My Journal Assignment: Why do I write?
I write to create a mood out of words, a color, a sensation, a touch, an explosion of nerves on paper. I write to speak to you in ways I cannot articulate with my mouth. I scream. I cry. I live. I die in this thing we call writing. I write to create beauty. I write to express myself. I write to describe that sunset, those waves, that time he said, “I think I’m falling in love with you.” I write to portray feelings that can never really be described in words. I write because language is so fleeting. I write because it is all that I have. To say these words to you, to touch your soul. To pinpoint that second where I felt love, hate, emotions on high, emotions on low, to describe my pulse, my heartbeat, to tell myself that I am ALIVE.
June 17, 2005
Will it kill me, or will I kill myself first?
I. Am. Crazy.
I imagine myself as a shivering frightened animal crouched in the dark waiting for the death blow, alert and terrified. My stomach violently twists and turns and I’m focused inside my own head, my thoughts of doom blaring, siren-like, again and again. Bad things are going to happen; horrible, terrible things. I cannot pay attention to anything but these thoughts and the terrible way my body is responding. My pulse throbs, hands shaking like an addict, and I feel as if I am going to vomit. I try desperately to act normal. I try to behave as if nothing out of the ordinary is happening inside me. I feel frenzied, frantic, about to lose all control. And the best part? I’m just standing in line at the grocery store.
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I feel that finally, finally I am insane. Finally I am past the point of no return. I cannot do anything, I cannot go anywhere. But I HAVE TO. I am forced to continue living. My only other option is to shut myself in my room and refuse to live, refuse to go out ever again. How can I do that? How can I let this thing control me? How can I admit failure? I feel so damn close. Fuck. Fuck!! Fuck!!! I am a failure at life! I don’t deserve to live. I can’t stand living. I want to let it win sometimes, just for the peace it would bring. Except it wouldn’t really be peace. It would be humiliation. So I can never find peace this side of the grave. Never. Things are getting so much worse, far worse than they have ever been before, far worse than I imagined. My body feels horrific. There is no such thing as relaxation. God help me. I despair.
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I stare out the window of my parents’ house, not really seeing the bright sunshine filtering through the lush green trees onto the dense lawn, the sky bright blue with wisps of white clouds, birds chattering, leaves dancing in the breeze. Instead of seeing all this vibrant life, I see my inability to live life, stuck inside this house, stuck inside my mind, living with the monster.
I start to think about death again, about escaping my throbbing heart, my tense, shivering muscles, feverish body, painful mid-section, and spinning mind and I imagine blackness, deep and dark, silent and soft, a wonderful emptiness. Peace. Quiet. Death is envisioning my earliest memory and then trying to remember even earlier. It’s an inky, thick, warm place, arms open, blessed oblivion.
I turn my sightless eyes away, dragging toward the back of the house, groping blindly, not yet accustomed to the dark. With listless, heavy hands, I swing open the door to the basement letting it bang against the wall and descend, zombie-like, into the cooler air, the rigid grey walls, the cement floor. I drag my fingers across the stubbly cold wall and find my way to the farthest darkest corner piled with old household goods and crouch down, an overpowering weariness suffusing my exhausted muscles. Finally I give in and sit, hard. Warm flesh against cold cement. An overflow of moisture floods my eyes and I blink once, sending a stray burning hot tear sliding down my cheek. It stops just under my chin.
I can’t help but think that this curse is both internal and eternal, something I will never escape.
How can I rid myself of this crazy fear that throttles me? How can I live this way? How can I go on? How can I spend the rest of my God forsaken life in constant body-shaking, mind-blowing, soul-wrenching, irrational fear? It is every moment now, every second, and with every thought of leaving the house, every single activity.
The answer is that I can’t continue on this way. I can’t stand it for one…more…moment.
I lie back slowly on the cold hard cement floor, placing my heavy balled up sweatshirt at my side, tears pouring down my face. I am sick, distraught, tense, tight, bone tired, literally drowning under my own craziness. The mantra is constant now, a constant thrum, a vibration in my body.
I turn my head toward the wall, grey on grey. My body is twitching, somehow I am never still now. I crave peace. I seek the sleep of the dead. I imagine sleep is what death is like. Quiet, peaceful, not aware of the body, like a freedom I have never known.
Death is the only way to quiet the thoughts, to stop my body, to end my constant nightmare.
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I’ve lost myself behind the panic. I cannot see my reflection any longer. And as it takes over my brain I know I am helpless to argue. I try to fight this losing battle. I thought I was stronger than the monster, but the monster is eternal, it will never die. It lives within me; it is a parasite and I am the host. I feed it unknowingly and in return it consumes my brain. There will be no escape. Ever. I am doomed to a life of horror. An unending game of cat and mouse, but who will be the victor has yet to be determined. Will it kill me or will I kill myself first? Either way, the outcome is the same.
October 14, 2004
That guy was so g-damned hot
Sitting in my car at the traffic light, my annoyingly loud blinker ticking away, I look over at the large brick one story building to my right. Work. Dread. As I turn into the busy car filled parking lot, the store looms in front of me forebodingly, its windows hung with large colorful posters advertising sales on fruit, canned goods, cereal. Today this place is my prison. The one place I want to avoid when I’m feeling on edge. My stomach contracts and I’m sure I am about to be sick. Damn. I really don’t want to be going in to an eight hour shift on a Saturday.
I pull into a parking spot in the employee section and slowly get out of my disastrously dirty car. The day is sunny and cool and the trees have all changed colors: reds, oranges, yellows, and the drive to work was a visual pleasure, but not a mental one, since I spent the entire trip worrying myself into a frenzy over another long day stuck in the courtesy booth at work. Now hell is about to begin.
Saturday afternoons and nights are usually pretty busy and I don’t feel like dealing with cranky customers and the hectic end of night closing procedures. With an exaggerated frowny face and tears pricking behind my eyes, I reluctantly pull my name tag out of the glove box, close the door with a bang and slowly make my way through the parking lot and inside the bustling store. I’m trying not to think about my nerves or the fact that my stomach has been acting up all day. It’s aching now, just enough to remind me that I have issues.
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“Hey, Victoria,” says the skinny young manager with greasy, slicked-back hair as I swipe my card through the time clock.
“Hey, Mr. Johnson,” I reply with a weary smile as I turn to knock at the locked door to the courtesy booth. Tonight I’m working with Michelle, someone I like and have worked with many times before. We always joke around together, chiding each other, sharing stories, so I’m usually able to keep the knife edge of terror out of my consciousness.
“Hey, girl,” says Michelle, pulling open the door to let me in to the tiny cream colored 10x10 booth.
“Hey yourself,” I say with a grin, specifically remembering a story she told me last time about one of the managers in the store flirting with an employee. Michelle grimaces back. “What’s wrong?” I ask, gossip forgotten, because the plump brunette usually has a huge smile for me.
“Not feeling so good tonight, Vicky,” she says, leaning against the counter in front of the glass between customer and booth attendant.
“What’
s wrong?” I ask with a frown.
“Something with my stomach,” Michelle answers, pulling an unhappy face.
“Oh not good, that sucks,” I reply, “Hope you feel better.” Suddenly a thought occurs to me and my belly tightens, what if Michelle wants to leave early tonight, leaving me alone in the booth? I don’t even want to think about being trapped in this tiny cage alone on a busy night. It happened once before and had not been pleasant. I had just barely kept myself from literally going crazy for the hour and a half I had been alone. It’s nerve-wracking because the booth is locked and you can’t leave without someone to take over and watch the counter if you need to go to the bathroom or take a break.
I shake my head trying to dispel my fears and look around, already there’s a lot to do. Michelle is helping customers in her line which is getting longer by the moment and there are several cashier tills to count, refill, and put back into the large safe against one wall. The cashed checks are also overflowing and need to be added on an adding machine, and the 20’s and large bills are spilling over in our cash drawer and need to be banded together into larger amounts and dumped in the safe. Shit, best to get started and try to get my mind off going crazy. I move my Next Window sign, motioning to a customer in line that I can help them.
A little later, during a lull in the line of customers, I’m focused on counting cashier tills. As I pull out the checks to begin adding the totals on my adding machine, I just happen to look up and catch sight of a guy making his way to my window. Here I go again, damn nerves. I steady myself, pretending to look down at the cash drawer I’m supposed to be counting, but secretly looking up under my eye lashes as he approaches.
When he’s close enough and I get a better view, I hope he isn’t just here to shop because he looks damn fine. I study him discretely, my heart tripping along a bit faster. He’s tall, maybe a little over 6 feet, with dark brown hair, just long enough to see that it curls, but still short. Broad shoulders, broad chest, nicely defined pecs even through the shirt, and biceps that bulge just a little out of the sleeves. He’s wearing darkish jeans that are more fitted than baggy and his t-shirt is dark blue with the words “New York Bird Society, Support the Swallow” in bright white lettering and an image of a bird etched in white against the dark background.
I suppress a smirk at this shirt. Very interesting, someone’s got a raunchy sense of humor. My kind of guy. Just when I think he might turn to start shopping, he doesn’t; but saunters up to the booth, pulling his wallet from his back pocket.
Now that he’s closer I can see that he has olive colored skin, dark brows that are nicely shaped, soft hazel eyes, and lips that are full, but masculine. He’s here now, at my window and I look up shyly, always nervous around good looking guys. I can tell he’s definitely a bit older than me, more of a man than the guys I was in high school with just a few short months ago.
He smiles dazzlingly, revealing perfect teeth, straight and white against the dark stubble that covers his chin. He is really really good looking, rugged and rough, oozing masculine sex appeal. Definitely my kind of guy, cause I love everything about how he looks. But I smile back shyly, trying not to actually appear shy even though inside I’m quivering with giddy nerves. Silly skank!
“Hi, can you cash this for me?” he asks, holding up a check that features his scrawled signature on the back, but that’s not what catches my notice. It’s his large hands which are stained black in the crevices of his palms with half-moons of something dark under the edges of each of his short fingernails. Shit those are sexy hands. I take the check from him, my eyes reluctantly but also gratefully leaving his beautiful face to study it. It’s from his job, some kind of mechanic business which probably explains the stained hands. His name on the check is Jared. Jared McKinley.
“Sure,” I reply, flashing him what I hope is a cute smile. He smiles back and I move away to begin gathering the money. I keep peeking up at him through my eye lashes just to look, just to see. He’s the kind of guy that sets my pulse on fire, the kind who makes me imagine his hands on my body, kissing, sex.
I try to control my wildly racing sexual thoughts so I can concentrate on counting out the correct twentys, tens and ones. I don’t want to mess this up in front of him and end up looking like an idiot. I notice as I look up that he’s also looking at me, casually, his eyes moving over my close fitting red button up shirt. I flush. I’m so fucking glad that I dressed up tonight. Finally I’m finished counting out the bills and scoop them up and carry them back to the window, butterflies rattling around in my stomach, feeling just a bit turned on, low in my belly, by his undeniable hotness.
“Twenty, forty, sixty, eighty and ninety-one, two, three and 75 cents,” I chant, counting the change back to him, the bills moving through my stiff fingertips. I’m almost holding my breath, glad that I didn’t screw up and this part of the transaction is over.
“Thanks,” he says with another smile, turning away from me, folding the bills into a wad and shoving them into his pocket.
I exhale. I wish I wasn’t so damn pathetic and shy. I wish a guy like him might ever find me interesting. I turn back to the drawer in front of me and just as I pick up the discarded stack of checks, I notice out of the corner of my eye that he has stopped, turned and is now walking back towards my window. Holy what… what could he want, why is he coming back? Damn, is he fine! Tall and somehow perfectly proportioned, his shoulders wide, hips narrow. I shiver and then gulp as he arrives back at my window, smiling again.
“Can I ask you something?” he asks, looking a bit sheepish. What could he possibly want to say to me I wonder, stunned into immobility for a second, waiting breathlessly for him to go on. “This is kind of embarrassing but I have to pick up a few things here and I’m not sure where to find them,” he says as if he’s apologizing.
“Oh sure,” I reply, realizing that like a fool I have barely said a few words to him even though my internal monologue has had lots to say. He smiles, his eyes crinkling a little and I’m thrown off guard again by how awesomely attractive he looks when he flashes his little boy grin.
“My mom asked me to pick up some mushroom paste and some yeast, but I have no idea where to find that stuff in the store,” he continues with another small grin. I laugh. Actually I do know where that stuff is, thank God.
“Actually I know right where you can find everything,” I say with a smile. “The directions are a bit complicated, so let me come out and help you.” Very professional Victoria, I think, trying not to grin with guilt as I side-eye Michelle. She throws me a knowing smirk, waving me out of the booth. I open the locked door and curve around the corner to meet him. He smiles at me, motioning that I should lead the way.
I’m walking a bit in front of him and the thought running through my head is, I have a damn huge ass. Oh God, is he looking at it? My ass is so damn large and especially noticeable in the entirely too tight black pants I’m wearing. I knew it was a mistake to wear them tonight! Hmmm…truth though, is it a turn on, or a turn off to guys? I honestly have no idea, although I do remember that Nick seemed to be pretty in to my ass.
I turn to smile at him over my shoulder, trying not to walk too fast so that I won’t be too far ahead, but not sure what to say at the same time. He’s bigger up close and he smells sort of spicy, fresh and clean despite his stained hands. I turn to ask something inconspicuous since I‘m not sure what else to say.
“Why does your mom need mushroom paste?” I inquire, trying to make conversation. He blindsides me again with the contrast of white teeth against dark stubble.
“I think she’s going to make her famous home-made pizza for my brother and I tonight and she was all out of her secret ingredient for the sauce,” he explains as we walk down a brightly colored aisle, side by side.
“That sounds really good,” I say, I am so lame! “Both items are in this aisle,” I instruct, not sure how far I should take him, not sure if I want to walk away after our encounter is over. It’s as if there is
something familiar about him, or some kind of attraction between us. Maybe it’s all one sided, maybe I’m imagining that he’s checking me out too, his eyes roving over my body and back up to my face, lingering there for a moment.
“Here’s the paste and the yeast is right over there,” I say, pointing across the aisle.
“Thank you so much,” he says with another devastating smile, his eyes appraising me again for a moment, sending a thrill of sexual excitement coursing over me.
“You’re welcome,” I answer, backing away down the aisle, then finally turning away, not really wanting to leave him there. I imagine that there is some kind of rubber band between us, some pull that makes me want to stay by his side. He’s magnetic. The kind of person who captivates me, pulling me in, making me drool. I seriously hate myself, because I swear I invent stuff, imagining that more passed between me and someone else than has actually occurred. But for some strange reason I feel like he could mean something to me and this could be a missed connection. But self-conscious, unsure me can’t do anything else but leave.
As I exit the aisle, I look back once, to see if he’s finding what he’s looking for, at least that’s why I tell myself I’m looking, but when I do he’s watching me, his eyes on my face for a moment until his head snaps back around to study the shelves as soon as my eyes light on his. He’s smiling, one corner of his mouth hitched up a bit higher than the other. I smile to myself, hoping that he’ll come in the store again sometime to cash his check.
As Michelle lets me back into the booth, she grins at me, her eyes sparkling, fanning herself with one hand.
“That guy was so g-damned hot,” she breathes, pushing her curly hair back from her face as she resumes her place on the opposite side of the booth. I favor her with a wicked grin and then, noticing a customer approaching out of the corner of my eye, I go back to counting my drawer.
Angst Page 3
