||[Oct. 23rd, 2006|11:57 pm]
Haven't talked to you in forever, so I just wanted to say hi and see
what's been going on in your life. Grad school? Job?
I'm in between both. Passed my M.A. exams last week and now I'm
starting the big job search.
Hope you're doing well.
Where to start? Words really are failing me now, lighting up like fireflies being sucked into a jet engine. I'm not doing well. That is not to say that I have a box of tissues next to my computer, and that I have my bills hidden inside a strong box that I've long ago thrown into a river. I've not done well. I've refused to concentrate, to excel. These things, I am wont to blame on you, but that wouldn't be accurate. I have thrown away, long ago, my insistence upon your specific responsibility except for my specific responsibility for my own acts, for the ways I didn't cope. For too long I have evaded my self-responsibility. Baby steps. And the list is too long.
I spoke to many. Dug deep in dumpsters for numbers to call someone who knows where to find a person that I felt a personal connection with, and whom, in addition, I thought could somehow serve as a mentor of some sort. They told me some things, I guess, from their hearts. A professor told me that the hardest thing he ever had to overcome was having AIDS. Another told me to run every day, even if it was just a walk, and to go to sleep to the tune of a normal clock. Another told me that even in depths so great, hope can only refuse if I refuse it. Another kept me as an in-patient in her basement, for 3 months on end, through sereptitious drinking (perhaps I am fooled that such things are my own secret, or perhaps just paranoid that no one acknowledges it, but my lies are good, meticulous).
I have had to lie. To friends and family. Solid, intense lies, of hewn stone, so implacable and so immovable that only their architect could dislodge them. Some of these lies, I cannot figure myself around anymore. Maybe that will take time. For now I am caught under them, and have only allowed a few close people to pry at the edges to bear a tiny bit of the burden.
I have remained intense. I boil. I retract. I sleep. I move up the slope which is escalating the wrong way for someone with hopes so high.
I know what I want. You're not dead to me, but I never could figure a way to keep you in my life, to release the conscience restraint from my voice and still be able to tell you everything without leaving myself exposed to my own sense of failure, which, set apart from myself, threatens to deepen wounds or pull apart sutures of its own relentless accord.
I didn't manage again last year. Wasn't out. Still not out. In a lot of ways (the codified ways, the plateaus that allow time for breath and rest). I certainly feel brilliant. Have glimpsed the subteranean. Have exercised the task of keeping up with subterfuge that only few know about, and few want to acknowledge, and which, still others, live to satiate.
I live now with a friend I met through my ex-roomate from college part I. I got to know him better through and online game, that, combined with alcohol and disinterest, has been the ultimate seclusion from reality at times. I will probably make rent even this month. Can buy food when I need it. Have an excellent bed (thank your mom again for ten dollars worth of bed that I will not grow tired of in ten years, though i may be tired on it).
But, I guess there is still hope, and if there wasn't, and if I thought myself bereft I may have given up in earnest. I don't think I ever really have. Some people go to the party thinking they're having a good time, some go even though they know it's to pretend they're having a good time. I imagine I paint a picture that is rather bleak. And every night I sleep with my feet to "Christina's World", knowing it more and more intimately with every passing weekend and 12am reverie as I look on before rest.
I would frankly, like to respond. Start up some kind of conversation, some sort of context. Some place for us to start whatever communication we could salvage. I have to laugh to myself. I am now. What I could send you would be another set of lies. And though it would take some crafting I could maybe make you think that things were good, that you would be interested in talking with me, that I'd be ready to hear about your life, your success.
The fact is, how could I ever really speak with you knowing full well that I have nothing to show for my difficulties but an animosity toward you, and an all too common mix of knowing what lies beneath the surface of the awoken world, but having to live down in the trenches with the sleepers. Though it sounds profoundly racist, and probably is, I work with a bunch of hispanic immigrants, some of who aren't even that familiar with english, at a job which requires none of my thinking. A job that begs me not to think lest it stir me not to succeed at it for lack of my ability to stay quiet when confronted with criticism.
My name is Justin. I've been with some women after you but none who really stimulated me or could match my ridiculous personality, which i'm willing to admit, is an acquired taste. In that regard I have not recovered, admittedly due mostly to my inability to cope. Mainly because I cannot eat dog food and pretend it's filet mignon (and by this I don't allude to the women I've been with, I refer to what sustains me). I've just barely been able to get back some of my self-confidence. Found an apartment with a guy I resent because of how cushy his job is, but who is pretty well matched to my own personality. I live alone, we live together. Aside from the dishes I create daily, we may, in fact, never butt heads.
I'm 25 years old, but my maturity is more like a 23 year olds. Coping with difficulty takes me too long to get over it fast enough to recoil and rebound. I'm still intellectual, still think deeply about the things that one will never convince another are important, but know that if only he could be in a position to ponder them and work diligently at them, that he could make some sort of mark for himself in a world full of passing.
I will probably not make it out of this hole completely for years to come. It's 12:27 and I have to be up by 7, and though I do not do this out of spite or exasperation (one of which you most certainly must have felt as you saw me struggling with the knowledge that the woman I had weeks before kissed so passionately, had just looked clear through me and nailed me to a wall with only her eyes) so I have to end this and go to bed now. I don't blame you for anything because I can't, and what good would it do. Things could be a whole lot better, but I'm not giving up here, and have no idea what I will write back to you, knowing that I inevitably will. Friends will tell me I need to write you back with "go away bitch". But like I said before, if no one could convince me that dogfood is filet mignon before, they sure as hell won't do it now.
at the end of it all, i just haven't accomplished enough to respect myself enough to engage with you on the same level. You are an adult, and I guess now that i survive on my own steam, that I am one too. But really, I'm not sure how I could relate to you knowing, that doing so, and doing so with every capacity, every brilliant turn of speech and every accomplished conceitful agility, that still, you would see straight
I yearn to tell you, I guess. But I know, ironically, that that would scare you away forever. And that's what I haven't got passed. Even if only a thread hangs, it is a twine of titanium I hold. And though pressure hoses have tried. I still stick fast against the walls. If you know me, you know persistence. And I know that it is my greatest fear, that it is that which I will lose as a quality in the people upon which I depend. If any of those did not reciprocate. No walls, no rocks, no rubble, not crater to make my home then.