don’t fear the reaper: is the song i was listening to while i wrote this

The thing, I think, is this:

If I can make All This into something beautiful, then is it perhaps possible I might be something beautiful?

(I have been called beautiful at least once, that I recall with the clarity of a star collapsing.)

I feel like I am running out of time to be getting away with this. To be this sad, to be this loud about it, to be this howling, wailing animal in the corner of the party.

In January, I’ve got to be a big kid, haven’t I? A year of howling and wailing, maybe that’s more than I was ever supposed to get.

But I find I just can’t stop.

My eyes hurt and sometimes (a lot of the time) it feels like things are always going to feel this way. And I can’t. I don’t want to. Being mentally ill sometimes feels like one big piece of performance art. There are all these costumed versions of myself (go to work, feed yourself, be nice to people) and I hate all of them and I think the real me might be this curled-up, grey thing, crying into a miniature can of Dr. Pepper and listening to the Velvet Underground like the fool I am.

I am a frantic fool.

Sometimes grad school feels like my last chance. My last chance to make myself into someone better, into someone good. Ah. I’m not supposed to do that anymore. I promised my nerd therapist. I’m supposed to challenge the idea that I’m a Bad Person. I am also supposed to 1) do something for myself that a Good Person deserves, and 2) indulge in my sadness.

  1. I ate Target brand queso right out of the jar while I cried over old SNL clips on my phone.
  2. I am reading the story again. I know I’m not supposed to. I feel like I am reading from the bottom of a lake. Like, I can’t fucking breathe, but maybe that’s okay, because it’s so lovely down here.

I’m not sure I’ve ever successfully learned to value breathing over loveliness. (Oh, fuck off, Herd.) I do not value myself over the things in the dark that can hurt me.

And being here is indulging the sadness, right? This is what I do. I have to vomit these feelings down as soon as I think them or I feel a little like I am going to burst out of my own skin.

(It’s going to get worse and I’m sorry. I feel it in my teeth, I feel it in my toenails. Fucking December.)

I’m not a bad person.

I don’t believe it yet, but I’m here to practice saying it.

I’m not a bad person.

I’m not a bad person.

Published by Dani

I like breakfast, marine mammals, Star Wars, comedy, the song "Dead Man's Party," and Halloween musical revues at theme parks. Let's be friends!

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: