January 17, 2004 @ 1:20 a.m.
"Jolene unlocked the thick breezeway door, like she'd done a hundred times before"

I'm in a fucked up and weird headspace, the old realm of trouble. Things are happening and I don't think I understand them, or rather I think I understand them but they're not what I want them to be so I'm in denial.

The gears of my relationships are shifting, and I feel a little lost. I had a cataclysmic night tonight while out with one of my best girlfriends; stuff was said that I don't really want to go into here, it wasn't bad but she said something and I responded and despite the advances science has made there's no way to take back what you've said. But the thing is, I'm not sure I regret it. Oh, I'm not making sense and I'm being obtuse here. Let's say I opened myself up to certain obligations and situations (and let's say they're of a variety that could permanently alter a friendship) without really thinking about it, or thinking about the way she'd receive it.

Things could get very interesting in the next couple of months.

Me and my big mouth and my sexual peccadilloes.

The other relationship that's getting to me is the one with Stuart. We're getting closer and more comfortable with each other but at the same time I feel...rejected, I guess. I don't really know how to explain that, I can barely articulate it inside my own head. I'm not even sure why I feel like this; he's seen the absolute worst of me at times (and when you're talking about a temperamental, paranoid and argumentative woman who'd often rather run than fix things, the worst can be pretty fucking bad).

You know, it's entirely possible that this is just a case of "whaddaya mean, you don't want to have sex five times a day?!"

Or maybe it is that he doesn't find me terribly attractive anymore/at the moment. I know as well as anyone that desire waxes and wanes. Not that I particularly know why. Not that I know why it would be in this case. I'd like to think it's not the couple of kilos I've gained in the past few months. I'd like to think that what makes me sexy to others transcends a slight weight gain.

I don't know how much of that last paragraph can be based in reality and how much of it just comes from that part of my brain that tries to convince me that bulimia is a valid hobby. I don't know what's self-imposed and what's genuine response to stimuli. I thought I was getting better with quashing the thoughts that I am somehow too physically, emotionally or mentally imperfect to be cared about. Maybe not. Maybe the gains are superficial.

I'm not escaping anything, though. The exercise and food aren't a quick means of escaping. The new therapist, the one who listens so patiently to my middle-class white girl problems, does not necessarily bring emancipation from all this. It's good to rely on yourself, but the problem is that when you do it for a really long time, you start to believe you're alone on things.

I'm not changing the things I need to change as quickly as I want to, and second-guessing the opinions and emotions of others, particularly my significant other, is not helping.

I could go on, at length. I could spend the rest of the night here, tapping way and stripping myself down, layer by layer, until you see all the gristle and bone that you really don't want to see.

I could, but I won't. I'm rambling, and I'll probably come back to this tomorrow and discover I'm not making any sense.

I think I'll go to bed and try to sleep off the sickness in my stomach and the smoke in my hair.

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