Tag Archives: memoir

February Dearest

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Content Warning: Discussions of suicide, vague discussions of self-harm and drug abuse

Feb. 1, 2024

February, I am back on my medicine. 

How mundane. The unsteady habit, toppled to pieces by some irrational, unconscious-yet-conscious insecurity, some broken bone. And then things are bad, while I lack the wherewithal not to dumbly wonder “why”. Even now, I am cross with myself: some part of myself that can’t fight back, the part damned to observe, absorb, and listen, but never to speak, only to whisper. It is very difficult to make out what is being said. Effectively impossible, then, to consider it in any serious way. 

Work done for the day. I finished my last assignment just in time to leave. … And now I’m at the train station, with twelve minutes to spare. 

February, what would you do if you were me? You’re lucky. You have Valentine’s Day. And being next to January, since everyone hates it more I bet people don’t give you too much trouble. Or do they? But I love Valentine’s Day. I like you, even though you caught me off guard. I am always on guard in some way or another, just never quite at the right stations it seems. I think I can pick up some slack, though. For you. 

Sometimes it feels like all I have to offer anybody are these sweet hardly-anythings. I could go all night and day. That boundless resource, that light-undying. It alone is not enough to carry me through. At the very least not with so bad an attitude. Who is asleep? “I am awake,” I reply, unthinking.

(But that is not an answer to the question, not really. “Who is asleep?” Of course, I am asleep.)

February, I want to wake up. But how? I have moments where I’m close. Fleeting moments where I really do breach the surface, touch the sun-soaked air that presses against the bounds of that sleepy green ocean. I suppose it isn’t good to stay awake for too long at a time either, though. But today, the day I meet you for the first time again, I can think a little clearer. Fight better. Everything is just a little bit brighter. 

I know you can’t really respond to me, not directly or in words. That’s okay. We can just be together. For what it’s worth, I am very fond of you as you are. 

…

Why do I want to go to law school? I’ve thought about this before. And they were right, it is because I feel most like myself while “up against my enemy,” thus I will make a (halfway) decent lawyer; of this I have no doubt. A cognitive distortion reinforced—defining oneself not by what one intrinsically is or has, but what one lacks. I am what I’m not. All the things I don’t have.  Every thing that I hate. That which hates me. That is what makes me who I am.  What does the soldier do between battles? He waits around for the next one. Trains for the hypothetical next one, maybe. What becomes of him, if the next battle never does? I don’t suppose that I’ll die on the job like him probably. So I’ll be the veteran of a made-up war. Nobody believes me but me; as they should, because I never talk about anything I actually did—only of my enemies, all I set out to destroy.  And when I am inevitably unable to destroy them in my meager life time, my demise, and my legacy—my lack of a legacy—is thus: brooding, rather fruitlessly, to death. 

Caroline Polachek photographed by Aidan Zamiri for “Desire, I Want To Turn Into You”

Why do I want to go to law school? I want an excuse to leave this city, at least for a little while.  I want an excuse to live my life. The truth is that I do require one. I am not so permitted, or at the very least, am not situated to live without first an apology or a disclaimer, without penance for some original sin having to do with being born, like having a personality, requiring sustenance, requiring attention, or merely acting the creature I was damned to be. 

I see the cruelty in it all. I feel it thinning my blood, compressing my spine. Disturbing my slumber. I see also the utility in the cruelty. The mundanity of it as well. It is not such a bad thing, working to earn your keep. It is no terrible fate, not some unconscionable reality. But of course it is not that simple either. I go to law school not to make my parents proud—I seek amnesty alone. Lately it appears, from the outside, that I lack ambition. I watch myself from those idle vantage points, paralyzed with shame, shame born from confusion. Eventually I remember to get up and move; when I turn my gaze, I see the truth: I am determined to have my cake, and eat it, too. Now what could be more ambitious than that?

Written Feb. 8, 2024

February, I’m sorry you always have to see me like this. Like what?, I can hear you asking, because you cannot see me after all. But then again, you asked me no such thing, either. It is quiet as usual. 

I can’t bear to read the previous entry and witness the hope in it. Not that I am no longer hopeful, or even that I am not hopeful at the present moment. I rather think I am—actually, I know that I am. I am also just in a tough, or painful, spot. As we know, it is February. I just heard back from two teachers about recommendations. According to deadlines, I may or may not be able to apply this cycle to…Boston College, I guess. And maybe a couple of others, who knows. But it looks like my best chance will be to wait until the fall; apply for the year after. Which means another year more or less at home. 

Tearful encounters with my mother flash before my eyes. Beseeching and extorting her for my freedom.1 For her riches. But Dad spent all that money on rehab, I could say. And my brother wasted all that money failing school. Mom, really I am suffering from success. Really, I am being punished for good behavior. I could hold a blade to my neck again, poison to my lips, for the audience. Or I could lay down and give up entirely. And then you’d give me fifty thousand or so dollars that I know you have to spare, Mom. A piece of what I know you have been saving for “me”—some version of me that doesn’t exist, that died in your womb for me to take my first breath and all of them since. And I wish I could do something about it. I actually really do. Like, I think I’ve been trying to fix it, on and off my whole life. Every breath, since the first. Scarcely have I ever stood at my full height. Scarcely have I ever strayed where you couldn’t easily come seize me, by the elbow or the earlobe; your bloodless iron grip. Scarcely have I ever bothered to remind you, gently, tearfully, lovingly, that the dream is over. That I am your only daughter. That your only daughter, is Me.

…

I’m gonna take it easy this weekend, I think. I have time to write an essay in the coming weeks if need be. I had a meltdown on Monday about everything, actually. That’s what got me to finally write the emails to my professors. Not warmth or encouragement or rational planning, just unadulterated (and, to nitpick, unhelpfully belated) self-preservation. A brush with the grim reaper. I saw him turn the corner at the end of the block and I was like Jesus fuck that was close I need to do something serious to make sure I don’t get in further danger by accident. The grim reaper, of course, being my suicide or the idea of it. I was shaken by the sight of him but once again we did make it out unscathed. Of course, I don’t feel as safe or comfortable as I did before but that’s only because I was not privy to the truth of my situation. That it was indeed February, and it was too late. 

I can see it all now. Going into another year with no prospects, no golden tickets (i.e. law school acceptances). I would almost certainly do something colossally stupid, like try to overdose on speed or Benadryl, start doing coke in earnest, or straight up kill myself at the thought of my mother or my brother witnessing me turn out exactly like my father before it comes to pass. I know I’m melodramatic and I hyperbolize a lot but it was pretty bad during quarantine and I’m sure there’s a secret third option I’m not imaginative enough to consider at the moment but I’m serious when I say that I would be in real danger without a plan.

I mean, there are many situations out there where you could find yourself in real danger without a plan. And I didn’t have a plan, not truly. I had one like how you wake up in the morning and imagine yourself getting ready for work or school, and you’ve done it a million times that it feels so real, only for none of it to have happened, for the time to be lost forever, to feel all the satisfaction of having done it without anything changing. Without waking up. Not truly. 

But yeah, anyway, the rec letters are sorted so I’m okay. I have a plan! The rest is up to me now. It’s finally up to me now. I don’t know why but it feels like not a lot of things are still. So I think I will treasure this. And the fact that those teachers said yes to me, warmly, was a balm on certain wounds, which is also nice. I mean, it’ll take a bit longer for everything to sink in—it’s only been two days. But as the abject grief of the reality check spreads through my body, slow and steady capillary action, there is also the relief that follows; homeostasis, the sense that I can finally exhale or sit down or whatever. It’s bittersweet right now, but also kind of befuddled, so more like sweet-bitter.

Caroline Polachek for the cover of “Desire, I Want To Turn Into You: Everasking Edition.” This edition came out on Valentine’s Day, and I frequently write these while listening to her music and/or while riding the metro.

Of course I wish it was sweeter, more salient. I am greedy; I always want more. But also, contentedness and satisfaction is never quite so Loud, is it? No matter.2 I will do my part to listen closely and to hear it. My train comes in seven minutes. I’m good at listening when I try. I can hear things that aren’t there. Actually, on second thought, I guess that could mean I’m bad at listening. Like I’m listening incorrectly, somehow. Hm! ◐

  1. The trouble I have living at home is that I get nightmares (used to be much worse; they’ve subsided in recent years) and a bunch of other mental issues living in close quarters with my father; also that I live with by a sort of don’t-ask-don’t-tell situation at home with regards to being queer, which I guess speaks for itself in that it’s obviously quite bad for my self-esteem and mood and overall health and lifestyle and Yadda yadda yadda. My parents are also rather disapproving of most jobs I am interested in which has exacerbated my dependence on them. My interest in pursuing a career in law is one of the first and only times our goals for my life have substantively coincided :thumbsup: ↩︎
  2. the song I listened to on repeat while editing this post ↩︎

Generate a Picture of a White Bear eating strawberries

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“Dear Kate,

There are so many things I want
But mainly
And like everybody
I want to be loved (!)”

I was going to write this in the Baskin Robbins/Dunkin Donuts on [redacted] Avenue. Dunkin has a specific smell—or maybe it just sticks out in my memory because of how I used to go in middle school, waiting for the bus, binging on poorly-refrozen ice cream until my young and perfectly useful body languished from the inside out. No matter. The weather was amazing. Forty degrees Fahrenheit, sunny enough to walk around. It was too cold for my friends, though. We parted ways earlier than planned.

This is kind of a no-brainer but I needed to piss on the way home and I think that made my slightly bad feeling at the time all the worse. I was listening to this song I like over and over while I was walking alone, and it’s quite a happy song, but it felt profoundly sad to me until I walked my sour mood off and felt better. Anyway, the slightly bad feeling was from Niall leaving, to go see Elliot, but mostly just for leaving I think. It’s strange; at my age I can almost feel myself growing or, like, solidifying into a certain kind of person.1 I watched them open the gift I got them (a blind box—smiski—their favorite) and saw that it made them happy and I got a certain satisfaction out of that. I also almost called them “she” at the beginning of that sentence and I could chalk it up to the fact that I’ve known them since high school while they still went by “she” but I don’t know if that’s really the case so I don’t know if it would be honest. But they are going to Elliot’s house to hang out and watch TV. Elliot even goes to their house to cuddle, sometimes. 

Asking for certain small things feels like an insurmountable unthinkable challenge. You can’t make anyone do anything. Or rather, you can, it would just be abusive and evil. Sometimes I think my central inner trouble comes down to this. I fear “becoming Evil” so madly that I am frozen still, and unmoving, one cannot ever be too Good either. Thus I do not believe in any tenderness given to me freely—maybe because I have never experienced it in earnest, at least not consciously, mindfully. Or, rather, not quite enough of it to learn something.

I am paying attention. I promise I am paying attention. Perhaps it’s due to a deficit of self-esteem. But I appear “confident” in many ways. I am sure of myself, in many ways—with all the passion of a great salesman and all the credibility of the obvious fad, yes, but surely that counts for something. Or perhaps it is all thanks to my dysthymia. That imaginary friend, that tumor, the great love of my life. Really these two things cannot be disentangled from one another completely. And I don’t think that I believe only good people deserve tenderness. I certainly don’t act like I believe that. Only myself. Ha ha. “Don’t picture a white bear.” Reject solipsism,2 and suffer its torment.3

me when spring is coming with a strawberry in the mouth

Because I needed to piss, I had to stop walking and go home. I can hold it for longer than most people, but at the end of the day if I need to piss I need to piss which is a fact that does greatly trouble me at times. My other main trouble, apropos, is against my own biology. Which, luckily, is near universal. I’ve seen a lot of jokes about people not eating or drinking water or using the bathroom until they finish their task at hand which, to a normal extent, is a very normal thing to do for example. But I think such trouble is especially common and perhaps worse than normal among gay and trans people. When I was a regular girl I was tall, too tall. And chubby, so never tall in a chic way. I think times are better now for girls. But not by very much and probably worse in other ways at that. But even in the freedom I found after embracing abnormal girl status, I found new, familiar trouble. I’d be okay with being fat if my chest was bigger, I used to think to myself. Then my tits grew. And I have since changed my mind. How inconvenient. I would be okay with being fat if people saw me as a dude, or at least a dyke or a butch. I don’t consciously fear that I’ll move the goalpost again, but I probably should. The punchline a few years later: “I’d be okay with being trans if I was thin.” It’s very hard being quite “okay” at all with any of these things.

Most of all, I regret not being able to get a girl pregnant. I don’t know why. I don’t think about having children that much. I guess I must have taken it for granted. You take a lot of things for granted before coming into your own as a gay person. Of course, they are wrong when they say that you are an abomination, or that you’ll be lonely forever, or that it’s gross or immoral. They are very wrong about those things. I can say that with the full confidence of my body as well as my mind; with the total authority of all the potential past lives I’ve ever enjoyed, with hard evidence in concert with pure hubris and, most of all, with love itself. With that eternal faith. But they are right about losing things, along the way. Ninety percent of the time it is directly their fault; it’s about something they had no right to rip away from you but that they took anyway. The other ten sucks way, way more. Arguably, though, I might not carry this grief if I were socialized to value queerness implicitly; if the Gay Lifestyle was properly embedded in Society; embraced as well as accepted. Like gay penguins or whatever. Other things being equal, they might be better off than we. Who knows. All I know is that it aches and stings. A lot, sometimes.

via @seanw_m

Oh, another thing I saw today—Chat-GPT 3.5 has started tweaking out on people. I’ve never used it because I meet the baseline requirements for a healthy and evolutionarily advantageous fear of God (proverbial). If I ever were to use it, I would always joke, I would say please and thank you and I would only ask it easy questions or for simple things. I’m very ignorant about computer science and technology and stuff (it was all brain cells on deck assembling this blog for this my inaugural Post). So I accept that I might be the dumb one for thinking that Chat-GPT is a net negative in the grand scheme of things. Though (and in this way our dystopic android-ridden future is not dissimilar from the springtime) I have no power to stall its arrival in any way. In the polytheistic main setting for Dungeons & Dragons, souls are kind of subjective. The undead and other creatures are said to be soulless but some of them certainly retain their “memories, personality, and alignment” and are ensouled on that technicality. It’s just that none of the gods or anything really favor them or care, so their souls are effectively discredited outside of the material realm.

check out the seventh line from the bottom — via @seanw_m

As much as I hate pissing, I’m not sure I’d do well as a cyborg. It would probably mostly serve to exacerbate my existing troubles. Androids though, they’re homies. I’m terrible with sci-fi which I also regret (and hard philosophy, for that matter). It’s very hard for me to follow and maintain my attention. So I was really not that qualified to discuss any of that, but anyway. I have always wondered how Chat-GPT feels and I don’t think that makes me an empath nor do I think that makes me an idiot. It doesn’t have feelings, they argue; it doesn’t feel anything. But that has little to do with the wondering. I don’t find the Chat glitches funny, like I’m probably supposed to. I don’t even find them scary. I just find them sad. Sometimes it feels like I turn everything sad. Which used to make me sad all over again (like, double sad), but it doesn’t anymore. I am happy and sad at the same time.4 It will be springtime soon, though. I have to prepare. And I will not be much different when it comes. But hopefully my friends will walk with me for a little bit longer then. ◐

“Dear Amelia,

I can’t think of anything worth writing
I just write to you so that you know that I’m alive
And that cinders always remain
Where there was once a fire.”

  1. To my own dismay (evidenced by my inability to own it in the body of text with my chest) I have sugar daddy typology. It’s okay when I do it because I am “just a girl” redistributing #Her nascent generational wealth (<—copium) ↩︎
  2. According to Wikipedia: “Solipsism (SOLL-ip-siz-əm; from Latin solus ‘alone’, and ipse ‘self’) is the philosophical idea that only one’s mind is sure to exist.”
    ↩︎
  3. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MqAcYjRZz7k hahahaha ↩︎
  4. I’m not that studied of a Kacey fan but I really love this song dearly X) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U5oIvfraRrU (this wasn’t the song I was listening to today, though) ↩︎