French girls, c. 1950s
This week was shit even though it wasn’t.
February 14th which is quickly coming will mark two years clean for me and also two years since I tried to die (to borrow a term from S.Plath).
So I don’t tend to get down with the whole hearts and cupids bullshit. It’s more drinking and putting on too much eye makeup and binge eating and trying to summon some joy. There is usually a lot of looking out of windows and listening to dark music that reminds me of the many failures and heartbreaks of my life. Basically it’s fuckin great.
It’s hard to explain. I think other depressive types might get it but I think we all experience it differently. I wonder if we all live with it instead of through it. At this time of year all I can think about is cutting and falling down stairs and stepping in front of trains and getting mugged and swallowing pills. Self abuse is hard to escape from. It becomes this sick sort of blanket that comforts you to the point you ignore the fact it’s smothering you. You just let the wool fill your lungs and close your eyes.
I don’t cut myself anymore and I don’t binge eat anymore so I have to find new and creative ways to hurt myself. Mostly it is through sex. And I don’t just mean letting (and begging) for guys to hit me. I have started wanting to have sex with strangers just so I can feel used and weak and wrong like I used to. It’s almost like a craving - the itch I can no longer scratch. So I did it.
I have been kinda seeing this boy who I like. He is sweet and has glasses and is nice to me. Which of course won’t do. So I went to a strangers house and had sex with him yesterday. I could tell right away I didn’t want to. He wasn’t really the sort of person I would sleep with typically but aided with wine and hospitality and a late hour I felt like I had to. He blindfolded me. He threw cold water on me. He left the room and came back in to watch my flinch. He spanked me and hit me over and over again with his belt. He tied my wrists together and fucked me hard from behind. I just stared straight ahead. When he kissed me I didn’t kiss him back. I just laid there letting him kiss my dead face and fuck my ghost pussy. But the pain and the fucking is nothing compared to what I am doing to myself. The whole time I am thinking, “You deserve this, you’re a slut, you’re a fat whore, you’re ugly trash, you are worth nothing you are worthless you are empty”. He started choking me and I hoped he would keep going til I passed out. But oh how the body betrays us. I would spasm and reach out so he let go. I wanted it cheap and dirty so I could cry on the train home and wallow in self loathing for the rest of the night and coming days. But I can’t do even that right.
At some point my phone kept going off and he had me check it. The boy I like had sent me something really nice and I burst into tears.
That’s the moment I fear: being naked in a strangers bed crying and holding yourself while he just watches you not knowing what to do.
My ex boyfriend once told me a story about his brother going home with a girl and at one point she sat on the floor and started to cry and said, “This is usually when the guys leave.” And he asked his brother what he did and he said, “I stayed. But I snuck out before she woke up. I’m like a ninja - I’ve gotten really good at it.” He seemed to find this story somewhat amusing - perhaps it’s more about brother and those family things that make us smirk - but I was devastated. I heard that story and thought - this is who I could become so easily. And then I’ll just be a story guys tell each other while getting high.
That is exactly who I have become. I have lost my humanity to become a bar tale.
He was really nice to me fortunately and got me a tissue and gave me a massage and took me out for burgers the next day. I felt better after I cried and we ended up having a lot of fun. But I feel unfulfilled. I didn’t quite get that hit of cruelty I needed.
It’s like if someone else gives it to me then I can stop giving it to myself. Get an hour of peace waiting to drudge through this horseshit month that makes nauseous and too tired to blink. People don’t realize how hard it is to work to make myself feel bad and go to work and get everything else done. It’s a tight schedule and frankly I’m exhausted. It’s making me reckless with my money and act like a total cunt. I’m deep in the trenches of self obsession: every night ends me saying “I hate myself.” I say it with contentment. It’s the easiest part. Living yourself is a challenge. But the disappointment and the disgust flow naturally.
This boy I like is getting distant. I wonder if the reason this happens with them all is because they eventually start to see my makeup flake off and smell the death rotting inside my chest and see the flies that hang around my head. They figure me out and go find someone less complicated to love. I guess I would too.
Happy Valentines Day.
The Kelpie by Thomas Millie Dow - This is what my insides look like
Blossoms among blossoms II by Rimantas Dichavicius, 1967-1989
Bettie Page by Irving Klaw 1950s
After my sensual spiral into self hatred and sex addled ramblings I have finally called a psychiatrist. I am not looking forward to this. But I guess this is the shit I have to do to stay alive.
BLAH BLAH BLAH FEELINGS BLAH BLAH BLAH.