I’ve had a whirlwind of a couple of weeks and it is now that I am finally sitting in front of my computer trying to work on a paper that I suddenly have the creativity to write. I want to write but it has nothing to do with my essay on midwives. I downloaded a song today with great lyrics that really moved me.
“I was staring at the sky, just looking for a star
To pray on, or wish on, or something like that
I was having a sweet fix of a daydream of a boy
Whose reality I knew, was a hopeless to be had
But then the dove of hope began its downward slope
And I believed for a moment that my chances
Were approaching to be grabbed
But as it came down near, so did a weary tear
I thought it was a bird, but it was just a paper bag
Hunger hurts, and I want him so bad, oh it kills
‘Cause I know I’m a mess he don’t wanna clean up
I got to fold ’cause these hands are too shaky to hold
Hunger hurts, but starving works, when it costs too much to love“
– Paper Bag, Fiona Apple
I really really love finding songs that I can relate to so well. It’s really a strange feeling to hear something that is exactly how you feel and realize that that person has felt it too. You aren’t alone.
I’m not alone. Not totally.
Also, do you think her name is really Fiona Apple? What a name.
On this Saturday night, similar to most Saturday nights, I had no plans. The only thing different is that I think I would’ve liked to have done something. I’ve been trying to keep myself busy because the loneliness has been quite stifling and I go into this deep abyss of sadness and self loathing each and every time the door closes and I am alone.
So I sat. I watched shitty netflix tv. I watched The Vow. I cried. I talked to a boy. The boy stopped talking to me. And I’m alone. Me, myself, and fucking I. They say stuff like, “You need to be happy on your own before you can be happy with someone else”. But that’s bullshit, because being alone sucks. We can glorify sitting alone and reading books, drinking black coffee and smoking your cigarettes, but it’s not romantic. It’s depressing.
I’ve seen The Vow before, I know that they end up working it out and being happy so my tears weren’t necessarily for them. I cried, sobbed really, because I couldn’t stop thinking about the idea that I may never ever find someone who loves me that much. Someone who would stay with me and fight for me and look at me and see the world. I’ve had a few gentlemen who’ve held me in high regard and made me feel like a woman, but it fades.
Because everything fades; everything. My sadness will fade, along with my happiness. All things come and go.
Goddam bullshit fucking everything fades.
“Life has a gap in it. It just does. You don’t go crazy trying to fill it like some lunatic.”
– Geraldine, Take this Waltz.
I’ve been thinking about this quote a lot lately. How every time something in our life is lacking, we try and fill that void with something new and better. We do this rather than excepting that sometimes our life is just that, lacking.
I worry that maybe my expectations have been too high and my concern for perfection in my relationships is really just a reflection of my own feelings about myself. I’m not sure if I am whole and happy on my own.
There’s a fucking gap.
I am a romantic. Thus far this has acted as a flaw in my character, rather than the very charming quality that I feel it to be. I can’t get close to a person without falling in love with them.
I realize that I’m getting too deep within this complicated mess and making it more and more difficult to figure out what’s right. But I mean, isn’t “what’s right” sort of an arbitrary term? I can choose what is emotionally complicated, stay here, deal with the constant battle within myself. Here I am consistently struggling with what is my reality and a nostalgia for what was and what could be. I could leave, and deal with what is physically complicated. Break the lease, find a new place, move all my stuff, get new things, and tackle a different kind of loneliness.
As a romantic I can see the possibility and hope in both. Staying here there is the chance (no matter how slim it may be) that he will change his mind and suddenly see me again for the wonderful person he fell in love with, not the sad one he is trying to escape from. We could plan trips together and just be in love and be happy.
Leaving is a fresh start. I could live in a tiny little apartment all alone and be independent and discover myself in new ways. I could have more first kisses and allow people to see the greatness in me the way it is meant to be seen.
There is wonder and fear in both.
So which do I choose?
Is starting all of my posts with “Megan ________” getting annoying? I am finding it to be a little repetitive and irritating.
Please reply and let me know!
I am currently trying to write an essay on the novel Ravensong by Lee Maracle. It is funny to me how trying to get me to write a paper is like pulling teeth, I would literally rather clean my entire apartment than do it. I actually almost decided to hand it in late, so I could just avoid doing it for one more day.
But then I come on here and I could write posting after posting and never feel the ache of obligation. I love to write, but if you make me do it I hate it. Even my article writing class which I enjoy immensely has started to feel like a chore. I don’t learn with deadlines.
What I do with deadlines is leave it until the last possible second, produce barely mediocre work, and don’t learn any sort of lesson about procrastination or the value of hard work, but rather that the education system I have been subjected to my entire life is stifling. And I know, Oh poor pitiful me, getting a college education and not caring about it. But really, I know I’m not alone in this.
Expectation versus reality- our expectations are always far too high, aren’t they?
I will suddenly accomplish that thing I’ve been meaning to do for months the moment that I have a dozen other more important things to be done.
Example: I bought a bedroom set from Ikea in October and put it all together slowly, leaving the bed for last. Once I started to put the bed together I realized that it was missing the wood slats and the metal support beam. I was angry at Ikea and had a half put together bed frame. I’ve been sleeping on a mattress on the floor since then, putting off going to Ikea since it is about an hour bus ride away and then it would be a $40 cab ride back. But today, I went. Today, I spent a solid four hours (including transport) in my Ikea endeavor. But, tomorrow I have a 1200 word paper due and a communications presentation to prepare for as well as a great deal of reading to do for English. But no, I finally went to Ikea instead of properly prioritizing like a real adult.
So, now I am sitting at home, doing this instead of working on my paper. I don’t even know what prioritizing is at this point and I wouldn’t be surprised if I am up until 3am trying to put my bed frame together.
I don’t remember what it’s like to be happy. My friend who has been struggling with depression for the last few months went on antidepressants recently and she told me that she finally feels like herself again. I smiled and said that was great, but inwardly I was consumed with a deep realization, I don’t know what I feel like. I can’t remember the last time that I felt normal and healthy, so I don’t even know what it really feels like to “be Megan”.
No wonder I have become a difficult person to love. No wonder he needs space. No wonder I can’t figure out what I want to do with my life.
This is all my fault and I’m sick if pretending to be okay.
Because I’m not, I’m not okay.
I have mentioned briefly my life imploding last month; now, I won’t get into all the gorey details, in case said imploder stumbles across this blog in a sudden renewed interest for me and my life (too harsh?), but I would like to reflect on the feelings I had the day after this all happened.
I was a wreck. That’s putting it lightly, really. I had been on and off the phone with my parents all day and they were thinking of flying out to rescue me from this increasingly miserable situation. The imploder was gone, already out with friends trying to move forward with his life (oops, too harsh again?) and I knew I couldn’t sit in our apartment anymore. I had spent the whole day crying but decided to go downtown anyways to help my friend who was moving.
Something wasn’t right from the moment I stepped out of my apartment. Everything was… the same. It was just like it was the evening before when I came home from the hair dressers, excited to see my boyfriend after a long day. There had been no shift in the world, when I myself had been irrevocably changed by the events of the previous evening. I sat on the bus and watched the happy people laughing, loving, and just generally enjoying themselves.
I resented them all. I resented them for being happy around me, because couldn’t they sense that something was wrong? Couldn’t they see the broken hearted girl at the back of the bus, puffy eyes and angry demeanor?
No, that’s the thing about life and people. We are unaware of the suffering of others, unless it directly impacts us. The world will continue to turn, and like my father always tells me, The sun will rise again tomorrow.