i wrote constantly in high school, and one of the things i was particularly into was writing plays. just so many of them. a particular one that i wrote was a short, silly skit in which all the characters’ names were just vowels (A, E, I, etc.), and every single line was written to be shouted. (i almost never used exclamation marks, so i guess i decided to put every single one of them in this thing.) there was a family (A, E and I), a robber who burst into their house (O), and their obnoxious neighbor (U) who inadvertently saved the day when he accidentally knocked out the robber. there were quite a few lines where characters were forced to clarify their use of the word ‘I’ (distinguishing it from the child, whose name was ‘I’). the whole thing was basically an excuse to get to the end joke, where the family decides to eat the robber, because they have no food in house. the daughter notes that the robber is too big to fit in the oven, and the father replies that it’s okay, they’ll simply cut him up into smaller pieces. lol.

this was a forgotten piece of nothing, in the larger flood of material i wrote in high school, and the only reason that i even remember it is because it survived the episode where i threw out everything i ever wrote when i was like nineteen or twenty and some girl wasn’t into me. it turned up one day when i was looking through old things for something else, and i was amused by it. so amused by it, in fact, that soon after, when i was bored at work (as an assistant manager at a movie theater), i decided to write more on it. i ended up writing four more ‘acts,’ which were framed as sequels to the initial episode. each new episode repeated the exact same sequence of events as the first one, but each successive episode also was effected by and built on what came before it, so that each one descended further into absurdity. i was really amusing myself.

in particular, the character of the father (A) became, with each new chapter, more and more the center of the show, because he quickly became completely insane. he ranted and raved about how the robber was god, and how his daughter’s (unnamed) grandmother was a whore and was, at that very moment, buying her granddaughter a thousand ponies. after his realization that the robber was god, he was insistent that eating the robber would imbue all of them with magical powers and grant them their deepest, innermost desire. which, as it turned out, for him, was to be a black man, and he spends the final two acts screaming about how he’s black, when he’s totally not. the joke here was that his ideas of the black experience were really specific and really strange. also, he was mad racist, because, obviously, that’s funny.

he screams for his wife to bring him their taxes, because, in his mind, this is what black men do: taxes. when his wife informs him that he’s already completed the family’s tax returns, he bellows that he doesn’t care and to just bring him anyone’s taxes, because he’s a black man. the story eventually bends toward his warped perspective, and the final act begins with him dispatching a team of vampires, again, because he’s a black man now. finally, a new character appears: Sweet Gerald, an actual African-American man, who is having an affair with A’s wife (E), and who A forces his adolescent daughter to have sex with (offstage). it’s pretty much nonsense by the end. uncomfortably, weirdly racist nonsense. (again, in another instance of the play bending towards A’s reality, while he never agrees with A’s assertion that he loves to fuck white women, Sweet Gerald does, in fact, fuck all of the white female characters, and i believe E does suggest that he has a giant penis. omg so fucked up lolol!)

it’s hipster racism, and it’s pretty bad. the ‘intended’ joke here is that yeah, this guy’s racist, but he’s a buffoon, and the nature of his specific racist beliefs is so absurd (fighting vampires, doing taxes) that it seems to suggest that any racist belief is absurd. if i say it that way, maybe it doesn’t sound quite so bad, but there’s two important caveats here: explaining it that way obscures the very real fact that, mostly, i was just entertaining myself by writing a character who used the word ‘nigger’ and said crazy racist shit, because i knew it was provocative. (a tip-off, i suppose, to what i was up to is contained in the name ‘Sweet Gerald,’ which is a reference to Mr. Show, which played this game sometimes.) also, regardless of my intent, it’s fucking racist, whether it’s funny or not. basically, i still needed to grow out of this idea that saying racist stuff is okay if you’re joking and you think you’re making fun of the real racists. basically, i was another white person who is educated and understands why racism is bad and harmful and believes all the right things, but who also, you know, has no meaningful life experience being around, like, actual people who aren’t white. well, that’s not entirely true.

(in case you’re reading this and feeling like you want to give me credit for being willing to interrogate my past behavior and thinking maybe i’m being too hard on myself, here goes the part where i’ll show you why i don’t deserve any good will or benefit of the doubt.)

there was one African-American employee on the floor staff at the theater i was an assistant manager at, a guy named Jacob. he was a good guy, though a bit of a scoundrel in his interactions with girls. for the most part, though, that had nothing to do with me (except one time when a girl that he was cheating on came to the theater and made quite a scene), so he was one of my favorites on the floor staff. i was pretty unapologetic about picking favorites, even though it often had the effect of making the people who i really liked- Jacob included -become really lazy and kind of worthless as employees, which was ironic, since being a really good, conscientious employee was one of the main things that made me decide that someone was one of my favorites.

anyway, i would allow my favorites to spend excessive amounts of time, during dead periods (which was mostly all we had at that place), hanging out in the office with me. whenever i was writing these additions to my play, i let one of my other favorites read it, and they thought it was hysterical, and they told Jacob that he had to read it, with, it seemed, no mention of any specific content. so he asked me if he could see it, and after very little hesitation, i obliged. again, with no mention of any specific content. which is fucked up. the fact that the final two sections were full of racist ‘jokes’ and more than one utterance of the N word (with a couple other slurs tossed in, for variety) gave me pause, but i told myself it was fine- it’s just a joke, and Jacob is cool, he’ll get it.

as he read through the thing, i became really nervous. not nervous because i had handed this young African-American man a text contained really vile racist terminology and stereotypes in service of silly, masturbatory humor that might be offensive and deeply upsetting to him, but rather that he might ‘misinterpret’ these jokes and get the obviously mistaken idea that i was racist.

fortunately, as i had expected, Jacob was cool. he thought that the racist shit that his white boss (that was older than him, in his almost entirely white workplace in his overwhelmingly white town) wrote and gave to him, and then sat there watching while he read it, was super funny. i exhaled. i knew he’d get it. i knew that he’d know i’m a good guy, because i let him work in the booth all the time and get out of cleaning theaters. i knew he’d know i’m an ally. the kind of ally that writes outrageously racist shit not because he’s racist, but because he wants to make fun of the real racists. he even wrote a little note at the bottom of one of the pages (probably one that contained a particularly nasty racist joke): “Approved by Jacob,” or something to that effect, followed by the date. like, lol, he was a real-live black person who was giving me his stamp of ‘non-racist’ approval. i could feel like i was in the clear now, because i had written proof that a single black person (who i had direct power over) found my racist jokes humorous. or, at least, that he pretended to convincingly enough that it didn’t occur to me to question it.

fucking asshole.

(i mean me, not Jacob.)

(damn, it would be so great if he saw this post.)

“Art like prayer is a hand outstretched in the darkness, seeking for some touch of grace which will transform it into a hand that bestows gifts.”

apparently, Kafka said this. it’s some deep stuff that characterizes the act of creating art as an act of faith, a belief (articulated or not) that there is a purpose to what you’re creating, that there is something of consequence being accomplished that can only be accomplished by you. that it matters. that you matter. lol

personally, i vacillate between (mostly) being convinced that i write only for my own edification, just because it’s stimulating to me, and occasional flashes of recognition that i must want more. i keep a blog that is technically public, but that almost no ones knows exists. i sit in my class, listening to other people read their work, and i think about how i believe mine is better, even when theirs is good. i don’t want to put myself against them, because it’s stupid and i know it, but i feel the butthurt when they’re good and it bothers me. i don’t want to read my stuff, because it’s embarrassing and i really do think it’s bad, but i also— motherfuckinghell  —do want other people to tell me it’s good, so i’m constantly on the edge of volunteering to read whatever the hell it is i brought this time. the ideal situation is that i’m forced to by the instructor, but i try hard not to hint that i want to be chosen, and i must put on the show every time i’m asked to share.

it used to be easy, because i was unambiguous in my desire to not be noticed, but since i’ve gotten more healthy (whatever in the hell that means) as it relates to being noticed by others. unfortunately, this has created inconvenient, frustrating situations where i actually want to be noticed. it’s really confusing, because these feelings are always at war with the opposite, still strong, impulses, but the fact is that i want people to recognize me and the fact that i have talent (which necessitates actually having talent, which has always been a huge question mark, but that’s why it’s a prayer, duh), it took quite a while for me to even be willing to acknowledge that i had these feelings (of wanting recognition), so who knows how long before i will stop hating myself for having them. it’s all so stupid, and things were so much simpler when all i wanted was to scream into my pillow.

what’s worse, the longer i think about it, i have to consider the very strong likelihood that it’s what i’ve always wanted: everyone to bestow upon me the gift of telling me that i’m good, that they appreciate my dumbass hand bestowing whatever the hell on them. i just don’t want to have to ask for it. 🙈🙉🙊

so yeah, i’ve never been punk. please don’t tell everyone.

dear myself,

i don’t know why i bother talking to you- you never listen, though if i’m being honest (and, ngl, i have no idea if i ever am), i’m never sure what i want, anyway, and even if i was (which i can’t actually even imagine that) i can’t imagine you have the power to help me get it, if indeed ‘it’ is anything worthwhile, since you’re as bewildered and lost as i am, or at least you seem that way, though what do i know; i’m the one who’s actually looking at you in search of clarity and/or purpose, like i could even trust you if you were offering anything, since the more certain you seemed to be the less i would ever actually trust you, though i will admit that this is true of anyone, not just you (though i suppose it would be particularly unsettling coming from you), which makes me really wonder what the purpose would be in my asking for any kind of guidance from anyone at all, because anyone who would have the (in my mind) arrogance to respond would be automatically disqualified, in my mind, from being taken serious, which, i guess, actually allows you something resembling authority, since you never even pretend to have anything to offer and it’s not clear that you’re even paying attention to my pleas for, whatever, and, if nothing else, i can’t pretend that i don’t find this respectable, because i’m an idiot, and it’s pretty clear, at this point, that i don’t have any real interest in answers or self-discovery or happiness- i just like to put on a show for myself, and you’ve never let me down in that respect.

at the same time, fuck you for not helping me out with this, because i know you know that i need it. asshole.

my dad was racist. his parents were more racist than he was. my mom was/is a more polite, refined racist. her mother was a really sweet, kindly racist. i never knew her father, but he was likely similar to his wife and daughter. my dad’s side of the family was the more aggressive, open types of racist, which i now appreciate more, but that’s a matter of personal preference. (“how do you like your bigotry? contemporary or classic?) because my whole family was populated with a variety of different kinds of racists, most of the people i grew up around were, also racist.

to be clear, when i say they were ‘racist,’ i mean that they were, in the main, racist in regards to African-Americans. i can’t remember ever hearing any discussion about Jewish people or Latinos or anything else, just black people. my dad had some feelings about Vietnamese people (and he wasn’t super conscientious about drawing a distinction between Vietnamese and other Asian peoples), but that was clearly connected to his experience fighting in the war in Vietnam, so i always drew a distinction between that and his other racism. not that it excused it (because the affect on another human being would be the same), but it was easier to imagine how the experiences he had to endure would prompt him to dehumanize the people on the other end of his gun, just as a means of surviving and maintaining his own sanity. his antipathy for African-Americans, however, was just garden-variety racism that deserves no special qualification.

anyway, i grew up around plenty of bigots, and most of their racism resembled my dad’s. Bruce, my dad’s best friend, was an endless font of racist jokes, and he did a hell of an impression of what he and my dad thought black people sounded like. my dad’s uncle was a serious, hardcore racist who straight-up married a Nazi and was just beyond miserable to be around, because he forced his hate into every discussion, no matter the topic. all of my parents’ casual acquaintances enjoyed a spirited retelling of the commonly know failings of African-Americans.

the guy who cut my hair was racist. he was a grinning, genial old fellow who would transition seamlessly from asking me about school to recounting the story of how he went against his better judgment and rented one of his properties to a black family, and the consequences he paid for that choice and how he won’t make the mistake of trying to do business with ‘them’ again. occasionally, i saw him drop his normally folksy demeanor and showed flashes of anger, and these instances were always, in my limited experience of him, connected to African-Americans. eventually, he added a second barber chair to his shop and his son, who shared his father’s two most notable (in my estimation) traits- his good nature and his bigotry -cut hair alongside him. they ran a nice little business (despite the fact that neither one of them actually cut hair very well), with the shop and its tiny parking lot regularly filled to overflowing with racists that needed a haircut or even some that just stopped in to talk some racist shit.

i really didn’t enjoy going there, but i kept getting my hair cut by him and his son. when i got old enough to go by myself, i kept thinking i would try some other place that was less racist and would make my hair look less busted, but i always chickened out and returned to the place i was familiar with. when i needed a haircut, i would repeatedly drive past the barber shop, hoping to find a time when there was no one else there and i could sit right down, get it done, and leave. this worked sometimes, but just as often i was forced to either forgo the haircut or sit in a room with wall-to-wall racists jabbering and laughing. then i’d have to sit in the chair, on display, my failure to participate in the conversation more noticeable.

there was seemingly never any hesitation about expressing their racism, no apparent worry from any of the men that they would upset another customer or that maybe censor themselves when children were present. i always sat silently, staring at the floor or the television. i don’t think my behavior ever appeared strange to anyone, because the owner had known me since i was very young, and i had always behaved this way; there was no reason for him to think i was being quiet because i was uncomfortable with the racist content of the conversations when i was just behaving the way i always had. i mean, i didn’t say anything when they were talking about my high school’s football team, so staying silent when they were talking about black folks didn’t stand out.

so i sat there, waiting and listening. and not saying anything. i thought about how i should say something. i thought about how, if i did speak up and push back, it might be especially notable to them, because i never spoke. i thought about how it wouldn’t make a bit of difference, but how that didn’t matter. on and off-duty police came in and joined in the racist conversations enthusiastically, sharing stories about having to deal with African-Americans on the job, referencing instances that occasionally hinted at them abusing their power. i said nothing and just wanted to get my hair cut and go. i wondered if i was just as bad, or worse than them. like my dad’s racism directed towards East Asians, i can offer an explanation for my behavior (social phobia- untreated at that time -that makes me terrified of people at all times and it’s difficult to participate in any social interaction), but that’s not an excuse. i was, honestly, relieved that going bald allowed me to just shave my head at home by myself, and i didn’t need to go to the barber shop anymore.

for a long time now, i haven’t given my mom any slack when she even hints at racism. she used to rant about ‘Mexicans’ at any chance she got (though she has been chastened by the ugly, open bigotry of Donald Trump in that regard), and i never let it slide. i don’t think it’s even useful when i challenge her, because it’s more like an attack, like “remember how you use to talk all that shit about dad being an ignorant redneck bigot? what the fuck is up now, dad?” i’m not doing anything positive, i’m just shitting on her and not letting her forget that she’s not a great person.

frequently, i wonder if i’m any different now than i was when i sat in the barber shop, silently listening to a room full of bigots, saying nothing. i have a job (teaching at a university) where it’s really unlikely i’ll be around much open racism, if any at all. occasionally, i’ll have a student who says something problematic, and i always stop to address it, but that’s a situation where i have all the power. the student, regardless of what they’re actually thinking or feeling, will always fold and go with whatever i’m saying. if i was really in a similar situation now, i have no idea what i would do. i’d love to think that i’m more mature, that all the work (and drugs) i’ve done to address my social phobia would make me able to speak up and say what i believe is right. but, if i’m being honest, i’m afraid i wouldn’t, because for all the work i’ve done and all the changes i’ve made, i’m still the same person as the silent little boy in the barber shop who was too scared to say a word and also too scared to go some different place to get my hair cut: i’m a coward. and, what’s worse, my cowardice is unlikely to never lead to any kind of negative consequence. for me.

i’m typing this on the toilet. i’m pooping. when i realized that i needed to go, i was immediately struck by the fact that it’s a potentially awkward time before my 5pm class starts, so this would take a bit more calculation than usual. (there’s always some degree of gaming out every single thing that’s required in the course of a normal day, and especially something as sensitive as pooping.)

at the point i realized that i needed to go, there was only one other person left in the office that’s shared by graduate teaching assistants and lecturers/adjunct instructors, so i needed to decide if i even wanted to return to the office after finishing. if i returned, i would possibly be the only one in the office (if the other person leaves), which would mean that i would be supposed to lock the door on my way out when i do leave for class, since you’re supposed to lock it anytime you leave the office empty, to prevent theft. this rule makes sense, but it also makes me really uncomfortable, because most people don’t bother to lock the door, so i am caught between the impulse to follow the rule (and help to insure that sure no one’s stuff gets stolen) and the desire not to be the lame who locks the door when no one else does (because most don’t bother, and multiple people leave their keys on a desk when they leave). i always lock the door if i’m leaving leaving, but i also try to do it as quickly as possible, so that no one sees me and i don’t get outed as the dork who locks the door. or, more optimally, i try my best to avoid being in the situation of having to make the choice, which is what i did just now. i gathered my things into my backpack and left the office for the day, planning to simply find a quiet spot after finishing my business to wait for 4:45pm so that i can go to class.

i walked to the bathroom on the first floor, closest to the office, that i normally use. however, on my way there, i passed a student that was in one of my classes last semester, and he smiled and gave me a friendly hello. he’s a nice guy, and i like him, and i knew that i needed to use another bathroom, because using this one meant i would see him again on the way out.

i walked around to the other first floor bathroom, on the opposite corner of the building. there was someone in one of the  two stalls. i stood, silent and still in the center of the restroom, processing this information. since i had no way of knowing how much longer they would take to finish, i left.

i didn’t want to go to the third floor, because that’s where the english department is, and, consequently, where i am most likely to encounter people who recognize me, so i tried the second floor. the first men’s room i came to had a janitorial cart parked in front of it. actually, it was between the men’s and women’s room, so either one might have been occupied, but i just moved on to the next second-floor bathroom.

almost as soon as i began walking away from the first second-floor bathroom, however, i remembered that the second set of restrooms on that floor aren’t in identical spots as the first and third floors; rather, they are inside the main entrance-way near the auditorium. this wouldn’t be an issue, except that the Writing Center, that has a front that is entirely made up of windows (so that a person outside can see into the room and those inside can see out into the hall) is directly across from the bathrooms. this is an issue because i know lots of the people that work in the Writing Center, and while i don’t know the exact schedule of who’s working when, it seemed very likely that there would be at least one person who i know and who knows me. i briefly considered going to try the third-floor restrooms, but my previous logic about why i wanted to avoid them remained compelling. finally, i realized that there was a less risky approach to the men’s room opposite the Writing Center: if i go outside and walk around to the Arts & Sciences building’s main entrance, it would appear to anyone that might notice me as though i was just entering the building, which for some reason felt less uncomfortable. (it would look really weird to anyone who noticed me leaving one entrance of the building only to enter another one, but i decided that the probability of this happening was low.) also, while i couldn’t remember for sure, i thought that it was possible that coming from that direction might keep me from being in the line of sight of anyone in the Writing Center. as it turned out, this was correct, which provided a fleeting moment of triumph. unfortunately, that feeling was followed by disappointment that there was, again, someone in the other stall. fortunately, i could hear clearly the unmistakable sounds of that person finishing up their work (toilet paper being dispensed). when i entered the other stall, i moved to hang my backpack up on the hook in the top left corner of the stall door, but i noticed that the hook was very loosely attached, at this point, to the door. i worried that it wouldn’t hold the weight of my bag, which contained my laptop. (placing my bag in the floor was not an option i was willing to entertain, because anyone else who came into the bathroom would potentially notice that and think it was strange.) thinking quickly through the other options i had already explored and found unsuitable, i carefully hung my bag on the hook and decided that i would have to keep a careful watch on it. i sat down on the toilet and continued holding it in, listening for the guy who was finishing up to leave. after what seemed like an exceptionally long time spent washing his hands, he finally left. i began to poop.

five minutes until class starts. as i wrapped up this post, i sat on a bench right outside the room my class is in, furiously trying to complete it as i self-consciously noted almost all the other students and the instructor entering the room. (the instructor looked at me, seemingly puzzled at me sitting outside the empty room and not going in, but didn’t say anything.)  i had intended to make a particular note of exactly when i left the stall/bathroom (maybe 4:40-ish?), but another person came in and entered the other stall, so i was in the throes of all that anxiety (carefully calculating how long to wash my hands, etc.). it’s a regular day.

• class didn’t start until about seven minutes after 5pm, and i was making edits to this post in that dead time.
• next day, 11:30am-ish: i made some edits, changed some tenses that were wonky and adjusted a few bits of language. i’m still not sure if this works best in past or present-tense. might come back and change everything to present.

a paisley tie, tonal brown. it’s a pretty dope accessory, and therein lies the problem.

one of my students saw me in the hall, told me that i looked ‘legit.’ (which, i guess, implies that i look illegitimate most days.) i accepted the compliment poorly. as is my wont.

another instructor complimented me in the shared office space, saying i looked ‘official.’ (which, again, implies that normally i look unofficial. best to not dwell on this.) again, i accepted the compliment poorly.

i need to keep working on responding to compliments in a reasonable manner. it’s harder than it should be. it ought to be easier.

we live with four cats, which is excellent. they go to the bathroom quite a bit, which is less awesome, but we knew this about them before we let them move in.

we have these two really large litter boxes, which are dope. they have these places at one end where you can place your scoop that you have for the litter, like a holster. i don’t think it’s meant to be a holster, because it’s really narrow and deep, but it works as a place to stick the scoop and i haven’t ever actually even considered what its intended function is, because all i do with the litter is scoop it and refill it when it’s low. you can only stick the scoop a little bit of the way into the opening (it’s almost like a slot), but it stays in place. i suppose you could put it in handle first, which would take more advantage of the depth, but i’m not trying to grab my cat litter scoop by the scooping end.

right now, there are three scoops taking up 3/4 of the available slots in the two litter boxes. two of them are plastic, and one of them is metal, with a rubber grip. i got the metal one, because the plastic ones, which i always chose because they are cheaper and i don’t need anything fancy to shovel poop, kept breaking. i don’t know how common that is, but it happened like three times. it’s unclear whether the problem was that these cats were making some extra heavy, Nibbler-style waste, or if there’s an issue with my scooping technique, but it bothered me enough that i decided to get a metal scoop and end all the questions.

unfortunately, i just didn’t like the metal one. it’s so heavy, it was hard to even tell whether i was scooping anything or not, and it obliterated the solid clumps of urine it smashed into during scooping, which made scooping really difficult. basically, it caused as many problems as it solved (which was one), and it removed the tactile pleasure of, you know, picking up pee and poop with a little shovel. also, the plastic ones can be really bright colors, which i enjoy greatly.

so i went back to the plastic one, but not until comparing different scoops at different pet stores. i got a reasonably substantial deep blue one to pair with a bright yellow number that was still hanging around. and the metal one stays in the holster, at the ready for when it might be needed. i try not to look at it, though, because it makes me think of how awful it would feel banging against my teeth. which it definitely would, because it would be a struggle just to get it inside my mouth, it’s so big, and there’s no way i could avoid it clanging against at least some of them. *shudder*

7 November 1921

This inescapable duty to observe oneself: if someone else is observing me, naturally I have to observe myself, too; if none observes me, I have to observe myself all the closer.

-Franz Kafka

first, and most obviously: church.

i lie, exclusively. when i tell the truth, it’s in service of the larger lie. unutterable fear drives everything i say and do, so everything i say and do is an attempt to forestall, for one more moment, everyone else seeing how lost and afraid i am. i try to remember things that i’ve said that have seemed successful in the past, and i repeat them and adapt them to new contexts. i hope to avoid having to improvise.

i write, and i try to focus with precision, with mercilessness even, on myself. i do my best to not let myself off the hook, make me answer to myself if no one else. i am determined to pick at scabs, disinfect wounds with fire, jam my thumbs in my own eyes. i know it will be good for me.

i sprint headlong right up to the edge of what i’m scared of and stop. i stay there, right on that edge, so long that it can feel like i’m making progress. i wallow in my own filth and i congratulate myself for it before i hate myself for it. i write more, excoriating myself for my cowardice. i put on a hell of a show for myself. i never need to improvise, and it feels fresh every time.

i’m just like Kafka, just like me. i’m yet another interesting white person. the real one this time, observing myself all the closer because none observes me, just in case someone observes me (especially me). i’m instagram poetry.

more than once, my current therapist has asked me if i want to change. like if i want to be different than the way i am now, really fix the things that are broken about me. and my answer is yes, but also that i know that i work really hard at not facing certain things about myself. i’m good at avoiding. i’m fucking great at avoiding.

my previous therapist noticed this same problem. she even mentioned, one time, that she might not be the best person to help me and that she could help me try to find someone else. she had noted, more than once, that she had become frustrated, because i was really good at getting us focused on some semantic issue that, in the moment, always seemed important, but that she later realized didn’t accomplish anything except pushing us away from talking about something that made me uncomfortable. i knew she was right about this, because i had realized it, too.

i kind of panicked when she said this, because it felt like i was being rejected. even though i didn’t say anything, she tried to make it clear that this wasn’t the case. she just felt like she wasn’t quick or capable enough to push me in the way necessary. she framed this like a compliment and/or like it was a reflection of her inadequacy, but it felt like an admission that i’m so fucked up that she was just giving up. more than anything, though, it felt like an admission that she didn’t like me and was sick of talking to me. i was really scared that she was saying that she wouldn’t work with me anymore.

i said that i really wanted to keep meeting with her, and that i would really push myself to be aware and not try to avoid subjects. it felt like when i was dating my first girlfriend and she would be at her wit’s end because i had promised to do move in with her, but, yet again, had avoided doing it. i would go through the whole routine, telling her how sorry i was and how hard it was and how i wished i could just do it because she didn’t deserve this, and i would promise to really do it this time. more than once, i said that i would go get my stuff right now and move in right this minute. usually, in these situations, both of us were crying and she surely felt so bad for me that she always told me it was okay, i didn’t need to do it right now, just soon. at least once i promised i would do it the next day. she shouldn’t have been so kind, though, because i never did.* it wasn’t because i was lying or i didn’t love her; it was because i was so scared to make such a huge change, and once that emotional moment had passed it was too easy for me to convince myself of any number of good reasons why it wasn’t possible to do it right now.

and that’s the thing: they’re always good reasons. i have been doing this avoiding shit for a long time, and i don’t settle for nonsense. i think about my stuff a lot, and if it’s not logical, if it doesn’t stand up to scrutiny, then i don’t use it as an excuse. in the moment, i can fool not only myself, but my old girlfriend, my partner, my mom, my old therapist, my new therapist, etc. it’s really frustrating to realize that, while i do definitely want to feel better and do the work that will make me more healthy, i also will, every single time, do my best to sabotage myself and keep from facing the things i most need to confront, and i won’t even necessarily realize i’m doing it. (because, real talk, i do know when i’m doing it sometimes, especially by now.) it’s what made my previous therapist want to help me find someone new because she thinks she can’t help me and what makes my current therapist ask me if i really want to change and what makes me afraid that i’ll never change and i’ll never feel any better.

+++

my previous therapist was really smart, though, and she did figure out what i really didn’t want to talk about. one day, she wanted to stop what were talking about and address something that she had been wanting to address but wasn’t sure i was ready to talk about. she said she was going to ask me a question, and i could take as long as i needed to answer. there was a little over twenty minutes left in the session, so there was no rush. so she asked her question. i couldn’t answer, and i just sat there staring at the floor. she said it was okay, i should take my time. after about seven minutes (i know it was about seven minutes because i kept looking at the clock), she asked me to just describe how the question made me feel. i could not make words come out of my mouth. it was like i wanted to talk, and i was even thinking of words and my mouth was even hanging slightly open, but on the way out the words crashed into a wall. my hands went numb, followed by my arms and face; it was my first panic attack. (my skill at avoidance had always kept me out of situations that would have caused panic attacks in the past.) i bent my feet inwards, lining the soles of my shoes up perfectly over and over. we sat like that for the whole rest of the session. later, when i had calmed down, i wondered what that twenty minutes had been like for her. she did her best to assure me that it was okay. she said that my reaction made her even more sure that we needed to talk about this issue, but that she would give me some time before she tried to address it again. fortunately (and unfortunately, i guess), she never did bring it back up. my current therapist hasn’t figured it out yet. or maybe she has, and she wants to wait until she thinks i’m ready to bring it up.

*i did finally do it, but it took literally years longer than it should have. and while this was maybe (maybe) the most notable single example, she had to put up with this same shit every time there was a situation that called for me to act like a functioning, like, adult human person.

thursday is my totally off day this semester. i spent the entire day in the house, hanging out with parrots and cats.

i got two new pairs of shoes yesterday, and one new pair last week. i wore them all today, changing into a new pair of socks for each one.

i skimmed Kafka’s Diaries (assigned for class) and made some minor edits to the two large blog posts i made yesterday, because they were made without any proofreading or revising. it’s possible they’ll be edited more. i also wrote a couple pages for an essay i’m working on, but they weren’t good and i deleted them.

i made vegan chili from a can.

while i was gone at school, like seven packages arrived for me. most, i think, are books that i ordered for school. three of them were gifts (birthday and belated xmas*), including one that included two of the pairs of shoes. i opened the gifts yesterday (so that i could thank the people who sent them), and another one today (shaving supplies), but i’m leaving the others to open tomorrow, and maybe days after that. i enjoy the anticipation, and unless there’s a need to have something right now, i like to wait.

my third pair of shoes for the day is pinching my toes right now. but they’re also the best looking out of the three. i’m not sure which of those considerations is more important to me. probably appearance.

i was going to the bathroom earlier today, and one of the cats kept putting her hand underneath the door, palm up, feeling around and yowling from the other side. no one else was home, so i leaned over and opened the door. she poked her head in, looked around, made eye contact with me, and walked away.

*i actually received the belated xmas gift a few weeks ago, but the sender said she was sending a note that explained the gift, so i decided to wait for the explanation before opening the gift. the note is what arrived earlier this week. it was worth the wait.