About Aaron-
There is something about him – an essence – something inside of him that I can sense , that I want to make love to; as if by fucking him tenderly and making him come will make this thing grow, make him stronger, prouder, more of a man.
–
My childhood consisted of family and other people who did not understand me and who I did not understand. This created in me a melancholy which caused me to see sadness in even beauty and seemed perpetually to make it necessary for me to hold back tears.
And these days I measure my pending moods by the weather. This morning it is overcast and the leaves of the trees dance up and out in the subtle breeze. The man on the radio said the clouds would burn off - or wouldn't. He said it could get up to 60, 80 or 90 degrees inland.
It's the not knowing that's exhausting.
--is it a wonder I cannot trust people or get close to them when I have never had anyone trustworthy to get close to? I sit here, a year and change after leaving the Navy and find myself in dire straights. I'm wondering where I will get money for food, whether I can pay my bills and hoping – because there is nothing left to pray to – that my landlord will not evict me. With all this fear in my heart I think about all of the people I've sacrificed for in the past who in my time of need are now ignoring my circumstances and all of the people with the means to help me who refuse to because they think it might develop in me a strength or a certain amount of character. This character and strength never come, but instead an inner hardness and disappointment at my ideals being crushed, seeping into the cracks.
3july09
At some point in our lives we come to realize that Santa Claus is not real. Strange then that some of us believers accept that anything that's too good to be true such as god or love, are also not real.
I question whether there is any true goodness in life.
–
I wonder if it is true that women always fall in love with men like their fathers. Is it impossible to love a man the opposite? Which type of man brings a woman true happiness?
If, as it is for me, my father is the type who never loved me, who is often absent during my hardships, who never understood me, but whose love I crave seemingly because he is my father and I am of the belief that a father and daughter should love one another. Is it better I love a man like this who will always cause my heart to break or a man who will never break my heart, but who I might never love?
I cannot help but be furious with myself for seeking men who do not want me. The word “furious” does not do justice my feelings. My stomach is sick because of it. It is the type of emotion, however, that because of its long time presence has become such a part of me, such an inevitability, that it no longer shows on my face or leaks out of the corners of mt eyes (open or shut, shaded or not), but has instead taken up residence in some new place. Someplace in me foreign and unknown. A place my body must have manifested especially for dealing with this new emotion.
I saw a story on television once about a woman in another country – one where people never see the doctor unless they are really dying. This woman became pregnant at a young age and when the child was due, instead of labor pains and first breaths, it was as if she had never been pregnant at all.
Eventually, she married and went on to deliver many healthy children. Her first was all but forgotten until near her final days when she awakened one night with such intense abdominal pains that her many children , most now grown, rushed her to the hospital a few towns away.
After making an incision from one side of her used and deflated belly to the other, the doctors retrieved a stone about the size of a baby. A closer examination and some handy saw work revealed the stone to be the woman's first child calcified like some strange egg. The doctors decided that at some point in her pregnancy all those years ago her body identified the baby growing within the womb as an invasion – an alien – and se about encasing it in layer apon laer of calcium thereby protecting itself from the supposed monster.
I wonder if one day medicine might cut me open to discover my heart cacooned and calcified in this way.
–
These past days I've seriously considered ending my life, contemplated the morality of it and brainstormed the logistics. The only thing stopping me is a glimmer of hope that tides will turn and my luck will change. After all, don't tides always wax and wane and statistically, isn't my luck due to change?
Once there were were men, then their were children, sometimes there was work, friendships or writing. Now not even drinking can induce in me a feeling of content.
My fear is that a suicide attempt would go wrong and that I would end up making my self and invalid or a retard. I get nauseas simply thinking about swallowing hand fulls of pills and can't be sure I have even the right type or combination to do the job.
And screw the morality of it. F there were any morality at all in the world – that is if anything really mattered – I wouldn't feel like ending it all.
–
Once in some military survival guide I read that if stranded someplace the best thing to do is establsh a physical routine straight away. Come to think of it, it was prisoner of war training. What to do if captured by the enemy. The theory, I suppose, is that a strong body would prevent a weak mind or disposition. But what if the enemy were able to tackle your will to exercise? Why, then you'd be a goner. Without will, what is man?
This could be my petition to my doctor for adderall. It's funny how shocked and intense people become when I mention that it might help me find motivation – a will.
“It's a very strong drug. Has incredible potential for abuse and addiction. It's essentially legal speed.”
Is it any worse than alcohol or cigarettes? Is it any worse than me wanting to die?
“I don't know any woman who isn't exhausted or isn't depressed.”
Discounting my feelings. Sometimes I notice people's reactions to my advice as generally dismissive. Personally I've found that sinus infections are made worse by treatment of drying drugs often prescribed to treat them and that a neti pot is just what the doctor should order.
People always seem to get the antibiotics though.
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her new favorite thing in the world was some brand of popcorn that she found tasted like real, but better movie theater popcorn. It was as if she had found the holy grail of popcorn and she didn't mind eating a whole bag or it at a time because she didn't eat anything else except watermelon in those days. Conscious as a mother with a baby on board, she pulled out of the grocerystore parking lot and into the chaos of road work. It was the beginning of summer and the serenity of it was always clouded up with orange cones and unpaved streets, detours and the constant “bweep, bweep, bweep” of the large trucks manuevering about.
A block from her house she spotted the ubiquitous blue truck that meant either power or gas was being paid attention to. Since her father worked for the gas and electric department she slowed to pay closer attention to who the vehicle belonded to. It was hard to miss his long, gray pony tail. He stood talking to two men, one of whom she knew from high school. Hers was a small town – less that 500 people and supported mainly through tourism of the Mission of the same name. Because of the size, she felt it might be rude to drive by witout saying hello.
She said hello to johnny and was introduced to his collegue. She gave her father an awkward hug. Apparently, johnny was an electrician and called the electic department for one of his jobs. She and johnny chatted for a bit and then she invited her father over for cookies because she knew he loved sweets even though she was aware that she had no cookies in her house and that it was a mess and he would surely have an opinion about all of that to share.
She never realized how it might be for a strager to traverse her mess. She was used to jumping over piles of books or pushing shoes and various strewn papers out of the way just to sit down. She listened as he complained under his breath. The cupboard was full of pasta, cans of tomatos, beans, brownie mix, but no cookies. Perhaps he would enjoy a granola bar. He thought he might. The counter was visibly covered in crumbs from who knows what and she tried to organize the piles of paper, gathered the empty beer and wine bottles.
“looks like you had a party here, Trish.”
“Yeah, it does. But I didn't. This is the result of a recent bender,” she said without looking at him.
“I think I might stop drinking.”
She knew that her father did not approve of her drinking. He himself had quit long ago but he was around her age when he did it. She remembered him chasing her mother around the driveway. Her hair was wild with curl and her nightgown clung to her belly as the wind ttried to push her into the headlights. Another time he broke a chair while she was sitting in it. He did this instead of hitting her. Her father often told her that she couldn't drink, that nobody in their family could. And then he would tell a story into which he wove a lesson or two.
