08/15/00
"If you see me sitting around, thinking the same old thoughts over and over again, or going back to old ways I've long ago abandoned, please, tell me..."
"...look on the bright side of suicide...lost eyesight, I'm on your side..."
I finally heard from Zak Saturday night. He called me about 8:00, immediately upon his return home from the funeral festivities. He told me, "I think I can handle you now."
I never realized I was such a handfull.
I left him alone on Sunday, although I did see him at the field that evening. He brought Rex out and was with Jud and Jud's dogs. I didn't call him that night, though. Yesterday, at our dog walking hour, I could tell he was down but again, he wouldn't talk to me. I called him around 7:15 and asked him what he was doing. "Just sitting here." "Do you mind if I come watch you sit there?" "Not tonight. Please." He went on to tell me that he just needed to sort shit out, that everyone has their own way of dealing with shit and this was his. I told him I just hated leaving him alone. He said "I know, but you will, because you're going to be nice to me." So I went over to Caleb's with a nearly full bottle of Fetzer Gewurtstraminer (lovely lovely wine) and sat there with him and spilled my guts out for about 3 hours. We finished off the bottle and then he made me a margarita. Then we watched "Walter y las estrelas" (Walter and the stars for the spanish impaired) which Caleb translated for me because he grew up in Puerto Rico and is fluent. "Scorpio...you want everything to be perfect, but you can't let your perfectionist ways ruin things. You have to give people the time and the space that they need."
Hey, Walter, get out of my fucking head, dude.
I am thinking again about killing myself. Just thinking, of course. It's kind of one of those situations where there's no real turning back--kind of like deciding to shave your head, only more drastic--so I think one should really think hard before doing anything rash. Rash suicides are the work of high school kids and valium-addicted suburban housewives. If I do it, it's going to be a very well thought out process, to be damn sure.
Before the e-mails start flooding in, "oh, no, suicide isn't the answer, you have so much to live for, blah blah blah," let me just say, save it. Yes, I know I have a lot to live for. I know it only hurts the people you care about. I read all the propaganda when I was in high school (before AND after my first half-assed attempt that went completely unnoticed because that's how half-assed it was). The fact of the matter is, I'm fucking nuts. I'm realizing this now. I feel like I'm right back where I was in January. Seven months of fucking therapy, and I'm right back to square one. I can't totally forgive my mother for the abuse, I can't let go of the fact that I was raped, I can't trust people, and to make matters worse, I'm starting to recall certain things about my childhood that I haven't remembered in a long time. Every therapist I ever went to more than once (there were a few) made reference to the fact that I exhibited behaviors of a victim of molestation. Maybe not at the hands of a relative, maybe not even more than once, but someone, sometime, somewhere. I always blew that concept off because obviously, I don't remember anything of the sort. And I'll be damned if I'm going to undergo hypnosis so I can start making icky accusations at my father and all of my parents' male friends. Yeah, whatever. But lately, I've been remembering things...like Sunday, I made Jud and Pam take me to the park with them. They played tennis and I played on the swings. And I remembered swinging as high as I could on my grandma's rickety old set and thinking, maybe if I go high enough, the chains will snap, and I'll go flying... of course, I knew I wasn't going to fly and would eventually come to a painful crashing stop, but the idea of being airborne...if only for a moment...was like a dream to me. Then yesterday, I was at work, waiting for the elevator, and I found myself staring into this painting, some farm scene, and I remembered how when I was a kid, I would stare at every painting or photo I saw, thinking if I looked hard enough, maybe I could enter the painting and live there. That scene in "Mary Poppins" when they jump into the sidewalk art? I damn near cried the first time I saw that. It was my greatest wish. I spent countless hours in the woods behind my house making up stories in my head, acting them out...becoming someone else.
Why in the hell would I have wanted so badly to be someone else? My mother's abuse wasn't that bad by all practical standards. I wasn't having my bones smashed and my face burned. So either something else had to have been going on, or I really was--am--just plain fucking insane.
And I'm returning, I fear, to old patterns. Against my better judgment, I've fallen ridiculously in love with Zak. I don't even fucking know him that well. Hell, if I know him at all. We've only really been having conversations deeper than idle chatter for the last month or so. And the fact that he doesn't "need me" is burning a hole in me, like crazy. I am the perpetual caretaker, that's been my role my whole fucking life, and when it can't be fulfilled, I totally freak. I'm not having the Asshole nightmares again, but worse...Sunday morning as Zak and I were having sex, we switched to a less than comfortable position...okay, it hurt like a bitch...but rather than say "quit it that hurts" or something, I panicked. I don't know if it was the look on his face (straight guys look like cavemen when they're deep in the moment, after all) or the pain or what, but I was absolutely terrified. It lasted for what seemed like hours, even though probably only a few minutes, and when it was over, I rolled over and tried very hard not to scream. What the fuck is wrong with me? was the only thought I could manage.
And forgive me for being selfish, but I don't want to spend the rest of my life being someone's "a little wacked" friend. You know..."this is my friend, Angela. She's, you know...a little wacked." No thanks. If this is how it's going to be, I'd rather be dead. People can get over me being dead. But I don't know if I can get over being alive.
I did something really fucking stupid tonight. I found a razor blade in my medicine cabinet. I don't know where it came from. But I decided to see how sharp it was. I made a few light strokes down my left arm, following the vein, like you're supposed to. I didn't even think I was applying any pressure, but a few minutes later I noticed my arm stinging, and there are 3 or 4 superficial scratches down my arm. Fuck. That might be hard to explain if anyone asks. Will anyone ask? Good question. Anyway, it looks fucking ridiculous. I look like an extra from "Girl, Interrupted." And I didn't even get to meet Wynona. Winona? Whatever. Anyway, no, I'm not getting into self mutilation or anything like that, I really was just checking out this blade, and now I look like a poster child for the suicide hotline.
I rented "Pump Up the Volume" (the Christian Slater flick) Sunday night. I may be pushing 30, but that movie still speaks to me. Teen angst, my ass. High school is just the beginning of the bullshit. Real life sucks ever so much more.
Ciao, bellas...
But wait, there's more...