I have a beautiful apartment. I can see the Puget Sound. I have a new grey carpet and the ability to climb up to the rooftop and look out at Mount Rainier. It's the sort of apartment I fantasize about showing my mother... I can imagine myself driving her into Olympia at night so she couldn't see anything. I imagine driving her up West Bay Drive at night to look at the city lights on the water. I imagine that, the next morning, I'd take her up on the roof, tell her to close her eyes, and take a deep breath, and then: surprise, mom! that's the volcano in my backyard.
Douglass says he's lived in Washington so long he's "forgotten that Rainier is anything special." How the fuck can you forget that? It's a fucken VOLCANO. It's also, like, a ridiculuous number (14,000?) of feet high or so and pretty much rises straight up from sea level. And yeah, yeah, it's no big deal, it's been there for as long as anybody remembers, but you must understand: I'm the kind of person who gets excited about good coffee, pretty dishes, and trashy old European cars. Naturally, having a volcano in my backyard (and a very PRETTY volcano at that) is appealing. My mom would understand; she's easily amused too. I want my mom to come visit me. I want to show her the view from my rooftop.
*sigh*
I love my apartment. It's the sort of apartment I always wanted to have when I first came to the understanding that I COULD have an apartment of my own someday. It reminds me of David's old place, nicknamed "The Annex" for its habit of sheltering runaways. I do not intend to shelter any runaways at my new place. I do, however, intend to spend long hours by the windows, staring out at my beautiful city in the sunshine. My apartment makes me feel very safe, and very peaceful, just like The Annex did.
I like being surrounded by my things. I have a lot of good things.
Ohhhhh cripes, Helena, what are you going on about?
I haven't been very happy lately.
It's true: I love my apartment, and I love being so close to downtown, and I am madly, passionately in love with the way the little blonde kid at Otto's makes an americano. I love Olympia. I like working on the various projects I've been working on. I am secure in the knowledge that if anything is ever, ever wrong in my life, I have acquaintances -- friendly acquaintances -- to help me through it if I needed help.
But I haven't been very happy lately.
Went to a grad student function with Jürgen last night. Everything was fine until they all decided to go out for beers at the Fishbowl, a downtown brewpub. I wanted to disappear into the floor. I was the ONLY one there who hadn't been in the program, and Jürgen, who had begged me to come along, and begged me to stay, was busy conversing with his classmates. Now, I've gotten used to being the youngest one at a bar-table. (Well, almost...) I've gotten used to being left out of conversations. I've gotten used to hanging around with people whom I have little-to-nothing in common with. But this was just awful. Always, before, I've been able to order an orange juice, or a rum-and-coke, and sip very slowly whilst chain-smoking and listening quietly. And there's always been a jukebox with Pearl Jam on it, just in case. Not only was I the youngest person in the bar, I was the only person who hadn't been in the program. Not only THAT, but I was the only SOBER person in the bar. Not only THAT, but I was evidently the only smoker, and at the Fishbowl, (which, I'm sorry, is mother-fucken pretentious, as bars go...), smokers get sent outside to stare at the street and watch the train-tracks go by. I don't like the Fishbowl. I wanted a rum-and-coke to make the Fishbowl disappear, but the Fishbowl doesn't serve rum-and-cokes. Also, they don't have a jukebox. They were playing Dave Matthews Band very softly from the kitchen, while the grad students got drunk and ignored me.
If ONLY I'd continued carrying that big red-handled screwdriver in my bookbag. I could have used it to pry up some of the floorboards, and then dig a hole for myself to dive into. I really should get back into the habit of carrying a screwdriver around.
Jürgen begged me not to leave.
"I just want to go home. I'm just not very comfortable here."
I've said similar things a million times before. The best response is: "Well, I was about ready to go anyway; do you want some company?" The secondbest response is: "Okay, will I see you later?" Ranking VERY LOW on the list is: "Ohhh no, I've made you miserable. Well, I don't want to be here if YOU don't want to be here. I'll give away that beer I just ordered so I can come home with you."
That's very low on the list, indeed.
Stupid fucking mindgames. I feel like everything going on around me is some kind of stupid mindgame. If I don't say the right words, I end up feeling guilty. If I don't say anything at all, I end up feeling guilty. Hell, if I say exactly what I'm supposed to say, I end up feeling guilty. I just feel lousy. Everything's a fucking mindgame, and I DON'T WANT TO PLAY.
I have a nice apartment.
I wish I was in it now.
I'm not.
I'm sitting at Jürgen's computer, typing away. I'm here because he was tired as all hell and swore he couldn't sleep if I wasn't in his apartment. Silly, huh? Why do his sleeping habits depend on my whereabouts? But if I went back to my nice safe apartment, I'd feel guilty.
...I feel guilty anyway...
If I wasn't in the best place in the whole wide world, I swear to gahd I'd run away.
Maybe I will run away to Seattle for the weekend with Louise.
Maybe I will go downtown and find some random stranger with a car and say, "hey, I know a place with a cherry pie that'll kill you... I'll buy if you drive..."
I'm so tired. I'm not feeling well. I'm so fucking sick of taking care of Jürgen. I just can't do this anymore.
I want to go to my apartment and hide.
~Helena*
"Why can't we be who we want to be; we want to be free...." --graffito at The Evergreen State College, Oly, WA.