(no subject)
This is really annoying me. I want to sort it out. I want to start to heal so that I can continue and grow without the weight, the self created questions that copulate with my paranoia to result in small, biting answers, suppositions, theories. Last night and this morning I am obsessed with the question ‘is she sleeping with her?’ It’s come to the point where I actually know her too well. It extends to the pattern of words in text messages and her usual routines and what she would be doing on a Saturday and then there’s the time and marking and money which probably means this or that and then parkour on a Sunday and maybe she stayed over and see how it unravels? This morning all I should be doing is reading and preparing for my essay and my presentation, but instead I cannot get her out of my head.
Last night I dressed up in my pixie costume and danced around my bedroom to the Gorillaz, then had a joint with Tom. He left my room. I was too stoned to work but too mentally awake to go to bed, which is just a state you want to be in with someone else, so you can both sit there and talk rubbish and listen to music, and I missed m friends. It was a lonely evening. Earlier in the day noone had come to my drama workshop because this week is essay week, the embarrassment of which was glossed over by a new massage client later. I flashed him the ‘seal the deal smile’ with the notes crunching in my hand, pride at a job well done. It always makes me feel a little better. He obviously had the money to go and get a massage in a salon so what he expected from me I don’t know, but whatever it was, I didn’t give it to him.
And argh! Am in fucking baby mode again. Shouldn’t read the family section of the Saturday Guardian. It’s too idyllic, creates these images of how families are actually done, and anyway, creating a family out of loneliness is not the healthiest approach. But sometimes that’s the way they paint it, especially yesterday- Michael Rosen talking about children inspiring you and being a new set of eyes and your best friends and teachers and all of that. And the section following the different families every week- they include gay parents, but the Guardian’s efforts at including the most diverse situations possible is unavoidably futile. Perhaps they would be given the label of ‘painfully politically correct’ if the family was both gay, bi racial, and genetically predisposed to conflict. I don’t know how my mother survived in the face of fire. I have no idea how I would provide for a family, but I know that I would want to. Sitting at home does not appeal to me.
Sometimes I read about the arrangements that people come to and yearn- the warmth of close-knit extended families all communal so that everyone belongs to everyone else. The city and migration separated me from any possibility of that, so I had to create my own family, but even they did not exist within one big group or collective. Is it a modern concept, complete independence? Maybe that’s the price we pay as women for grasping desires to work and consume, the domestic as a permanent abstention. Maybe you do have to strengthen yourself first and become solid before fusing with others. Do people respect you more for loving yourself or for loving them? The former, I think, although this is a very new realisation. I read back on an old journal entry in which I was totally self worshipping. Where is the line between healthy self-celebration and over compensating narcissism? Self preservation, perhaps, is the key. I’m gonna see some shows by myself and feel better.
Last night I dressed up in my pixie costume and danced around my bedroom to the Gorillaz, then had a joint with Tom. He left my room. I was too stoned to work but too mentally awake to go to bed, which is just a state you want to be in with someone else, so you can both sit there and talk rubbish and listen to music, and I missed m friends. It was a lonely evening. Earlier in the day noone had come to my drama workshop because this week is essay week, the embarrassment of which was glossed over by a new massage client later. I flashed him the ‘seal the deal smile’ with the notes crunching in my hand, pride at a job well done. It always makes me feel a little better. He obviously had the money to go and get a massage in a salon so what he expected from me I don’t know, but whatever it was, I didn’t give it to him.
And argh! Am in fucking baby mode again. Shouldn’t read the family section of the Saturday Guardian. It’s too idyllic, creates these images of how families are actually done, and anyway, creating a family out of loneliness is not the healthiest approach. But sometimes that’s the way they paint it, especially yesterday- Michael Rosen talking about children inspiring you and being a new set of eyes and your best friends and teachers and all of that. And the section following the different families every week- they include gay parents, but the Guardian’s efforts at including the most diverse situations possible is unavoidably futile. Perhaps they would be given the label of ‘painfully politically correct’ if the family was both gay, bi racial, and genetically predisposed to conflict. I don’t know how my mother survived in the face of fire. I have no idea how I would provide for a family, but I know that I would want to. Sitting at home does not appeal to me.
Sometimes I read about the arrangements that people come to and yearn- the warmth of close-knit extended families all communal so that everyone belongs to everyone else. The city and migration separated me from any possibility of that, so I had to create my own family, but even they did not exist within one big group or collective. Is it a modern concept, complete independence? Maybe that’s the price we pay as women for grasping desires to work and consume, the domestic as a permanent abstention. Maybe you do have to strengthen yourself first and become solid before fusing with others. Do people respect you more for loving yourself or for loving them? The former, I think, although this is a very new realisation. I read back on an old journal entry in which I was totally self worshipping. Where is the line between healthy self-celebration and over compensating narcissism? Self preservation, perhaps, is the key. I’m gonna see some shows by myself and feel better.