bourgeois of me to react so violently
Saturday, February 17, 1996
sometime, somewhere
So, I’m here in this house in Upstate New York with like twelve to fifteen other people, the majority of whom I don’t know. The room we were going to sleep in is infested with ladybugs, which was great, so long as it was light. But when they started landing on me in the dark, I got squeamish as hell. Was told by Ted’s friend Rich it was bourgeois of me to react so violently to bugs.
Where the hell am I? I have nothing in common with these people, or at least not enough right away. I’m not dying of social discomfort but I wouldn’t have minded skipping this whole journey, which I indicated pretty specifically before we left but still agreed to come.
Great I just shit up the bathroom and somebody went in right after me. I’m back in the ladybug room and they’re hella zealous. When they open their wings to fly they don’t seem to go very far. They more sort of hop and cling. When they fold their wings, their wings are temporarily longer than their bodies. There’s a bunch on the windows and ceiling.
I was feeling annoyed last night and secretly wanted to drive back to Brooklyn rather than stay, but eventually fell asleep and forgot to be mad. Now I feel mellow. So what if I’m in a house full of strangers and ladybugs? I could use some more sleep, remarkably. Didn’t smoke much yesterday because I didn’t have much.
Even though I agree more with my shrink, I still feel kind of “eh” about her right now. Obviously, I have to sort out my sex life with Ted or I will be way too tempted to cheat. But I wanted to say to her, You don’t understand, I was never serious about him to begin with. He was somebody to spend time with to help me forget about Jackson. I often wonder if he spends as much idle thought on Lauren as I spend on Jackson, and what would it matter?
Almost felt like crying last night reading that Cosmo guide to what men want. Seems so unfair and awful that they lust after other women, that nobody’s love is complete. I feel a little crowded by Ted sometimes, like when he doesn’t know what to do, he wants to kiss and paw me.
Next weekend I’ll start going through these books. I’m worried about having enough poems for Dial-A-Poem. Maybe I should back out. Who cares? Am I killing my career? I don’t need St. Marks or Dial-A-Poem or any of it. I need to write some books.
Yesterday I kept remembering many writers’ advice. You can’t be in a relationship and write. It’s not ridiculous and stoic, it’s a fact. I need more space.
The sky is out, the sun is blue, I have my night eye on you. I left my little girl in a supermarket, knowing she’d be better off with whoever shopped her. There’s a city full of angry drivers.
I needed more love and affection and attention directed to me, I needed to know that I was cared about and important. I needed the sense that I was wanted and cared for because I was all the good things I still am. I didn’t get it and I still need it.
In my house we never had enough drama, there always had to be as much bullshit as possible. We loved to have huge scenes and make shitty decisions that obviously sucked and be in hysterics often.
Writing these pages has shown me I can commit to something and enjoy doing it. Not do it because I’ll feel bad if I don’t but because I’ll feel good when I do. It’s shown me that I can be honest with myself, that I can change.
I’m taking a greater interest in the future and what I really want to do in the way of writing, performing, career, skills I want to have. I believe I’m getting better about being honest about what I want. I believe I’m getting better about not getting ridiculously worked up and over emotional when there’s no need. I’m starting to pay more attention to my surroundings, other people’s conversations, the rest of the world outside me.
My self-care is the most important thing to me. It excludes other people, which it doesn’t have to do. My self-care can include Ted. My self-care is suspicious. My self-care is greedy for myself and my time and attention. I do not want my self-care to be at odds with my relationship with Ted. I’m sure there’s a way to work it out.