This journal is six years old today.
It has been many, many things... A school project (any number of times), a sort of love letter (to any of a number of individuals), a suicide note, a gripe-fest, a bedtime story, a history...
For much of its existence, it has been fairly sad. I chose to associate with the wrong people. I chose to love the wrong people. I let people betray me, and then, in misguided attempts at vengeance, I betrayed other people. I allowed my life to be crappy and then I used the early years of Wet Cleanup in the Produce Section to vent the frustrations I'd brought upon myself. Some of you were there to coddle me and comfort me, and I thank you for your efforts, despite the fact that I should have made better decisions and my problems were mainly my own fault.
For much of the past two or three years, excluding the past eight or nine months, I have spent my time trying to be somebody I'm not. I convinced myself I'd be happy in a static life so long as I had books and letters and good conversations to distract me. I believed that love could be "built," and "worked on," and "fixed up," and then made to stay. This, in fact, was an insult not only to love -- real love, which simply is or is not -- but to myself and to the love of my life, whom the universe saw fit to put back in my life, although I'm only beginning to feel worthy of that. Not only did I spend a lot of time acting like a complete jackass in order to fulfill my stupid desire to be this... well, this awful person... But it kind of ruined Wet Cleanup for awhile, especilly during the long, long months of one or two entries... The silences kept me from remembering who I was -- it would have been too painful.
For awhile, silence was also my safety. A girl stole my shirt one time and when I complained that I was cranky and wanted my damned shirt back, I got tossed onto my bed and beat up in such a way that you'd never see the marks. I learned what not to say. And when I wasn't sure, I still said nothing.
For a long time, I chose rotten family members. The kind who are in it for themselves. I have given far too many second chances to far too many people.
In the past six years of Wet Cleanup in the Produce Section, there have been glimmers of truth. In certain entries, it was possible, to see the kind of person I am. In many of them, it was only possible to see Helena Thomas mourning for the person she wanted to be. In some entries, the world looked bleak and dull. No matter what I was perceiving at the time, this wasn't true. The world is messy and complicated, but it isn't bleak or dull, and it never really was.
Most of the time now, I know better.
Some of you have been wonderful to me. Most of you, actually. You've given me book recommendations, congratulations, good counsel. You've emailed me quotes, stories, website addresses, advice, questions (as though I were some guru of the mountaintop or something...), recipes, pictures... You've called me or offered your phone number. One of you sent me a letter in a fat yellow envelope along with four little rubber policeman, which I promptly arranged so that they're all shooting at each other. Two of you sent me books. You all told me how to get into college and offered suggestions on where to go. You've made me mix-CDs and offered me room and board. You've stood by me through two stalkers, a bunch of shitty boyfriends, a huge load of shitty room-mates, crises of faith, crises of sexuality, crises that had no basis in reality... You've offered to host my website and sent me a bag of coffee in the mail. You have been family to me when I had begun to forget what that meant. For these things, I have no way of thanking you enough. Know that I am grateful beyond words.
And then there are the few of you who decide you have to spoil it for the others...
Those of you who report the goings-on of my life back to my father because you're so shocked and scandalized that his daughter's a lesbian (I am?). Those of you who followed me online until you had enough information to follow me in real life, call my mother at four in the morning, and accost me on my way home from class. Those of you who sent me nasty emails when I wouldn't go to coffee with you at some predetermined time you'd arranged, or when I neglected to call you, or when I wouldn't fuck you, or when I was homeless and couldn't exactly provide you with a couch to sleep on when you came to visit Seattle. Those of you who used my words against me to sabotage my friendships, to gather legal evidence, and to act like complete assholes.
And then there have been those of you who just read this old thing because I've stopped speaking to you and you want "the dish." Those people, specifically, are my father, and Jake. My father, who didn't know whose "side" to take -- mine or the Jensens' -- when their son beat me up and his mother threw me out, emails me every now and again when he sees something he doesn't like on this website. This last time, he was begging for my address and phone number, and strongly suggesting that if I didn't give it to him, he'd bully my other relatives until THEY gave it to him. This is the man who believed I was a heroin junkie and a prostitute and told my brothers as much. This is the man who has been spying on me and asking relatives and friends about me for years, trying to gather evidence of my unruliness and general bad-daughter-ness. And Jake -- who emails me every now and again, either with an accusation or an apology, or some strange mixture of both. From everything I've ever known about him, all I can really say is that Jake is fucked in the head. The asshole who beat me up and told me I deserved it, the piece of garbage who freaked out every time I held a conversation with a person of the male persuasion, the monster who said he'd kill my daughter... He now keeps up with my life via Wet Cleanup and emails me to let me know what he's been reading. Even the "nice" emails bother me. I know that, with Jake, "nice" only lasts as long as his mood, which doesn't generally last more than a few days.
These entries have never been addressed to those people. These entries have been MINE, and just because you can read them doesn't mean you own them. Or that you own me. Or that I have any interest in having anything to do with you.
As a matter of fact, I want nothing to do with several of the readers of this site -- mostly especially my father and Jake. I deserve better than being treated like property -- or like someone who will "have to" forgive at their insistence. There have been FAR too many second chances. I've tried explaining, I've tried pleading, I've tried ignoring, and now I'm going to try disappearing.
There are other reasons for my disappearance.
I'm leaving this area and want to make a relatively clean break with it. Washington loved me until it realized I was broke, and then it began pummeling me. My Washington friends were friends until they forgot me, which was approximately ten minutes after I was out of sight. Washingtonians are fickle -- they really are. They forget, in the wintertime, how beautiful the summers are. They forget what they've been saying all along, and when they need to contradict themselves, they do, and with no qualms. I have made a few friends in Washington -- real ones -- but for the most part, they've graduated and moved away. A few of them were told by Jake what a cunt I am, believed it, and are no longer considered friends.
I will miss certain things. Salmon jerky. Juliana. Taking the bus to Westlake Center in Seattle and bounding into Neil's arms. The sunset and Mount Rainier from my old rooftop. A couple of my professors. The Econolodge in Olympia.
But this Washington thing is over.
It was fun -- mostly -- while it lasted.
Seven years ago today, Neil left town. He didn't say goodbye.
Six years ago today, I began this journal in a Santa Fe dorm room, depressed and mopey and chain-smoking bad cigarettes.
Five years ago, I lived with Peter and was miserable.
Four years ago, I lived with Norman and was learning not to be so miserable. I was sort of succeeding.
Three years ago, I lived in Washington and was acting like a slut.
Two years ago, I had just gotten out of the hospital from having nearly hemorrhaged to death. They also euthanized Dolly the sheep that day. It was three and a half weeks after my baby had died.
One year ago, my then-boyfriend was bragging to his friends about how he didn't have to "get" me anything for Valentine's Day -- we didn't have "that kind" of a relationship. He went out to Denny's with his friends and I stayed home and wrote, because my real relationship was with the man in my book who had otherwise mostly disappeared from my life six years earlier.
It's about fucking time all this gloomy shit came to an end.
I stood on the porch last night, a few minutes after midnight, and listened to the trees.
They said: "Helena, you're poor and you hate your town and your daughter's neck smells like cheese reagrdless of how often you bathe her. Also, your life is fucking wonderful and you ought to live it with great, great joy."
So I came into the house and kissed Neil. And hugged Bean, who does indeed smell like cheese most of the time.
Tonight, if the universe sees fit -- and I sincerely hope it does -- I will marry my beloved Neil.
That means today is my last day as Helena Thomas. Tomorrow, I will have a different name. It will be the same life, mostly. I will be me, and I will spend the greater portion of my time and energy marvelling at the general coolness of the world, and adoring Neil and Bean.
But it will also be different, because there will be no entry here. And there won't be one a week from now, either. I'll leave the archives (what remains of them) up for awhile. But I've got other stuff to do. You know?
I'm not saying goodbye to all of you -- just to this website.
Love,
~Helena Thomas*
parlorcitycommonsrat@hotmail.com
PS -- You ever try to find a person in New Orleans? Sheee-it...