venker31
07-19-2007, 02:36 AM
Read and give comments... not at all complete, but still, i wanna know how im doing... i personally hate it, but im determined to finish as soon as i know how...
I really was alone before I had met her. I mean, I had my mom… my sister Kim was off in college and David had just gone back to Boston, but Jess was still living with us. I had my group of friends at school too, and knew some of the girls they hung out with on weekends, so I shouldn’t have felt so alone I guess, but I did. I had all these people around me, but I was totally removed from them all. It was like they all spoke French and I only knew Swahili – I could understand if they wanted me to eat or drink, but that was about the extent of it. I couldn’t communicate any sort of intelligence or emotion; I was alone in that sense of the word.
It was only a couple months after I had tried to kill myself, so it was an unusually depressive time, which is more or less what I attribute our relationship to. It was easily a more depressive time that when I had actually tried to kill myself, which most people think is a bit strange, but it’s logical if you think about it. When you want to kill yourself, it’s because you’re unhappy – hopeless about the future, a boyfriend left you, parents, disease … whatever. Then you actually try to kill yourself, and if you survive, that whole rush of support comes. Siblings come in from out of town to make sure you’re ok, friends visit the hospital especially for you. People actually seem to care about you.
But eventually the siblings return home, friends can’t come because they start track practice, and your back to the same state of mind you were in before you wanted to kill yourself; only it seems much worse when contrasted the support you just received from all those who you thought cared. You start to feel that even that support was as fake as your suicide attempt - that the only reason anyone came anyway was so they wouldn’t feel guilty about your death, so their Sunday’s would be fun and funeral free so they could go shopping and continue masturbating their own commercialism. It seems that your entire existence is more or less a matter of convenience to those who care about you the most.
Saying it now, hearing it aloud I guess, it seems excessively selfish that one would feel that they should kill themselves because they don’t have the full undivided attention of those around them, but that makes sense too. No one ever killed themselves for anyone else.
But when you look at that lonliness I felt at the time, you could more or less say our meeting was a Godsend – if you’re the type to believe in that sort of thing.
In the lazy, dull, lifeless suburb I live in, the only place you can find any beauty is in the perfect dark of 2 in the morning – the stillness, the stars, the year-round chill… I don’t know what, but it’s definitely beautiful. I’m usually outside then – especially in the spring and summer, when I’m in dire need of for some sort of solace from the disgusting bringhtness everyone else seems to fall in love with – but I’m not always smoking when I’m out there. I was this time though… another godsend maybe.
Anyway here I am in the backyard, smoking a fag, when I hear a sound behind me. At first I though it was Jess, coming out to yell at me for smoking again, but it was the sliding door of the house next door. I looked over in time to see her walk into the darkness of the back patio, and try unsuccessfully twice to light a cigarette before she gets pissed off with it and throws it into my yard, only to notice me – or my cigarette, at least – in the darkness next door.
The first words I heard from her, in a particularially irritated tone, were “What the **** are you doing there?” Seeing me stammering about in confusion for an answer – partly because I had no idea what the **** I was doing here, and partly because who the **** was she to demand an answer from me – she began laughing. “I mean why aren’t you coming the **** over her to light my cigarette?”
And that’s how we met.
I guess you could say she lied from the start, but that’s not entirely accurate. She lied in the same way I did when I told people I went to the hospital for an accident; I made it sound more like a car accident than a realizing I couldn’t kill myself halfway through hacking open some veins accident.
She told me that she had come to town to check into rehab and was staying with her aunt while she tried to change some habits. In her defense, it was I who assumed, under no permissible grounds, she meant rehab for alcoholism; in my defense, she was the one who brought up the fact that she was trying to stop drinking while she was here.
The next nights, we stayed together much longer, but that first night I was only with her for a good ten minutes, if even that. But it didn’t matter. As soon as I got back inside, I realized I was too lonely to do anything but fall in love with her – though it took a sleepless night mulling over our encounter to realize it. I also realized that she’d be at some rehab clinic all day, and probably under unblinking watch as soon as she got home, and the only time I’d be able to see her would be at 2 am. The first thing I did the next morning was to go to the gas station and buy a pack of cigarettes in preparation for that night.
That was the only time I ever saw her, at night. That’s one of the things that made our time together so beautiful – our shared isolation, admiration of the cosmos, and harsh critique of life on those perfect nights. The two hours between 2 and 4 was all that I needed from her though. She wasn’t a therapist getting paid to care, she wasn’t a friend or family member who felt obliged to give a ****… she was just as ****ed up and depressed in her life as I was in mine. I didn’t have to go into total depth on a subject I want to forget about for her to understand me. I didn’t have to say anything at all.
In fact, most of the time, I didn’t. Probably about 90% of our time together was just me listening to her absurd arguments about how human evolution was a curse, because at least monkeys live in peace, or her idealistic beliefs of the battles of the dualistic cosmic forces of good and evil which take place constantly in the universe and henceforth explain why this complex world that could only be totally explained if you add the variable of a supreme being seems totally devoid of its attention, or her claim that Rudyard Kipling was the biggest ******* in world literature, even if he did create The Jungle Book – my all-time favorite rant of hers. Yet it was in listening to all these ideas of hers that I could remove myself from that depressive, self destructive state and for the first time in God knows how long begin to concede to the even most minute form of happiness.
I really was alone before I had met her. I mean, I had my mom… my sister Kim was off in college and David had just gone back to Boston, but Jess was still living with us. I had my group of friends at school too, and knew some of the girls they hung out with on weekends, so I shouldn’t have felt so alone I guess, but I did. I had all these people around me, but I was totally removed from them all. It was like they all spoke French and I only knew Swahili – I could understand if they wanted me to eat or drink, but that was about the extent of it. I couldn’t communicate any sort of intelligence or emotion; I was alone in that sense of the word.
It was only a couple months after I had tried to kill myself, so it was an unusually depressive time, which is more or less what I attribute our relationship to. It was easily a more depressive time that when I had actually tried to kill myself, which most people think is a bit strange, but it’s logical if you think about it. When you want to kill yourself, it’s because you’re unhappy – hopeless about the future, a boyfriend left you, parents, disease … whatever. Then you actually try to kill yourself, and if you survive, that whole rush of support comes. Siblings come in from out of town to make sure you’re ok, friends visit the hospital especially for you. People actually seem to care about you.
But eventually the siblings return home, friends can’t come because they start track practice, and your back to the same state of mind you were in before you wanted to kill yourself; only it seems much worse when contrasted the support you just received from all those who you thought cared. You start to feel that even that support was as fake as your suicide attempt - that the only reason anyone came anyway was so they wouldn’t feel guilty about your death, so their Sunday’s would be fun and funeral free so they could go shopping and continue masturbating their own commercialism. It seems that your entire existence is more or less a matter of convenience to those who care about you the most.
Saying it now, hearing it aloud I guess, it seems excessively selfish that one would feel that they should kill themselves because they don’t have the full undivided attention of those around them, but that makes sense too. No one ever killed themselves for anyone else.
But when you look at that lonliness I felt at the time, you could more or less say our meeting was a Godsend – if you’re the type to believe in that sort of thing.
In the lazy, dull, lifeless suburb I live in, the only place you can find any beauty is in the perfect dark of 2 in the morning – the stillness, the stars, the year-round chill… I don’t know what, but it’s definitely beautiful. I’m usually outside then – especially in the spring and summer, when I’m in dire need of for some sort of solace from the disgusting bringhtness everyone else seems to fall in love with – but I’m not always smoking when I’m out there. I was this time though… another godsend maybe.
Anyway here I am in the backyard, smoking a fag, when I hear a sound behind me. At first I though it was Jess, coming out to yell at me for smoking again, but it was the sliding door of the house next door. I looked over in time to see her walk into the darkness of the back patio, and try unsuccessfully twice to light a cigarette before she gets pissed off with it and throws it into my yard, only to notice me – or my cigarette, at least – in the darkness next door.
The first words I heard from her, in a particularially irritated tone, were “What the **** are you doing there?” Seeing me stammering about in confusion for an answer – partly because I had no idea what the **** I was doing here, and partly because who the **** was she to demand an answer from me – she began laughing. “I mean why aren’t you coming the **** over her to light my cigarette?”
And that’s how we met.
I guess you could say she lied from the start, but that’s not entirely accurate. She lied in the same way I did when I told people I went to the hospital for an accident; I made it sound more like a car accident than a realizing I couldn’t kill myself halfway through hacking open some veins accident.
She told me that she had come to town to check into rehab and was staying with her aunt while she tried to change some habits. In her defense, it was I who assumed, under no permissible grounds, she meant rehab for alcoholism; in my defense, she was the one who brought up the fact that she was trying to stop drinking while she was here.
The next nights, we stayed together much longer, but that first night I was only with her for a good ten minutes, if even that. But it didn’t matter. As soon as I got back inside, I realized I was too lonely to do anything but fall in love with her – though it took a sleepless night mulling over our encounter to realize it. I also realized that she’d be at some rehab clinic all day, and probably under unblinking watch as soon as she got home, and the only time I’d be able to see her would be at 2 am. The first thing I did the next morning was to go to the gas station and buy a pack of cigarettes in preparation for that night.
That was the only time I ever saw her, at night. That’s one of the things that made our time together so beautiful – our shared isolation, admiration of the cosmos, and harsh critique of life on those perfect nights. The two hours between 2 and 4 was all that I needed from her though. She wasn’t a therapist getting paid to care, she wasn’t a friend or family member who felt obliged to give a ****… she was just as ****ed up and depressed in her life as I was in mine. I didn’t have to go into total depth on a subject I want to forget about for her to understand me. I didn’t have to say anything at all.
In fact, most of the time, I didn’t. Probably about 90% of our time together was just me listening to her absurd arguments about how human evolution was a curse, because at least monkeys live in peace, or her idealistic beliefs of the battles of the dualistic cosmic forces of good and evil which take place constantly in the universe and henceforth explain why this complex world that could only be totally explained if you add the variable of a supreme being seems totally devoid of its attention, or her claim that Rudyard Kipling was the biggest ******* in world literature, even if he did create The Jungle Book – my all-time favorite rant of hers. Yet it was in listening to all these ideas of hers that I could remove myself from that depressive, self destructive state and for the first time in God knows how long begin to concede to the even most minute form of happiness.