Don't go down that YouTube rabbit hole.

This was the annual fall picnic that my friends and I went on:)

I am in a mood to write. Funny. It comes in waves but it usually comes when I feel the most forlorn. So now you know.

I have too many things to say. But also no desire to say them to ‘the void of the internet’ so tonight, I will keep things brief. I know people look at my blog (thank you), but I don't know who is looking. So today, for this post, if you are my family member, fuck off. This one is not for you.

The other night, when I was working on mending a quilt, I was watching YouTube. Classic. Hella music videos, some video essays, the works. One girl was talking about why femcels (female involuntary celibates) suck and like, sure. Maybe they do, but also maybe I am one? But undateable, not unfuckable. I do love Fiona Apple, Mitski, Lana del Rey, Fleabag, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, Girl Interrupted, 500 days of Summer, etc. so the rumors might be true. Apparently, my pop culture favorites mean I might be a shitty person. I romanticize the mentally ill and I hate men and I like only the most girly things. Sue me.

My personal take: it brings me comfort to know that I'm not the only broken girl out there.

After watching this video essay, I started looking into movie characters that have the same mental illnesses as me (since the previous video had trashed a few of my favorite characters). Suddenly I was watching real life interviews of people that have the same problems as me. And they were like all sex workers. So, then, I ended up on the doctor/therapist side of things. And that was deeply disheartening. Some specialists were compassionate but many did not offer much hope. And the comments beneath each video were brutal.

I wrote this poem today and it is very raw, very unedited, needs way more imagery, way less pondering. But I can edit another day. I am not deeply suicidal, I just need to get this off my chest. So please don't come for me. XoXo.

_

Forgive Me in Advance

(this is not a suicide note)

I dream of packing things into boxes,

and killing myself neatly.

A bottle of pills,

a note directing authorities to my corpse.

I want to be cremated

thus, a funeral feels foolish to prepare.

I list the pros: debt cancelation, no more pain,

no more fighting to feel the right emotions.

The cons: my friends would be sad,

and people might read my journals.

It’s not an active wish.

Sometimes, I just never want to wake up.

Like today:

I missed work again,

asleep at 2pm with a dead phone

blood-stained shark boxers

and a messy messy bob.

YouTube doctors explain

why girls like me

are so hard to love.

Comments issue warning flares:

“Do not date girls like this…”

“Run far away - seriously !!”

“It’s not even worth the sex.”

I want to hold my heart in my hands and look at it.

Black and juicy and lopsided.

Aching and oozing and crying:

Don’t go.

I’ll tell you that I’m hard to love.

I am angry,

suicidal,

jealous,

toxic.

But I’m trying,

I go to therapy.

I even journal.

No one wants to be the crazy ex-girlfriend

Not even me.

I wish I loved like a bell curve

A soft rise, a soft fall,

Mostly medium.

Instead of good great fun sex magic.

My fear of being alone leads to manipulation:

Please stay,

Just go.

But don’t.

If you go,

I go.

At least let me leave you first,

let me protect you from the hell of loving me.

I am scared of being loved.

But I am terrified that I never will be.

Not the way I need.

Because I don’t crave a stable love.

I crave passion:

all of you, all of me.

Ugly insides

Pretty outsides

Broken in the middle.

I am at a loss.

Because I don’t just want to be lovable,

I need to be.

I don’t dream of solitude and journaling.

I know I have to fix my feelings first,

become less broken, less volatile.

But then, love.

I am trying to change my toxic traits.

I won’t ruin someone’s life. I can’t.

It can’t be the way my life was at first.

Silence then yelling, hot then cold.

The essays I wrote apologizing.

The slut shaming of a virgin teen.

I love you but I don’t like you.

I know it is hard to love me.

I know I cannot become my mother.

But I am exhausted

trying to prevent the inevitable.

So please, forgive me in advance

when I falter.

I promise I'll try again tomorrow.

-

Yours Truly,

Macy