Wednesday, August 08, 2007

Becoming intense, becoming animal

sometimes things get so shit that all you can do is steal chapter titles from Deleuze and Guattari.

things are so shit that I've forgotten how to talk. almost. I managed a couple of tear sodden phone calls and booked a doctors appointment - but mostly I've been hibernating. subsisting off chocolate, codeine, wasabi peas. trips next door to empty bladder and refill water bottle.

no this isn't a plea for phone calls, offers of events or distractions. And please no phone calls. Please! No more demands of 'how are you?'

I'm shithouse.
I'm heartbroken
I wish I'd never met abel. I wish I could erase her memory. I wish that by burning her photographs, letters, and any objects I could find that reminded me of her that I could have burnt 9 years of love, of attachment, of fantasy, of desire.

I wish I could burn, or bleed or vomit or breathe or shit out my feelings, this horrible feeling of being kicked in the guts, of having some kind of spike lodged in my thorax.

and people don't seem to be able to help me at all. The sounds of people, of masticating, rummaging - these little human sounds, echo like chainsaws inside... scrape along my skin. Each touch - each offer of touch feels like a blow.

I would really like to run very far away from this.

After 5 hours in shittyrail purgatory yesterday (don't ask - it was a failed attempt at escape) i retreated to my doona and whatever atavistic dysfunctional coping mechanisms I could summon. Eating disorders, pill popping, novel reading, thumbsucking, compulsive masturbating....

I don't know where to go from here
I don't know where to escape to.
I don't know what to do
I don't know who to.... I don't know what to say

Alcohol doesn't work, most hugs feel like a vacuum pump applied to my soul. the thought of fucking makes me want to vomit, I'm frightened of words, of voices, of my own words, of other words, I don't want to hear anyone, anything, anymore.

I assume this will pass eventually.

When I was in London I was having a great chat with an old friend about heartbreak, and we were quoting bits of A Thousands Plateaus to each other, and I thought "What kind of nutter reads Deleuze and Guattari as Self help?"

A desperate one obviously.

Ok. somewhere deep down - I can regard this as not *me* and not happening to *me* so much as a condition of sheer total hell whih is completely consuming and overwhelming, but temporary.

at the moment i'm experiencing an intensity, some form of acute pain and misery... but not all of me is experiencing it even - I mean I don't have haemmorhoids or cancer or even thrush... just a broken heart and a migraine.

and even the migraine seems to be wearing off...

2 weeks ago - i staggered into uni in a similar state of stricken emotional meltdown - and someone gave a lovely talk on derrida's ideas on the animal, on hospitality, on admitting the unknown, and possibly fatal, and the knife edge of risking complete annhilation, of losing the self, and of (de)fin(d)ing the self in the act of self defence.....

that to open up to becoming, to the other, to face the other, means to face monstrosity - the sheer terror of being taken and transformed and lost within a new encounter, and new becoming - and in using academic jargon this already sounds like a like a cliche doesn't it?

I was terrified of Abel when we first met, terrified of my desire and what it would do to me. With good reason I might add. Bioboy breakups never did never could come anywhere near this level of total fucking hell. Bioboys usually don't have me singing arias after sex though. And now - the thought of fucking most of my bioboy exes makes me laugh.... 'you call that sex? that's not even touching the sides!' Queer sex isn't just about size, or duration or gymnastics. Queer sex doesn't fill the box so much as smash it apart. In fucking women I've lost my head, lost my centre and felt like we were reinventing the world.

ADD tends to make me an optimist. I just don't have the attention span to be depressed for long periods of time - and I do believe deep down in my own capacity for surprise - for the world to be bigger and stranger and better than my understanding of it at any particular time.

but sometimes I just don't think I have the courage to face it. to get out of bed, to look past my own prejudices and habits and safety nets. To move beyond my old reflexes of caring, of being nice and open and listening to others instead of myself. Of letting others words fill me until I'm choking on my own silence. And so often I do find myself letting others words fill me until I'm choking on my own silence.

so i retreat. to my own space of dumbness. hollow silent hell. familiar pain. unspeakable tedium of sameness. My own monotony, my own script. My own smell makes me sick, each cell disgusts me. I lie still and I breathe.


Carolyn said...

you are brave, grief is hard, this will pass

Carolyn said...

P.S. You've inspired me to re-visit Deleuze and Guattari, especially since after twenty years I'm still having trouble avoiding 'the binge'