Christ, my mother is Queen of Making Birthdays Bummers.
She said the other day, "Do you want me to make you a cake for your birthday?
Or do you want to go to Death By Chocolate?"
I said I'd like a cake, and can you make it on the day after my birthday?
I like to capitolize on birthdays. Drag them out as long as I can.
Sure, she says.
I think it wuz my sixteenth birthday that she did this as well.
"You wanted a cake?"
"I guess I wuz hoping for one, yeah."
"Fine," bitter, defeated.
And I went off to my room and came down a few hours later and we sat there like a fucking funeral luncheon, not speaking, just staring blankly at our plates as we somberly ate the damn cake. How pathetic.
No cake for Chaara this year.
I become what I'm called. I act the way I'm treated. I am a child.
Got a nice message from Nadya last night. Thank you to Nadya for that. I'm in breakdown mode. "jackie's strength" in the background and Nadya telling me she's glad I'm alive... I needed to hear that. I really don't hear things like that anywhere anymore. I'm more than glad she's alive. I don't know why I'd bother at all if I didn't have her around. Then why can't I bring myself to call her, see her?
I don't know if I'm avoiding people cuz I'm miserable, or I'm miserable cuz I'm avoiding people.
I'm such a whiny little depressive these days. I need to migrate somewhere. Someone please do a statistics check, I am sure this damn wet rainy grey oppressive weathered coast must have the highest suicide rate in the world. Surely it must. This is unbearable. Whoever deemed this here spance of land habitable no doubt retired to California on the profits...
Sleep, and take long baths. Sleep as long as possible. Run yourself hot baths, and stay in them till you're soggy to the soul and the water's gone lukewarm. Sleep late. Later still. Don't look out the windows, it's not pretty out there. Looks like a planet too far from the sun. Never been dry. Never been warm. Never seen true light. The dead end of the galaxy. And within that, a sleepy hollow of the suburbs. But completely unromantic. And no intrigue. Just wet rotting wood everywhere. Evergreens. And rain rain rain rain. Constant fucking rain. Stay inside. Stay in the bath tub. Make the transition from bath to bed and bed back to bath as quickly as possible. Dry land? Warmth?
It's so wet and gross that obviously the heaters are on. And they're drying out my skin. I feel like an inhabitant of one of those nuclear towns, where everyone looks similar to one another in this weird, deranged way, that only outsiders can see. "Um... Are you from that... town? The one built on that old nuclear plant?"
"Yeah I am, how'd you know?"
I can see it in your (heavy, blank) eyes.
We've never seen any place else, so we wouldn't know there is a better place. We live our whole lives a shadow below the rest of the world cuz we're sure there must be a better place, but we can't prove it. So we keep our heads down and think "the rain will stop the rain will stop the rain will stop" and it never does.
"Is that all there is?"
"Oh God, why am I here?"
I'm wishing I had this PC back online. I'll do that. Got to hook her up. Make some calls.
"I ride to work in the morning... wondering why."
One of the kids I look after wuz having a pissy day and wuz all moody at the rest of us for it.
She hadn't cleaned up her mess from baking in the kitchen so I went to her bedroom door, to nag her.
The first time trying to get her to come out and clean up, I open her door and she's curled up on her bed, with only the little light on her sea monkey jar on. Dim as a single candle.
The second try, I walk in and, she is sitting crosslegged on the floor, still in the relative dark, in front of an open box of felt pens, just sitting there looking at the felts. And I couldn't believe that I wuz at her door harassing her to come clean up her mess. Am I not looking at myself? I feel like such a trator.
I am so miserable, being around these kids is bad for all of us.
I am petulant beyond all belief. And they will likely recall Chaara as the Nanny From Hell who made their lives miserable for the year or two before she fell off the edge of the Earth forever. (Good riddance.)
And in the daily small talk that ensues between their mother and I as she writes out a cheque to me I couldn't feign the upbeat attitude I usually maintain in those painful minutes. I wuz stammering incoherence in what vague attempts I did make. Just let me go. Hand Chaara cheque, watch her walk out door. Bye bye. Please.
"Are you tired Chaara?" (uh oh, I've been caught.)
"Yeah I am."
(I take care of your children, for a tiny fraction of the time that you take care of them.
Do I have the right to call a day of that, a long day?)
"I think it's the... weather," I say.
"Yeah, it is hard to get past that. I think we should migrate South for this season."
"Yes, abandon this place, and go somewhere warm." I'm edging out the door... She's kind. I like her. But I don't want to talk to her. I don't think I ever do. I feel bad about that, cuz she's a really nice woman. Maybe that's why I don't want to talk to her.
I'm sure that when I leave Marianne will come out of her sulking reverie and blame her bad day on me. And I actually worry about that. Like I'll get in "trouble". What is this fucking sentence I am living in?
"Chaara. Marianne says she had to wait in the rain for you to pick her up from school."
"Yeah? That's probably because it wuz raining out."
"She said she had to wait for a while."
"That would likely be because the morale on the S.S. Chaara is dangerously low. Her crew is keeping her moored longer than the rest of the ships in this harbour at the begining of her days."
"Here we go again..."
I remember one school I went to, I would be very late if I showed up at all. (And I didn't show up that often. I'd literally go weeks without going to school. I hated that fucking school.) Anyways, the little slips we had to fill out explaining why we were late were usually filled with elaborate and creative excuses involving a fabulous array of fiction and non-fiction stories. Long, desperate, steadfast.
When I filled out mine it wuz usually with a simple; "missed bus", or "slept in". Honest, to the point.
One day even those minimilist explanations seemed exagerrated. So I just wrote, "No motivation."
It wuz well received, actually.
The teachers there liked me. Probably because I rarely spoke. Due to previous experiences that said the consequences of my speaking were threats of violence directed toward me. Needless to say, I had no friends, or even friendly acquantances, during my full fucking year there.
The principal would come to me after a bout of my 'absenteeism', all politician-like smiles, and say "What would you say if I told you I could kick you out of this school?" (sounded too good to be true) Soft private laugh, and I keep writing.
"Threats don't work on you do they?"
I would hardly have called that a threat. More like an empty promise. (you'd kick me out? Really?)
I remember a freaky breakdown (one of many that I had in schools) where I ended up in the principal's office sobbing hysterically, begging him to get me out of that school.
Where did that come from? Why the urge, the need to delve into more of these whiny school tales? Why can I not live now? Why do I feel like a "special episode" of myself? The writers can't think up anything new for me so I am in rerun pergatory. The irritating flashback episode, where we all sit around the living room with open photo albums and depress eachother with longwinded tales of scenes we have already seen, and didn't like the first time around.
"doesn't take much to rip us into pieces..."
I fucking hate birthdays. I'm young yet aren't I? Fuck. "Feeling old by twenty one..." -T There wuz a girl I knew who wuz a Jehova's Witness. Everytime a birthday comes around I think of her. If you don't celebrate your birthday, ever, there is nothing to get all disappointed about. This is too stupid. Don't I do this every damn year? This outward aloofness about my coming birthday, because secretly I'm sure there are other people who care about me enough to make some gesture of love wash into me on the day.
"And I hate, and I hate, and I hate -------elevator music, The way we fight. The way I'm left here, silent."
"Freedom is wasted on me."