joins others around me in a song of existence, of the rhythm of living, of seasons changing and the struggle to survive.

I want to be where the night is dark as a witches' soul, where the only light comes from the sky itself. I want to be where spring breaks with life and the smell of green, not like this spring, so clouded over with death. I want to be in the silence that does not require conversation because it is not really silent at all, but part of a song of living, a melody written from wind and growth and rain.

I am a Young Professional. I have potential, and I am making a Name for Myself. Not by design, but by rising to multiple challenges at work. I will Go Far.

But I want to go far, far away. I want to go north, where the land opens out and houses are few, where you can see for miles, where birch trees shiver white and slender in the woods. I want to the smell the frosts in the morning and watch the stillness of a Botticelli sunrise explode across the sky. I want to do yoga outside in the middle of a field and blend my awareness into the life around me.

I want to be part of something bigger, something outside myself, but in a way that joins other lives in being part of something bigger. I want to blend in the symphony of life in a way that we no longer do.

But I want to.

've spent the day in bed; not an ideal way to spend a day off, but if G isn't around it really isn't all that much lost. The back of my throat tastes of blood. I lay still most of the day, watching Netflix and reading.

I watched 'Mao's Last Dancer'. It is easier to indulge my love of drama, music, art, and dance when G isn't around. However, I also will quickly become more dark and morbid when he isn't around...

At the end, when the love of dance is evident in every fiber of Li's being I felt the tug of creative passion. At one time, I had the potential to be one of those individuals whose passion is so great it moves and astounds hundreds. The talent was certainly there. The discipline could've been developed. But the drive...? Not really. There were too many things that demanded my attention. I couldn't allow myself to pick one path to the exclusion of all others.

Phrased like that, no wonder quantum physics intrigued me.

I coughed and thought of J's imagery of currents and stagnant pools describing possibilities and shifts in direction. Life as a river diverging.

The current I rode was one that assured me a job, financial security, marketability. I have a career, we make steps towards security, I gather qualifications to hang about my resume. I'm not sure this current promised me satisfaction. And so, I question it.

I excel in risk assessment, margin profitability, logistics, and value added cost savings. I enjoy the neat logic of ERP systems and surprisingly, adore the procedures that leave no room for spontaneity. Was it the right choice?

Once upon a time I was someone different. Once upon a time creativity and spontaneity, the artistic expression, were all that mattered to me. There was a time I sat perched on gravestones in the middle of windblown nights, doing my best to fiddle up a storm, and acutely aware of the picturesqueness I presented; dressed in shimmering gowns in lunar shades of lavendar with roses in my hair It didn't matter if noone was around; the composition of the spectacle pleased me.

I reveled in the brilliance of madness that came from immersing myself into the siren song of art so completely. Whatever depths of misery I might sink to, when I pulled out of it I was awed by what I wrote, drew, made, played. Retrospectively, I think I secretly loved it, even while hating it.

There is a part of me that mourns the loss of that path. I do not believe it is one that I can share and maintain with my life now. I chose my current path to the exclusion of the creature that lives to fulfill the call of the art. I chose the practical application over the theory of the philosophical. I traded elite intellectualism for cold, savvy capitalism.

I think I elevate cooking in an attempt to compensate. I cannot claim the exclusion of the artist - perhaps the cheese making, the organic gardening, the food snobbery - maybe that is all an attempt to elevate the mundane, because that is the current I followed. Rather than chasing the elusive mystery of the sacred, I chose the temporal stability of the profane.

Was it the right choice? It's a little late to wonder. This is what I have now, this is who I am now. Things I have learned in life have taught me to follow the present and the future with gusto. This is what I have chosen; and this is what I will pursue with determination.

Yet once in awhile, I allow myself the luxury of wondering what would have been. Maybe I sneer at the 'elegant hipsters' because they embrace what I elected not to, and the loss of that person hurts. Part of me longs for the smoky intellectualism hinted at in J's brief letters instead of my conference calls and spreadsheets.

Ah, well. This is who I am now.