You Haven't Called Me in Weeks
©Rachel C
My body is being left behind. Time is moving, and somewhere I am mentally aware that each day is passing, each moth is progressing, and that time is pushing forward. The older I get, the faster it goes—the faster it goes, the sooner I am old. Emotionally, physically, something is being lost in translation. My body does not feel that it has aged four months even as I write the date on my next week’s schedule, or on a payment to my brother. And as time progresses, I feel more and more emotionally unstable. I could crack; I could crumble with one word, or sent into a fit of rage with another. I am not physically aware of the pressure time is putting on my body, or my heart; and yet every day that passes I do not question with disbelief that it is March, that it is the Twenty-second, that it is another day I’m putting toward something, and still another day I feel I have done nothing. I feel like I am not moving forward at all, not one single step, and here time is, showing me up, becoming a new day each morning.
I’m left behind, I’m detached. I don’t understand. A week ago, I was somebody’s person. Somebody’s best friend, someone they could count on. I think that was a little bit of an illusion, on my part. I think that I misled myself, because I need her to be my person. I need her to be here with me, but she doesn’t need me. She’s moved on, she doesn’t need my advice, she’s found someone new. She doesn’t need a person. I need a person, but all my people are disappearing. I think when we said “life long”, we were counting in mouse years.
I hate what I am doing—I feel like I am only hurting myself. And, moreover, I feel like some whiney “emo-kid”, whom everyone wished would shut up and move on. That’s what I feel like I should do. That’s what I feel like people are telling me to do, each time they give me that look of abhorrence. I can feel it in their eyes that they don’t want me here—or maybe I am just creating that sensation...but it doesn’t make me feel better. This bitter song won’t make me feel better. I feel like I should try harder, work harder, smile brighter, and be everything they think they are. I feel like being bitter, even for the sake of venting, is only making everything worse. I feel like I should stop talking—I am talking too much.
I don’t want to be the bitter person, always striving to make others proud, always working to prove everyone wrong. I don’t want to be the person who wakes up and realizes no one is going to care how successful she is, no one is going to care how smart she is, because the impression is already made and they won’t change their minds. I don’t want to be the person who realizes they were always going to be alone anyway. Loneliness is a mindset—a mind-trap is more correct. I thought I wouldn’t be, but I also thought someone needed me, and I think I was wrong, so I think I am wrong about everything. I want to know who missed me, who wanted me back. I want to know who still feels that way. I want to know if someone thinks about me, every now and then, because I think about them all the time. I want to know where I went wrong. I want to know how I ended up here. Mostly, I want to know where this is going.
I thought I was somebody’s person. I thought I had something to say. My message has been lost somewhere between my mind and my body, lost in translation at the tips of my fingers, just as time has been misinterpreted in my body, and I am torn. I am torn by the inconsistency in my mind and in my body. I feel completely sidetracked just remembering what day it is. Let alone remembering who I want to be, or how I want to get there.
I was supposed to be the one pushing forward. I was supposed to be the one ahead of the curve. On my way, a published author, detached from the skeptics of my youth. And yet here I am, sitting in Tulsa, living paycheck to paycheck; completely alone in a house full of people—completely alone in my head. I just wish you would call, but I know you won’t. And, honestly, it’s bringing me down.
March 22, 2007
Author's Note: Yeah, still part of that series I've been putting together, or whatever. I guess it's all linked because it's all one autobiographical string of thoughts, but this one is a lot-a-bit different than the others in it's style, so I guess it's just a little off-center that way. It's pretty bad, and I haven't written in a while, and I am in a complete funk. It sucks, I feel like shit, I feel like no one wants to talk to me--and honestly, no one will call me back...so, maybe it's not all imaginary. Anyway, I am a little depressed, and thus: emo-kid, whiney, crap prose has emerged. Eh, maybe it's not so bad, you know, for an amateur.
My body is being left behind. Time is moving, and somewhere I am mentally aware that each day is passing, each moth is progressing, and that time is pushing forward. The older I get, the faster it goes—the faster it goes, the sooner I am old. Emotionally, physically, something is being lost in translation. My body does not feel that it has aged four months even as I write the date on my next week’s schedule, or on a payment to my brother. And as time progresses, I feel more and more emotionally unstable. I could crack; I could crumble with one word, or sent into a fit of rage with another. I am not physically aware of the pressure time is putting on my body, or my heart; and yet every day that passes I do not question with disbelief that it is March, that it is the Twenty-second, that it is another day I’m putting toward something, and still another day I feel I have done nothing. I feel like I am not moving forward at all, not one single step, and here time is, showing me up, becoming a new day each morning.
I’m left behind, I’m detached. I don’t understand. A week ago, I was somebody’s person. Somebody’s best friend, someone they could count on. I think that was a little bit of an illusion, on my part. I think that I misled myself, because I need her to be my person. I need her to be here with me, but she doesn’t need me. She’s moved on, she doesn’t need my advice, she’s found someone new. She doesn’t need a person. I need a person, but all my people are disappearing. I think when we said “life long”, we were counting in mouse years.
I hate what I am doing—I feel like I am only hurting myself. And, moreover, I feel like some whiney “emo-kid”, whom everyone wished would shut up and move on. That’s what I feel like I should do. That’s what I feel like people are telling me to do, each time they give me that look of abhorrence. I can feel it in their eyes that they don’t want me here—or maybe I am just creating that sensation...but it doesn’t make me feel better. This bitter song won’t make me feel better. I feel like I should try harder, work harder, smile brighter, and be everything they think they are. I feel like being bitter, even for the sake of venting, is only making everything worse. I feel like I should stop talking—I am talking too much.
I don’t want to be the bitter person, always striving to make others proud, always working to prove everyone wrong. I don’t want to be the person who wakes up and realizes no one is going to care how successful she is, no one is going to care how smart she is, because the impression is already made and they won’t change their minds. I don’t want to be the person who realizes they were always going to be alone anyway. Loneliness is a mindset—a mind-trap is more correct. I thought I wouldn’t be, but I also thought someone needed me, and I think I was wrong, so I think I am wrong about everything. I want to know who missed me, who wanted me back. I want to know who still feels that way. I want to know if someone thinks about me, every now and then, because I think about them all the time. I want to know where I went wrong. I want to know how I ended up here. Mostly, I want to know where this is going.
I thought I was somebody’s person. I thought I had something to say. My message has been lost somewhere between my mind and my body, lost in translation at the tips of my fingers, just as time has been misinterpreted in my body, and I am torn. I am torn by the inconsistency in my mind and in my body. I feel completely sidetracked just remembering what day it is. Let alone remembering who I want to be, or how I want to get there.
I was supposed to be the one pushing forward. I was supposed to be the one ahead of the curve. On my way, a published author, detached from the skeptics of my youth. And yet here I am, sitting in Tulsa, living paycheck to paycheck; completely alone in a house full of people—completely alone in my head. I just wish you would call, but I know you won’t. And, honestly, it’s bringing me down.
March 22, 2007
Author's Note: Yeah, still part of that series I've been putting together, or whatever. I guess it's all linked because it's all one autobiographical string of thoughts, but this one is a lot-a-bit different than the others in it's style, so I guess it's just a little off-center that way. It's pretty bad, and I haven't written in a while, and I am in a complete funk. It sucks, I feel like shit, I feel like no one wants to talk to me--and honestly, no one will call me back...so, maybe it's not all imaginary. Anyway, I am a little depressed, and thus: emo-kid, whiney, crap prose has emerged. Eh, maybe it's not so bad, you know, for an amateur.
