jaxx

Idek 😸

[didactic-katydid]

Persian Rug by Jacqueline G.

When I take a hit of the joint I let the smoke sit in my throat for a while. The burn feels good, but when I breathe out, I begin to cough,

🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

[didactic-katydid]

6/9

I've been slowly coming down from the emotional and ocd-induced high that's been plaguing me these past couple of weeks. I can finally eat now, keep down solids. Everything and everyone has been pushing me to write and I feel like I should listen to that. Mom's back in hospital-- "Morale is very low." is what I texted HIM. Yes we (I) can demonize him all we (I) want, but he softens the weight of this heavy time. On Saturday, I'm having lunch with his student teacher from this year. I know he'll come up in conversation and I hope I'll be able to be normal about it. The sadness, grief, and anger I feel towards my mother's decline in health can turn ugly so fast. Makes me understand why people feel hate, but I'm trying so hard to be peaceful-- fill up my days with people and things I love. I swim like a fish, I binge-watch a show he likes, I facetime my roommates and get my birth chart read by them. To me, college is the biggest reward. So I spend my days day dreaming about my classes and studying in that hall with the stain-glass ceiling-- or napping in the chairs of the English department's building like the poet did (if you're reading this you'll be getting an email in the next few days). Tuesdays and Thursdays I have a two hour creative writing class. I could ruminate about wanting to be liked, but I'm going to allow myself to write Whatever I want in that class, because while I might be weak or feeble, the spirit of the story isn't.

[didactic-katydid]

rereading lolita for the AP Lit exam. preparing for mental warfare.

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6/22

I'm in a kicking and screaming mood. I wish that something would stick or land. I want to be good (good writer, good girl, good whatever) but all that comes out is ugly because I feel so ugly inside. I don't know how to ask for help so instead I make these stupid gestures to signal that I'm floundering. The writing is going terribly and I'm so sick of waiting. It's been a while since I've been this discouraged and I wish I could comeback to this space and type the most beautiful things-- to prove that i'm smart and worth reading and "one of you," but I guess I'm not. All that comes out are whines or sighs. I'm scared and alone and wish I had a sense of community-- like I'm doing things right but I feel like I keep failing. That tiny choked up voice in my head squeaks "Maybe there aren't any outlets anymore." I can't even be wistful anymore. I go days upon days without writing because I think, what's the point? I'm not an artist, I'm an idiot. I'm just upset and angry and I want my mom.

[didactic-katydid]

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and yes i lose my mind when he leaves me on read, why am i acting my age 😞

[didactic-katydid]

5/24

I truly can't take it anymore, the whole not writing here. I wish I could say I've been doing good, but everything has been a mess. Day of graduation mom broke a bone-- me climbing into the ambulence with my heels telling her it's okay, that all I'm doing is walking across a stage and picking up a piece of paper. Crying isn't enough, nothing is. I feel so aimless-- walking around my room talking to no one because I can't sit with the silence. Sit with the fact that my future and what's been going on at home is uncertain-- so instead I doomscroll for an hour or too and then turn over and sleep for five. There's so many things I should be doing-- should be reading and writing, but I think that's something I tell myself to feel bad and I already feel bad. The distance between moving in for college is far enough that I feel loser-ish, now that I've graduated, I've never felt this boring before. I go to work and then to my empty, mom-less house. I've started the summer in muck, and I'm too defeated to get myself out just yet-- but I have to, I have to. Don't even know what I can or can't say about the teacher. It's a lock so tight I can't even open it for my friends because they would lose their minds. Out of jealousy or pure concern I don't know, because he's never been this attentive with anyone. My friend saying "He's never engaged with my posts, but the only post he liked was this photo of you?" But I'm so consumed by it-- dizzy and happy when he messaged me after I'd spend the past four days lamenting, scribbling in my journal about how much I missed him. But it makes me feel insane, to think that he thinks of me as much as I think of him. Like the texts I get of him prophesying over me. Telling me what he thinks college will be like for me, what I’ll accomplish, the professors— how they’ll eat me up. And for how dangerous it is, I love having him this close, a text away. With every buzz or notification get I hope that it's him, and I feel disgusting for feeling that way-- eats and eats at me.

[didactic-katydid]

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graduation eve, i repeat, graduation eve

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only four days out of school and we're already dming

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photo dump bc i’m feeling angsty

1. the doom generation (1995), 2. Apollo, 3. me at late night cast dinner, 4. view from the bridge i cross on my way to work, 5. detail from a story i’ve been working on showing up to say hi, 6. do i have to say anything? :’)

[didactic-katydid]

not posting prom dress this year because i gained weight and im so upset how my body has betrayed me.

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Got to the apple scene today-- my nose all runny. The memory of being seven and having my bruises look at by the shadow. In the margins I write, "I've known so many Hum's." I'm reminded of that time a distant mutual wrote in the hidden space that when she first read Lolita, she felt like Humbert, and I stopped dead in my tracks because that's exactly how I felt in 8th grade. That the weight of being a "nymphet" is just as heavy as being a Hum. Oh how you have to cringe and hide! That like Hum, I documented everything in a little notebook or google doc that I'd guard with my life, because no one could know just how "bad" I was-- that when men leered, I felt special, daydreaming about their features that confused, scared, and interested me. In the apple scene, he's so proud because he was able to indulge without corrupting Lo, and it makes me feel the same sort of nausea I felt in that summer, in the kingdom by the sea. At sixteen asking the 48-year-old if he felt bad for our relationship, and he said no, because we were only talking and there's nothing wrong with talking. When I was in contact with him, I was so sick-- I couldn't look anybody in the eyes. If I remember correctly, I swam at a friend’s house, which made me think of him, and I later vomited until I was sore-- lying on the couch, friend's mom asking if I needed to go to the hospital. My stomach fluttered because I was flattered but also so coldly nervous with shivers. While the Humberts of the world might think the child is so unaware, they know-- the hair on their legs stands up, their tummies flutter, they spend their summer shivering. But then again, you frequently read that Hum also experienced these tremors, and it shows that these things-- the emotions of the man and the girl cross over. Though I argue that it's learned, that we mimic the men who've hurt us because sometimes hurt was never the intention-- you loved him, and love sticks just as much as the hurt.

[didactic-katydid]

Annotations from today.

[didactic-katydid]

3/26

Just finished phantom. Tornado's everywhere, like Dorthy. Running from my friend's car into the house out of breath and cold from the rain. Thinking about how when he took that picture with me, my fingers were against his ribs, so small and fragile. Both of us smiling and sweaty-- me apologizing and him saying he's sweating from nerves. And I was so unbelievably giddy and he kept calling me adorable the next day. We could hear the thunder over the movie and I said something like "this is what the phantom would want." I can't tell you how much of myself is in that movie. How as a kid I used to pretend to be asleep in the car-- that way when I got home, I could be carried into bed like christine was-- the dusting of the ballet slippers, the phantom folding the ring in christine's hand. Even the way I sing stems from this. The details are dizzy and makes me feel like joan of arc, but it's so clear to me now. What makes a wolf in sheep's clothing is it's softness. That even when you see the IT-- the HIM, either in wolf or sheep disguise, you want to touch it, even if it growls because you notice it doesn't growl for you. Infact, it wines and you feel so much pity that your tears just fall and unbeknownst to you the sheep/wolf licks them up. Whenever you cry you feed the beast. With the girl I've made up in my head I've had a disconnect between who HE is to HER and now it's laughable-- "If pride will let her return to me, her teacher. Her teacher" Me sinking into my seat hoping no one dares to look at me, to take a breath. Now with musical over I wish for my heart to be a sheela na gig-- that I can strech it open and let all the good and creative in. I've missed this space.