The Truth Seeker Diaries
Blatant Honesty for an Uncertain World
A New York City foray into the unsettled mind of one cognizant, creative, and highly sensitive 27 year-old woman.
The events and ideas expressed here are true and unaltered (except where information is enclosed within [brackets] for clarity). Only names have been [slightly] changed to protect the guilty.
Wednesday December 26, 2001
It’s as though there was no Christmas. One day, people are smiling at eachother and friendlily greeting, “Merry Christmas,” and the next, holiday candy is half off and the fir tree adrenaline has worn thin. I sent out letters to a bunch of people this year. A “yearly tradition,” I said in one e-mail, “this is the first annual.” These were paper letters, mind you. A whole sheet of Lucy stamps’ worth, and then some. It’s funny how easy it was to get in touch with long lost friends. I’m still missing a few: Tim, Boogy...
People are signing across from me. Some people they know just stepped on the train. I love signing. Totally silent communication. It’s wonderful.
Semira and I went to see The Royal Tenenbaums tonight. Afterwards we ate at Chevy’s. Don’t do that again. Geez. Food wasn’t that great–esp. for the price. No soul in there. We took pictures at the theater–the little sticker pictures. I love them. I should go and do a whole series of different ones of myself.
Tomorrow I have a temp job. It’s 1:15am and I’m still in the train. Whatever. The whole Brooklyn thing’ll be over soon, and I should take advantage.
I had a date with Porter H. last Saturday.
December 20, 2001 Thursday
Temping has made me realize a few things–the biggest being that I’m more screwed up than I thought I was.
My organizational skills are for shit. I’m so easily overwhelmed. It’d be so easy to say, “take a pill–this calms anxieties,” but a) would it even work, b) would it target what I need and not more, c) does it really solve the problem? What’s the problem? Or is it a panacea...
I can’t wait for other people to discover how great I am. I have to prove it–No, I have to SELL it. I got to feeling really down for a second. My mom didn’t give me anything to build a confident, successful person on. She didn’t even give me organizational skills. People skills, how to function in society. How to get ahead. She never instilled any of that in me. How easy it would be if it was just a matter of doing well in school. That was something concrete. That was something substantial. I got grades, direct feedback. Praise.
The people at this place give me so much praise and thanks–I almost started crying yesterday when I got a box of chocolates from the staffing manager as an Xmas gift. I couldn’t believe it. I saw this woman with a big paper shopping bag, giving out gold foil wrapped boxes to people in the company. I looked away, pretended to be busy, not wanting to seem too inquisitive.
Old men in the train made me teary-eyed. They remind me of my G-pa.
Aaahh, I hate this. Die die die. Worthless piece of nothing Die.
And even if I get a lame job, what would be the point? Did I have no motivation in college? What did I think? Geez to go back and do it over.
What would have happened had I not met Shamwell? I was planning on taking the GRE while I was there.
I tired. Almost fell asleep on the train.
December 18, 2001
I have to manage my time better. Today, I had a temp assignment through Suzanne Staffing, of all places. 2-6pm. Registered for improv class today and didn't get into Delaney's Sun. 12-3 with Sarisha, Walt, Hedda, & Linda, but have Sat. 3-6.
This man across from me is such an anomoly--decked out in this cowboy hat with feathers, a leopard pattern, and a tiger's eye stone. A sheepskin jacket w/ fringe and indian embroidery, and all this sterling and turquoise
December 11, 2001 Tuesday 3am
Riding home in the train. Spent a few hours at EasyEverything [internet café]. That place should be called SleazyWebpeeping. Easy’s Not my Thing.
Been thinking a lot about my value as a human being. Really, I’m not doing anything in New York. There’s no point to my being here. But then there’s no point to my being anywhere, really.
A lot of those P[roduction] A[ssistant] jobs are internships. No pay. But for a couple of days per week it’s worth it—you hold another job waiting tables or something.
3:45am. Still on the train. Not a great time to be on the train. Not many people. Not many trains.
I’m braindead. Tummy feels funny. Tired. Watching the stops go by. Just want to be home.
Tomorrow I do that dreaded scene again. What can make me be more in the scene? Maybe if I see him, react, then call him. “You look good” is planned. It’s a lie. It’s an alternate reality, where she lives.
December 11—really 12, 1:45am
I’m 27 years old. I’ve accomplished nothing. I want to go. I want to die. I want it to end. Stop the train. I could slide off the face of the earth and no one would know or care. If I could talk to Shamwell... I want it to be over. Just end.
I’m so burning inside. I’m so alone. So dead. So dead. Just be over. Be over. I can’t even do my fucking laundry without walking hands-full-of-it through Harlem. I wanted someone to latch on to, and for a bit I wanted it to be Jarod. I can’t even call anyone like this—not Stefan not anyone, because oh, what a bore I’d be. I have no desire to do anything but eat and sleep. My function on the planet is questionable.
I got a response to a p/t internship—one of the guys said after looking at my res —I’ve been in the work force almost 10 years —am I sure I want to take a job for no pay?
Fuck I can’t just start all over in something else —I mean —I decided on Production and that’s what I want. What else can I do? Sales? Ick.
Even then, I don’t know I’d be the best salesperson. There is that though, I suppose. Make your 100K and invest. Don’t work for five years. Or three. Whatever. You’d have to stick it out for a whole year though.
I’m fucking freezing my hands off. I need to find those gloves.
I invited Ea to come for New Year’s. He briefly considered it then declined, to be with his dad.
I’ve been waiting at the subway for at least 20 minutes now.
I could make a movie. Enroll in the Film Cert. Program at Brooklyn College. Learn how. Problem is there, they make you take all these history and Social Impact classes before you can actually learn how to produce. They also have a radio & tv program. I could get a second BA with 11 classes. That would take a couple years.
Is it even worth it? Why get two Bas when I could get an MFA? You need all these Pre-Req’s, though. Then there’s back to Santa Cruz for History of Consciousness . What do people do with a Hist. Of Consciousness degree? If I throw myself in front of a train, would it hurt before I died? Damn, I should have become a call-girl when I could have. At least I’d have money. Now I’m old and fat and couldn’t get the job if I wanted it.
I need someone. I need someone to tell me I’m beautiful and special and smart and talented.
With the characters in this car, I’d almost rather be coming home at 4am.
If I made my own movie, what would it be about? Redemption? A social outcast. Smart, creative —but something inside her craves recognition. She’s not. Recognized. No matter how hard she tries, she’s invisible —worse: she’s dumped on. Doormat. She’s not unattractive. Not drop-dead gorgeous, either. But everyone and everything seem to make her feel inferior. Less-than. She knows it’s not right to feel that. She’s deeply committed to social issues and ethics. She has strong opinions but can’t watch current affairs because she’s too sensitive. They destroy here. She’s not up on her current affairs. Less topics of conversation, apparently. What does she want out of life? Desperately, more than anything else, she wants to be appreciated for her talents, her creativity. She had enormous potential, but it was lost, squandered. No one appreciated her. She lost the desire to create —if no on else can appreciate it, then what’s the point? As she stopped creating, people —anyone who had faith, including family members —lost it. People lost faith in her. She lost faith in herself. She felt useless, superfluous. She lost the will to live. If she could only please someone, her life would gain a modicum of meaning. If she could only make things better than they are.
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