Originally, I planned to stay home by my lonesome but my father, with skill and persistence (and bribery), wore me down. For several reasons, I really wanted to stay home. Accessibility, for example (being stuck in one place while sleepless with no friends to cuddle with like last time). And, of course, R. We were going to meet up away from the watchful eyes of mes parents, or, that would be, if they knew...
And omg. I'm clawing at the walls missing R. (More on this later...)
It's been a firestorm of emotional activity lately. I've been cleaning out an endless closet of old notebooks, and excavating the accompanying memories. From summer camp which was an amazing experience, of high school which was arguably the worst, of childhood, middle school. I have eleven years worth of pictures of Mark, enough to create a wall high shrine. Letters from boyfriends. Letters from old crushes. Old friends. Current friends. Old poetry...
It was a surreal experience to walk back down those roads, to read of joy and pain in my own handwriting.
But, of course, the thing that stood out most was writings about the "point of contact" (though POC was a person, it's not about the person. Instead, the experience of an event. It was a trigger for mental illness for me). That weird moment in my life that seems to have halved it into THEN and NOW. It could just have been puberty (those crazy, killer female hormones! *shakes her head*). That would explain a lot, actually. But, I can trace all the SAD and depression to this one point in time. And this is weird because you'd thing enough scratching could relieve the itch but it doesn't. So you have to suck it up and keep moving. It's the only option if one wants to avoid being a rolling, breathing Heathcliffe...
Brooding is soooo last season.
The good news is that now, even though I still feel it, I can close the book and leave the vivid sadness that used to spring up when I thought of THEN.
Life is good. I like the blend of joy and sadness. How every silver lining has a cloud and every cloud has a silver lining. The duality keeps each experience fresh, keeps it in a tension of flying and falling. Right now, I'm doing both relationally...
Something weird I noticed, which totally escaped me, was that I thought my dyketry was "caused" by POC. Reading back, it was clear that women have always fascinated me. That several girls in my adolescence stopped me in my tracks long before ninth grade. At the time, it didn't seem anymore than "admiration." Even when squeally crushes would keep me up at night, shifting in my bed because I was excited to see her (whichever her it was) the next day...
Yeah, real "straight"...
Anyway, besides this non-event, I've been formulating some ideas. Today, inspired by Josh Blue and Margaret Cho, seriously considered stand-up comedy. I even wrote out some jokes about crippletry. Maybe another CP comedienne would raise awareness? Get a dialogue started. Though, the audience would be an interesting one.
Cripple, Christian, Queer, or Crazy? This would appear to be a unique, and small, niche. But a riotously fun group.
Then, I've been writing a apocolyptic lesbian love story. In B&N, they seem to have a lot of lesbian erotica. A lot of books on lesbian sex. Though, not many good old fashioned love stories. Girl meets girl. Girl loses girl. Girl flies across the country to convince girl to come back. Girl and girl live happily ever after.
*sighs* It's love. It makes you want to write silly love stories. I miss her. So much. I can't even type how much I miss her right now.
You have no idea.
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