Verfremdungseffekt
videodrones; questions
- Joined
- Apr 23, 2009
- Messages
- 866
- MBTI Type
- INTp
- Enneagram
- 5w4
"Annie, I want to punch you," I'll hear myself say. Or "Annie, you know I really hate you." My voice will be flat, without enthusiasm. I'll stop pouring my cereal or I'll roll over in bed and I'll rub my temples and I'll sigh. What am I blaming on her now, I'll ask. Is it my empty bank account, or the fact that other girl never called me back, or is it simply my being awake?
I'm not the most stable person you'll meet. Physically, mentally, spiritually, financially, I'm running on fumes and the occasional shot of adrenaline. Lately when I've a morsel of energy, or whatever other resource, I've taken to cashing it out. Spending it. Allowing myself a few minutes of if not joy then a measured breath or two. Then the weight returns, and I'm back to crawling when I'm strong and sleeping when I'm not.
I was born in Maine, in the late seventies. The same year as Garfield; the same month as Parallel Lines; the same day that Doctor Who began it sixteenth season. It was Labor Day, as my mother liked to joke. Nobody wanted me. Nobody knew what to do with me.
My sister, she was an accident too -- but a happy accident. A vivacious blonde, who knew exactly what she wanted from life. If you got in her way, well, you got yourself out. Since my parents were incompetent, that worked pretty well. My mother could behave like a kindergartener, and my sister would win. My father could stand back and ignore her, and assume that she would find her own way. My grandmother adored her simply because she was a blonde girl, which she had always wanted instead of my father. Wind her up, let her go, there she is.
Me, I came along ten years later. From the moment I was conceived, my father resented me. I was the physical and metaphysical embodiment of my mother's apparent unwillingness to get a job. And I looked like her, and everyone in her family. And I was sensitive, like her. And like her, there was something wrong with me. He just wasn't sure what. I wouldn't go off on adventures; I'd just sit there and draw. I was never sure what I wanted to do. I wasn't interested in girls. I wasn't interested in boys either... or was I?
And oh dear, was he paranoid. What was I doing in my room alone? Did I smoke? Was I on drugs?
Toward the end, Annie wouldn't leave me alone. She told me I was the only person she felt she could talk to, as I was just as big a failure as she. When I tried to talk to her, she told me I was spineless because I couldn't let go.
We'd known each other for years, but from the moment we moved in together, she set on a mission to figure out what was wrong with me. Which is interesting, as that was the same mission claimed by the three previous women in my life. And before them, my father. I've not spoken to him in over five years, and I don't plan on doing so again. None of them. They simply don't deserve it.
But oh, it hurts. It hurts so much.
I'm so fragile. It bothers me. It takes such effort to convince me I'm on the right track, that what I'm doing is valuable, that things are going to work out, and it takes so little effort to convince me otherwise. I don't think it's a self-image thing really.
Parents.
Panic attacks.
All energy can be transposed, if you've a mind for it -- can remember to do it and how, and can concentrate. Stress to kinetic energy, etc.
Discovered library
figured out how to roughly schedule self - cafe (if money) or library until closes; they close fairly early. Then rest of day to self. Go home and cook and do stuff. Maybe late at night, if I'm in the mood, do some editing and additions.
walking around, trying not to think about work or self or practical matters; just to unwind, in the way I rarely allow myself
People keep coming up to me cold, either to hit on me or to comment. "great poet" guy. Gaggle of women. "New look?"
I'm not the most stable person you'll meet. Physically, mentally, spiritually, financially, I'm running on fumes and the occasional shot of adrenaline. Lately when I've a morsel of energy, or whatever other resource, I've taken to cashing it out. Spending it. Allowing myself a few minutes of if not joy then a measured breath or two. Then the weight returns, and I'm back to crawling when I'm strong and sleeping when I'm not.
I was born in Maine, in the late seventies. The same year as Garfield; the same month as Parallel Lines; the same day that Doctor Who began it sixteenth season. It was Labor Day, as my mother liked to joke. Nobody wanted me. Nobody knew what to do with me.
My sister, she was an accident too -- but a happy accident. A vivacious blonde, who knew exactly what she wanted from life. If you got in her way, well, you got yourself out. Since my parents were incompetent, that worked pretty well. My mother could behave like a kindergartener, and my sister would win. My father could stand back and ignore her, and assume that she would find her own way. My grandmother adored her simply because she was a blonde girl, which she had always wanted instead of my father. Wind her up, let her go, there she is.
Me, I came along ten years later. From the moment I was conceived, my father resented me. I was the physical and metaphysical embodiment of my mother's apparent unwillingness to get a job. And I looked like her, and everyone in her family. And I was sensitive, like her. And like her, there was something wrong with me. He just wasn't sure what. I wouldn't go off on adventures; I'd just sit there and draw. I was never sure what I wanted to do. I wasn't interested in girls. I wasn't interested in boys either... or was I?
And oh dear, was he paranoid. What was I doing in my room alone? Did I smoke? Was I on drugs?
Toward the end, Annie wouldn't leave me alone. She told me I was the only person she felt she could talk to, as I was just as big a failure as she. When I tried to talk to her, she told me I was spineless because I couldn't let go.
We'd known each other for years, but from the moment we moved in together, she set on a mission to figure out what was wrong with me. Which is interesting, as that was the same mission claimed by the three previous women in my life. And before them, my father. I've not spoken to him in over five years, and I don't plan on doing so again. None of them. They simply don't deserve it.
But oh, it hurts. It hurts so much.
I'm so fragile. It bothers me. It takes such effort to convince me I'm on the right track, that what I'm doing is valuable, that things are going to work out, and it takes so little effort to convince me otherwise. I don't think it's a self-image thing really.
Parents.
Panic attacks.
All energy can be transposed, if you've a mind for it -- can remember to do it and how, and can concentrate. Stress to kinetic energy, etc.
Discovered library
figured out how to roughly schedule self - cafe (if money) or library until closes; they close fairly early. Then rest of day to self. Go home and cook and do stuff. Maybe late at night, if I'm in the mood, do some editing and additions.
walking around, trying not to think about work or self or practical matters; just to unwind, in the way I rarely allow myself
People keep coming up to me cold, either to hit on me or to comment. "great poet" guy. Gaggle of women. "New look?"
