gOne, gOne, gOne, gOne, gOne.

“According to this theory, we love whom we love not so much because of the future we hope to build but because of the past we hope to reclaim. Love is reactive, not proactive, it arches us backward, which may be why a certain person feels “just right.” Or “feels familiar.” He or she is familiar. He or she has a certain look or smell or sound or touch that activates buried memories.”
- “This Thing Called Love,” by Lauren Slater. National Geographic, Feb 2006

“I never said what I needed. I harbored resentment, and then when no one was looking shot poison darts in the direction of my not-so-significant other. It takes courage to say what you want and what you won’t tolerate. And it takes compassion and humor to see through another’s wavering defense system, and pull them toward you. We are all players in our own dreams, fraught with insecurity, desperate to be loved. I am intelligent enough to understand this, yet so far not mature enough to act as if I do.”
- “The Misadventures of Maria O’Mara” by Deborah Skelly

<<-->>

I just read a badly-written debut novel about a partly destructive, wholly fucked-up love, and followed that with an article in the National Geographic, which detailed a highly scientific view (i.e. a highly unromantic view) on romantic love.

And here I am, ruminating on things I don’t even have.

Last night, I cried and shivered in pure pain, delirious pain, at that, with my entire body aching and burning something fierce, my head threatening to implode, my ears ringing and my throat and jaw in complete, glowing numbness. I went to bed in wool pants, a sweater and a trench coat. I nearly puked countless of times but I just kept swallowing it down since I was too weak to get anywhere and throw up properly. I sent a couple of messages to a couple of people and they all replied with, “Sasha?” I could almost hear their incredulity over the radio signals. Sleep came and went but my roommates assured me that I was in crazy-ass sobbing mode all the time.

At least four times during the night, I thought about never waking up. I’d already orchestrated a dry-run for my funeral. I’d like to have at least three people to cry, excluding my family. I’d like someone to sing “Amazing Grace.” I’d like to get roses on my jet-black casket. No orchids, please.

It got so bad that I swore off drinking alcohol, especially foul beer, for the rest of my life and re-resolving never to put a cigarette to my lips and to just stay away from smokers the world over. And you know it’s bad because almost twenty-four hours later, my resolutions are still set in stone.

(And thinking back, I guess this resolution also wipes off my already-crumby social life. I have artist and artiste friends. Everyone I know drinks and smokes one thing or another. So, there.)

Hey, we all have methods of catharsis. We all have novel ways of self-induced anesthesia. So I won’t even try to sound self-righteous. This is the person who once spent an entire weekend, plus one Monday, not eating and making up disjoined fiction/poetry, with several trips to the bathroom for fifteen-minute crying jags. All that over a boy, in the truest sense of the word.

Case in point: I was reading my Psych book for some unknown reason (and that, in itself, is a psychological disorder) and I came across a passage in some latter chapter: “Perhaps worst of all is the lack of relationships, which creates the deeply unsettling feeling of loneliness.” And I wrote that on every piece of paper I could get my hands on and, in exhaustion, I wrote a piece that defies any manner of literary categorization, which I will not post here because that will be rubbing salt on a gaping wound.

Better poets/writers/musicians/artists/Palanca winners/wanters have created better things in their abject depression (like a lonely kind of sadness?). And they did it with alcohol and sixty cigarettes and the occasional consideration of a seamless but evocative suicide. Too bad I’m one of those who can’t write in pain.

I will have to learn. I expect to be in pain more often as I grow older, physically and others.

I emo-ed out again. Haha. Oh, well, I find that I can’t apologize for that now. Remember, I’m still half-delirious.

(predated)