all dolled up to compete

Friday, February 23, 1996
8:55am, train

It’s the morning again, and I’m late again and high.

I was just saying to Ted on the platform, I hate women. Who? he said. The woman in the tight clothes with the lunchbox. All women. I hate having to get all dolled up to compete.

Going over the bridge with the gray mist, all humid, cotton, it feels like spring again today. Things aren’t so bad. Ted, Ted, Ted. Overdose on Ted. Why does Judith want me to stay with him? It will be nice to take a weekend together. I’ll have to be writing a poem a day. Why do I never meet my own deadlines?

Of course I feel disappointed about the column rejection. Too literary. People read the paper while standing on line. In the future, I should submit to Ian first so he can proof/NYPress-ify whatever. But, wait. That’s what I want to write. I don’t want to modify it. Maybe I do? Obviously bears further thought.

Also got mad at Ron for saying it’s not up to me to do a comedy/cabaret mailer. He just feels threatened by my commitment and energy.

Reading over some old notebooks last night. Funny how detached I felt from the anguished entries of April and May, not even horrified. One thing I’m happy about is they sound strong. I hate the parts that are explain-y and weak. Parts of them are really fierce and angry, and now that I’m more accepting of that anger, it’s easier to feel.

Also, I seemed to know then that I would be okay, better without Jackson. So much rage and fury against one person, so focused. It was very smart and therapeutic for me to write all that down. I didn’t know what I felt until then. God, it was so clear.

I really can’t stand my mother. It will help to talk about it more with Judith. I could go three times a week and only talk about how mad I am. Then, after six months, I could go back to two times a week, then one. It’s pretty intensive work, this healing stuff. I find myself in the midst of it all the time.

Feel somewhat ambivalent about Ted. Sometimes he annoys me, which I’m sure he knows. Do I annoy him? What’s really going on? I can handle anything as long as I know it.

Heading down to Hil’s after work. She says she’s getting used to the idea that she and J are not together. The difference isn’t logistic or apparent, really. He still doesn’t call. She’s just not waiting for it anymore.

I wish I were calmer. I wish I were closer with Ted. I wish I could be attracted to people without it feeling dangerous. I wish I had more friends. I wish I wasn’t always so logy. I wish I didn’t feel so angry, alienated and disgusted with people. I wish I wouldn’t always find ways to remind myself of what hurts.

I wish I didn’t feel corny. I wish I loved myself more. I wish it were easier to keep my thumb out of my mouth. I wish my mom was sane or would get sane. I wish I didn’t feel so responsible for things that aren’t my responsibility. I wish I knew and understood myself better. I wish I hadn’t gone so long without real help.

I wish I would forgive myself. I wish I would love myself truly. I wish I would truly love and forgive myself. I will.

Monday, February 26, 1996
8:30, train

Dear me, this morning is calm and warm. I’m wearing my tight ass skirt and bare legs and feeling great. I don’t like the new poem much, but maybe it just needs work. I hear a lot of Jackson and Ava’s voices in it. Okay, so maybe I shouldn’t do Dial-A-Poem.

I can talk about it all with Judith, how unreal Ted and I are with each other, how nervous it makes us when he first walks in and he needs stuff to say. Do wonder how often he is thinking of Lauren, when he spaces way out. I don’t get anywhere with him. We are bored just updating each other, Here’s what happened today. Here’s what’s happening tomorrow. Did I tell you Thursday after work, I’ve got to…

Asked him if he felt a lack in his spiritual life. He says he ignores it, doesn’t think about it. I feel a lack. Often I don’t appreciate the basic things, the taste of food, the trees, the love I have with my cats. Too busy punishing myself for nothing.

God, I need new clothes. I can’t keep dressing like I want sexual attention.

Lee Frank, my comedy teacher, was encouraging in his own back-handed, grouchy way. Told me I should be doing open mics and I should go over to the Comic Strip. Somebody asked, what’s that? And he said, That’s for her.
He asked me, why aren’t you doing open mics? Because I’ve been afraid of sucking. I want to debut and be great. I know it doesn’t happen that way, so I’m going on Monday. Also, I have an aversion to the stage right now, a million excuses. I’ll just do it.

Why did I go to dinner after rather than go home and work last night? I’m not terribly interested in either Eric or Steve from class, and I don’t want to lead anyone on, but my excuse sounded fake to me and I was hungry.

Speaking of excuses, I have to talk to my mom today and get together with her tomorrow. It will be fine, and by fine I mean I’ll swallow all of how I feel and deal with it when not in her presence. I’ve been afraid to write a book that would make her look bad.

I don’t think I’ll redo the piece, I’ll try writing something else. Oh, my hand hurts, and everything’s gray. I’m yawning, but I didn’t get high, so I feel all right.

Didn’t want to be as angry as I was last night during sex. No condoms, so I couldn’t get what I wanted. His nails are too long, and the finger technique was off. Basically felt overall dissatisfaction.

This is the only time I have to be by myself and write. I guess I feel relieved. We’re at Grand Street. I never watch the news. No idea what I should be upset about or feel guilty for in Bosnia.