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shifting between realities

Posted by crazysanegirl , 19 November 2005 · 32 views


I saw Mrs. E. yesterday and told her about the blog. She’s my psychoanalyst. I’ve been seeing her for the last 7 years.

I like to imagine Mrs. E. affectionately calls me her project. I know she screwed up the analysis by caring, by making me her project to save. Lost her neutrality. I know.

Maybe if I put it in words there I’ll be able to tell you, that’s why I’m doing it, I said. She thought the idea was interesting.

Yesterday we talked a lot about the words I used the day before in this blog.

I desperately need to write more.

C. is a name I invented many years ago to work as an escort.
Men love C.
They want to see her again and again.
Because she’s good in bed,
because she gives them way more than they paid for,
because she lives more off the ecstasy she sees in their eyes when she gives it to them than the money they pay her.

C. lives off praise?

I don’t want her skewed perceptions to influence mine anymore. I don’t want her to take over anymore. I don’t want her control anymore.

Taking control. Trying to finish R. off. R. stopped her, not me. R., if he was a client, would be the kind that would pay for the talk. R. is a beautiful soul that makes mine resonate.

R. made me realize, without him knowing. This girl I invented, C., she’s always there, in the beds of clients and boyfriend. I wasn’t so sure of this just two weeks ago. He doesn’t know that he might be the catalyst that could propel wellness at last in me. I wish you knew R.

Trusting and respecting R. were not enough to fix whatever it is I must fix.

C. lives off praise. I never thought of that until I wrote it. I’m thinking now that I’ve never gotten praise in my life. Except from professors. But I never believe them.

Please let it be true that my brain is the efficient thinking tool Dr. K. claims it is. He proposed himself my masters advisor. I never asked him anything. Please let it be true that he saw in me is real. Please let it be that I really am smart and so I can use my brain to solve this.

Thesis: I will learn things I do not understand about myself through writing.
Argument 1: because as I write, I am mapping things out. Making sense thus of the story.
Argument 2: because I can’t censor myself if I write it as it comes.

I’ve always censored my own thoughts. I always turn off the pictures, movies. I don’t want to remember them. I inevitably use this censor in psychoanalysis.

It’s my 29th birthday. A few weeks before I start hanging out with R, mid October. I’ve decided to kill myself. Birthday was a coincidence. The pusher guy was cute and he proposed to help me. Well, he didn’t know he was making that proposition. Lets just hang out together and be depressed, he said. Mend our wounds, sure. We had wine, did drugs, fell deeper as expected. Pusher guy tried to impress me by showing me the lots and lots of money he makes selling the drugs he'd been selling me since I decided to become a drug addict the week before. I laughed in my head. Dear pusher guy I wanted to say, I’ve made more in a day. That flat screen tv, that nice penthouse apartment, that vintage bottle you bought to impress me, it’s all just illusion.

Parenthesis not in parenthesis. My ‘existential crisis’ comes as a result of a confusion between illusion and reality. Not knowing which is which. Illusion and reality in media, in government, in religion, everywhere in the world. Obsession. So many political theory books and ancient and contemporary literature I’ve read. But seed of that obsession most likely sown outside school. Childhood. Confusion that results when things cease being as they seem. Parenthesis over.

It’s 4 am. My best friend sends me off with pusher guy because she’s tired and doing more drugs would give her wrinkles. She tells me that beauty sleep is more important once you’ve hit 30. A minute later time disappeared.

I’m at his place. We try to mend our wounds together. I propose: Let’s play.

I told Mrs. E. C. is the one that likes to play. Men described her eyes as playful on escort review boards.

I’m the one that talks about wars.

He said: Sure.

So I started to play C.'s game. I said I’d only do it 5 minutes and then we’d have to stop because I was trying to fix something. Irony in retrospect. A pusher to fix me. I remember those 5 minutes clearly: Playing whore. His ecstasy. His hand clutching my hair. My ecstasy as he begged ‘don’t stop’ and I did. Thrill of control.

I remember taking on the role of the escort those 5 minutes and him liking that a lot. I don’t remember much of the in between. Start and stop again, again. I don’t know how long it lasted. Cocaine, E and speed. You don’t remember things. I remember never doing so many drugs in my life. But I was killing myself anyway so might as well enjoy a last trip.

Then he didn’t stop when I said so. I lost control of the game and that’s the other picture aside from the first 5 minutes that I remember really vividly. I remember it as if I’m looking at the scene from above. Myself, on the floor face down, him, over me, and feeling like the blood suddenly evacuated my body. Numb. Gone. No more C. anymore. I thanked him when I left.

I told Mrs. E. that I think C. is there to protect me from dying.

I don’t know why I didn’t kill myself. My best friend killed me. Pusher guy killed me.

Perhaps no one has killed my will yet.

Dear R.,

I will say some things but don't reply to them.

Mementos. Emails.

A memento for you: I am very dizzy with all sorts of feelings and I will push you away because I don't understand feelings and they scare me. I'd like you to not let me. I'd like you to lead more. In this virtual world I can tell you I'll follow because I trust you.

Wine talking. When wine is talking I'm less concerned with maintaining an image.

Memento: I miss you already. We’re always together. I’m never able to be with anyone. If you let me run I will run. I wish you didn't let me.

Missing you makes me dizzy. What I don't understand does that to me. Dizzy or scared. Speaking to you last night made me dizzy.

I don't understand how you could possibly need me.
I don't understand why you care.
I don't understand anything about feelings. So I turn away, pretend I didn't hear it because it doesn't make sense. I wanted to tell you to come last night when you said you needed it but I wasn't able to because I didn't understand how you could need. How can I make you feel better? How can I do anything good for you? How can you like spending hours and hours with me? I don’t get things like that.

I was running when I said it was already 11. Too late to come over.

I'm afraid of doing to you what I always do. Losing you because reality confuses me and I don't know which reality to believe between the one you represent or the one I know better because I went to a school that didn’t teach the language of feelings.

If you leave it to me I won't know you long.

Memento: I'm at a breaking point. You can help me understand by staying there. You don't need to ask questions. Just be there.

Memento: I care immensely for you and it scares me.

Mementos are what I give you when I can not speak. I will pretend I never wrote them.


I’m 29 and 2 days. I'm back to see pusher guy at the spot where he makes his lots and lots of money selling his poison because I want to believe he's a good guy. I say hi. He says hi. I say I came to tell him something.

Me: 'Did you realize that when you didn't stop I wasn't there anymore.'

Him (still drugged out): 'But it was a good lay wasn’t it?'

C. dehumanizes men so they can't dehumanize me.

July 2016


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