That's it. It's my turn.
I know this feeling. It's an anxiety attack. Like the one in CEGEP when I found out that I was pregnant, that no one believed me (not even the guy), that it was going to die anyway, and I still had four midterms to do in two days, two club constitutions to rewrite, gay pride week to help organize, and an appartment to find to run away from home once and for all.
I want to quit. Yup. It's my turn.
I haven't wanted to quit since the first time, when in the midst of a PMS attack in sixth grade, someone called me a quitter, and spat the words with an undertone that shifted something in my unstable little head.
I want to quit. Quit this project and quit my friends, and quit going out and quit staying in and quit this headache and quit thinking and quit breathing and quit cooking and eating as the nausea wells in the pit of my stomach.
I want to quit myself, the horrible thing inside my head that allows me to scream vitriol at a world in which I saw the most moving opera of my life last night, in which I found myself crying to Tchaikovsky's Path�thique without having noticed the first tears run along my chin. I want to quit this pressure I put on myself to be better than something I don't understand, always trying to hard until I become trying even to myself. A loser in my own eyes, just for wanting.
I want to quit bars, where trussed up after the opera in long asymmetrical skirt and d�collet� and pearl cloud around my throat, no one dared approach me, not even Guillaume, not his sarcastic "I'm better than you bitch for not wanting to date me" friend, where Helene hugged me to her immense breasts and all I felt was irritation.
I want to quit writing, I want to quit e-mail, so demanding sometimes, so many expectations from everywhere. I want to quit my friends, my acquaintances, everyone who sees that you give and immediately decides I WANT.
I want to forget orgasms and never yearn for another one. I want to quit believing in people, here in this moment, this pit outside time and reality where all that strength pushed out of me suddenly costs, and every ounce is left a gaping hole in my gut.
Alone. Afraid. Weak. Inadequate. Unable to push these thoughts from my head the way I have a thousand times before. I know this feeling. I know it isn't real. I know it is transient and hormonal and chemical based and that I should be able to see through it.
But it hurts. It's the sleepless night last night and then going out drinking and stumbling from exhaustion, not cider, to the car and not sleeping the next night anyway. It's the thousand little errands, expense reports for work and banking and paying off getting my door fixed and groceries and laundry and bathing. It's the duty I feel to go OUTSIDE, to glory in this city, and the disappointment in myself that I need to push myself to do it. I want to quit singing lessons, despite the progress I've made past a point I thought was impossible. I'm afraid of losing Maja and embarassing myself in front of a new teacher. I'm afraid of so many little things, of dinner with the cousins on Sunday. Of the tattoo salon on Sunday afternoon, that it looks like Corinne is standing me up for. It's the people that I never get around to telling that I miss. Hating myself for leaving, hating myself for never having been around even while I was there. Nothing that makes any sense, but somehow it all translates illogically into pressure. Too much pressure.
It's the look on their faces when they saw me approach, resentment, pushing me away because I had left.
I don't know if I'm talking about last night or the last ten years of running away.
I fell asleep at dinnertime and slept two fitful hours. Nightmares, I was in Limoges only it was deserted, only it was right beside Montreal only my father was after me, wanted to kill me this time, not just smack around, Steven was the clarinet player in the symphony last night only when the soprano hit that impossible note the grand opera ceiling collapsed and crushed him, the single most good hearted person that I have ever known.
I want to quit feeling, quit breathing, quit speaking, quit hoping, quit expecting.
Chocolate isn't helping. I couldn't masturbate myself to afterglow if I tried.
And it will pass. It always does. I ate dinner anyway, my stomach lurching. I will sleep soon, and my stomach will settle and my body will recuperate and I will feel incredibly stupid in the morning.
I just needed to write this out. I needed to loose a little of the desperation into words, needed to let my heart cry tears that my body has no strength for right now.
I'm sorry. I'll be the monstre you want in the morning. Right now I'm nobody.