Day 9
So, a lot has happened in a short space of time.
Firstly, last night mother saw what I had been doing to myself for a couple of weeks and went into hysterics, screaming that I am pathetic, weak, selfcentred, I will fail my A levels and end up with nothing, I don't care about her and I'm just a stupid little girl. I tried to explain, I asked if she understood. She shouted that she doesn't want to understand, which, at the end of the day has been the constant barrier between us - she doesn't want to understand and for the last 9 years she hasn't. She kept shrieking in my face, hitting things, snatching my arms and flinging them around saying "Get out of my house, I don't want to see you. I wish you could just go off to university." So I walked out. A friend let me stay round, she was there when mum went crazy. She said I took it really well and I smiled, though inside I was punching everything and raging like a mental patient.
For the last 9 years mother has never come to terms with the fact that I have recurring depression and am slightly bipolar. She will never understand that while she researched botanical encyclopedias, I would rather learn scripts, write poetry and go to singing lessons. While she sat at home reading War and Peace, I go out and drink alcohol, talk to strangers and dance to rock music. She will never get that although her parents died before she was 20, her first husband was an alcoholic, the second repeatedly fucked other women and left her with two kids, the third filed for divorce on her birthday and one of her daughters hates her, I as an averagely fucked up 17 yearold, sometimes feel I can't deal with my past and present and hers at the same time. Oh sorry, I forgot that from the day I was born everything was my fault. And it always was. Thanks mum.
I tried telling her that she should know more than anyone about being betrayed, rejected and replaced but her psychotic frame of mind had built a mile high wall around her. I slept at a friends, her mum was very understanding. I felt unwanted and alienated so I texted him because he had told me I could talk to him whenever I needed to. And I needed to. An hour later I got no reply. Another hour and silence. Silence this morning. All of today. She had dinner at his house and I assumed she stayed round. No time to talk to me.
I was right, They had dinner. They all loved it. They watched a film. They had sex. Let me make that clearer. They had sex. And I'm sure it didn't taste of Nothing. The dinner, of course.
"It was fucking loud" he said. That was me once, pissing off his mum, his neighbours, running away with myself and him and not caring about a thing. I would give anything for him to feel like that just for five minutes again. Five minutes.
I wish I could blame this on some one, but there is no one but myself. Stupid, selfish, useless me. He called eventually, while I was on a bench by the river in Christchurch, refusing to go home, determined to stay away as long as possible at risk of freezing to death. Work and her, work and her, work and her. I ended up asking about his evening, choking on silent tears, then failing to sob quietly enough, and picturing them at the table, in the lounge, in his bed. That bed.
The Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless mind is a very good film. In it, the erasal of particular memories is possible, all you do is pile up all you posess to do with that memory and it gets deleted in a matter of hours. In the morning you wake up like any other day, except there is a blaring hole in you mind of which you are unaware. The disorientated and melting memories are quite disturbing in the film and, although I feel that happening to my brain anyway, I wonder if in reality I would consider having memory erasal. Nothing happened. Life moved on. Who is he? The last five years have simply been normal adolescent years of alcohol, teenage boys and parties. No betrayal, rejection and hurt.
Lessons were monotonous. The air is hitting minus 45 degrees. Work, her, work, her, work, her. "I miss you" he said. I feel physically nauseous, stomach beating, trachea clogging up, hot at the head, thinking about him fucking her. Oh sorry, making love. Because he has only "fucked" once and that was me. And that was me because it meant Nothing. Circles, thousands of vicious circles.
Oh, and I dyed my hair.
I keep mistaking distraction for "being ok." Its hopeless. It has been a week, I should get a grip. But everytime I get a grip, the only thing I'm gripping is disjointed and grimacing memories and the gaping rip where his body should be next to mine like it always was.
I could get used to feeling like this, I guess. It will take some time, but what doesn't?
Time will dangle hope in front of my mouth. Time will burn deeper. Time will stitch up where he cut me open.
Still, I am so maliciously in love with you.
Still, goodnight.
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