m never showing anyone my body again. not until my surgery. i want this surgery. i need this surgery so bad. i feel as if i am prisoner to greif but prisoner to my body. i want my new body. i must be patient i’m thinking about hurting myself tonight. it’s consuming my every thought. if i have the awareness of it, i have the power to do nothing. to do something else. my therapist told me i have sex because its another way 2 scar myself. mister man says we are the same, and he doesn’t even know me. that makes me angry. i feel like the most angry girl in the world. i want to scream fuck you a thousand times, and break mirrors by eating them. the only way we mite be the same is in the way that we are not. we are absolutely not the same. i feel exhausted at living. i miss my mom, my best friend. i think everything felt like enough, i felt like enough, because 4 her i was enough. and this is coming up year too with her gone which im told is ‘the hardest year’ maybes it’s because it’s the holidays. maybe it is because i am alone. im not going to hurt myself anymore. I slept from 1 am-1 pm. I’m talking to you on my phone. I feel kinda sad. But I won’t internalize. For some reason, this man I exposed myself to is eating away at my security. I need to knock it the fuck off. In the grand scheme of things, he’s a nice, gentle man who has done absolutely nothing wrong; my insecurities are working against me. I’m saying this not to remind myself, no, but to tell myself the truth. Maybe it’s because I haven’t exposed myself sexually in a year (January) and I really don’t wanna have sex ever ever ever ever ever again. I want to be engulfed, but I’m sick of feeling like I’m being taken advantage of, used, even if I’m not. I’m thinking about Adam. I’m thinking about how his being older made me so comfortable. I’m thinking about how effortless, how good I felt when talking to him. I keep thinking about his nose. I keep thinking about him asking me to go to a Christmas party with him, to fictionalize our interactions for the entertainment of his co-workers. I keep thinking. I keep thinking of the endearing qualities of Adam; his pace and vocal point. He told me he’d be back to see me. I really hope that’s true. Maybe this is just a symptom of having no friends, being in complete isolation for so long; I look at people as if they are life rafts. Take me in, I’m soaking wet and cold, and I need a meal and to be dried off. I’m starting Sunday again. I reset today. Start Sunday again. therapy is making me realize a lot. look at something for too long and it can start to grow mold. i recently had sex with a man. it has brought up stirrings inside my brain, a word bomb has went off. i’m analyzing it too much, subconscious dependence on a filter through someone else. at the time; this time i would ask if he felt similar. snd he did and i got a point. i just want to keep collecting more points; beating loosing and winning at the same time. alan watts told me that the past and future doesn’t really tangentiably exist so therefore they are concepts and if they’re concepts then, indee. wait maybe ive been doing coding the wrong way this whole time. wait maybeand maybe talking to you is the one way i can find meaning through this rite now. i have no idea where im going, where I feel weird. I have shifted to where indeed I am talking to you, talking to you here. I feel insecure, looking for validation, (rereading this i can’t help but think it is the validation of my mother) but I am also very secure in the fact that I have no reason to be insecure. I will tell myself I am hot shit, and shower with gratitude. Karly asked me to come to the smoke sesh next time I’m working, but I need to be able to control myself to be able to enjoy the accompanied high. Maybe I’ll do coke and go dancing. No, I must stay on track. It’s crazy how less and less control I have the more I indulge in these habits. If I drink, Im gonna want to have more sex. The more sex, the more I cut myself. Right now, I would be stuffed over a night of snuggling and talking versus a night of…fucking? I don’t really like saying this. I mean I do but it makes me uncomfortable, which is more of a reason I want to do it. I want to be vulerable. I want to be able to trust a man with my heart. I really want a man to be able to see my existance outside of the bedroom. I want him to obsess over me like a best friend, what I call a life partner. That is what I want to fill me up. Good sex, cumming, all of that can be extra…for now. I don’t’ know if there is longevity in the lifestyle i have curated? of course not. i need to get sober. i need to stop cutting myself. i need to eat when im hungry, and drink more water. i need to be mindful, and i need to be in the best possible position in life because i really do want these surgies i want this next chapter of my life. by 25 ill say, by 25. im gonna smoke all of my weed and go to fucking bed. Hi papa. It’s 130am, and I can’t sleep because I fell asleep at what felt like 730pm. If this is true, that means I was sleeping for six hours. I popped two progesterone because I forgot 2 take one last night. Maybe it’ll knock me unconscious. I crave smoke. Good news, my doctor replied, telling me that my medication is back in stock. mmm mm I will call later today. Get my motherfucking order in. I haven’t felt 100% these past few days. Nothing specific happened; it just feels like I’m holding space with a very big cloud that could rain at any time. It refuses to. I work at 10, but I don’t work the full day, as I’m off at 3. All I can think about is being high. I am strong in the self-fulfilling pact; I won’t be cutting myself when inside this room. I’ll paint. I want a friend. I want to feel secure. I don’t want to wake up ‘alone’. I dropped my classes this semester. I keep savoring this action; my brain struggles to compute and categorize this action in the definition of who I am. Allow me to define myself solely by this and this alone. Am I a piece of shit? This Is A Feeling, Not A State Of Being. I keep asking why. Why, why, why? I don’t know why. All I know is I just don’t have the drive. The motivation. I lost it in my mom’s death. When my mom died, a part of me died too. I’ve been struggling to revive her. I feel burnt out. The things that make me happy are in the mundane bliss of a day. a hug, a kiss, a good meal, a long conversation. Not in the hustle of an idea of happiness. I need it now or I think I might die. I’m probably going to take another gap year. I’m probably going to move back to New Jersey. I don’t care about anything but everything at the same time. I feel as if I am the force of action; being the one that eats while also being the one who is eaten. The snake swallowed its own tail. Right now i dont have the answers and I think the only way to get the fuck over it, is to be okay with the unknown. I’ll give it to the gods, walk away, and trust. I woke up (for the second time) in a bad mood. I know I have the power to control, to redirect my thoughts, but I woke up with a thousand memories and thoughts of my 5-year-old self. When you don’t know where you’re going, you tend to wake up feeling lost. And then when you feel lost, you think about the path before. What led me to this exact moment? Am I headed in the right direction? Maybe that answer will only come to me the day before I die. Diving in the past has redeemed itself only as productive in the pursuit of shedding a subconscious shackle. Again, in pursuit of some sort of freedom, you have to go back to that place. Looking at the shackle directly in the eyes. I’m going to continue to accept and digest. Yes, there is discovery in the morning; a deep need to be everything for everyone, or maybe just one person. I can’t even do everything for myself. The inevitability of life is that you need and are needed. I’m high at work, but it’s a very calm and untrafficked morning (I don’t think that’s a word). I work with Chris today, and I feel open to the idea of not being alone while at work. I’m so fucking melancholy, and I need to knock it off. When I get home, I’ll clean and clean and clean and watch a movie. Maybe I’ll stay up and talk to you. Save me from boredom. I feel like an expired baby. I definitely feel more in control of where I want to go, even though I don’t know where I’m going. Little sips. I cleaned and got rid of so much. I feel lighter. I feel a sense of openness. I am a glassy lake, you bitch. All this new space!!! What can I fill it with?! I used to feel like a dopamine-cracked kid, obsessed with quantity. I have everything I need and then some. I have also let go of a lot. I think of myself in the past (including an hour ago)- having the thought that in order to act/move on, life has to look or feel a certain way. That isn’t the case. There is more in accepting the past, the mistakes made, while simultaneously finding the worth in the mistakes you made. Yeah, I did this and that, but I’m choosing not to define myself by those mistakes. Going against my brain. The grain. I keep thinking there is value in everything. But some things are just some things. I need to be more objective as I’m learning to accept more. Also, when I think about what I want, I really still don’t know. I know I want a sense of belonging. I don’t know in what physical way that can manifest, but I just want to feel a sense of moving forward, over which I am in the utmost control. I just can’t annoy myself. I love my boss. I love my face. I love my brother. I love my sister. I love my dad. I love my mom. I love my peach-flavored kefir. I love deep-dish pizza. I love Nina Simone. I love tapping my feet really hard. I love my body. I love my butt. I love my hands and my feet. I love the different seasons. I love people who are not afraid to make me uncomfortable. I love the color orange. I love eggplant rollatini. I love my soft curves. I love my big eyes. I love beards. I love it when people are publicly affectionate. I love loafers and chunky socks. I love boredom. I love white walls. I love the beach when it’s cold. I love. Okay, so I’m working at the bookstore today. And I really do love it. It makes me think of my old job. I get paid to read. I’m hoping to finish Harriet Tubman Live In Concert by this weekend. I wish there were a real-life resurrection. Does that mean my mom could come back alive? Sobriety eats my ass terribly; when I’m sober, it feels like I can’t help, even on a subconscious level, think about my mom. When she was alive, I mean, I checked in with her over everything. She’s so special to me. The most special. So today, as I sit in this wooden chair listening to Nick Drake as come and go families get their coffee and books, I can’t help but acknowledge feeling like there is a part of myself that is missing. But I must remember, I’ll always have my mom, always. The feeling can only be described as if I were an almost empty carton of ice cream, my insides being scraped by a silver spoon. Am I to be eaten? This is the feeling I get before I cut myself. I won’t cut myself because I’m 19 days clean and I want to keep that streak going. But my god, it’s heavy in my body today. I’ll stomp my feet hard on the floor instead. I’m almost finished with Harriet Tubman Live In Concert. I might start Grief is For People. It will be my second time reading it, so hopefully, it is a gentle reminder that I do indeed need to stop being so hard on Mattea. It’s also by one of my favorite essayists, so it will be a yummy and stimulating devour. For this idea that you may need to get over yourself, I am in thought, actively getting over myself. I think I just need to remind her that I am indeed special. I feel like a Quaker. I felt better this morning and was definitely not as anxious. My yummy medication is getting delivered to the pharmacy today, so I’ll just have to pick it up after work. I am going to have surgery because I don’t like feeling this dependency on a superficial medication (I’m grateful for yummy medication) that fear overwhelmed me. I don’t really give a shit what anyone has to say; I don’t want to feel as if my body is working against me. I’ve worked so hard to be the woman of my dreams (at least in this moment), so I don’t think so, but I know so; this will be a level up for Mattea. Sex will feel better. I can wear cute panties. I feel a sense of freedom at the idea. But this body feels like a shackled room more and more; I am not at home. I need to prioritize this surgery, with the utmost hope that everything will feel better without the subconscious fear consuming my mind. Tomorrow I’m at the record shop, so I’ll most likely reach out to doctors tomorrow, where I am a dormant accessory behind a counter. I miss my other boss. His energy itself feels safe to be around. Two days ago, I got paid to read; because it ‘looks good for the store’ I told my manager ‘say less’ - I’m so tired. I’ve worked seven days in a row, and tomorrow will be day eight. My paycheck will be happy. And I don’t have to extend myself (though it’s not hard work), so I really don’t have a platform to complain from. Let’s destroy this soapbox. This is also my second day of sobriety, so I’m really focused on the issues eating away at me rather than numbing myself to any ideas. I’m closing my mouth and dabbing away the drool. I’ll keep praying. Hi daddy. I don’t know what to really fill you in on, as not much has happened. I got home from work yesterday at 6, ate a single chicken finger, relapsed, and cried blood from my arms and passed out for 12 hours. Work was so good; I wasn’t alone, I had Scott, and I genuinely can say I’m grateful for his presence, as it grounded me in the latter half of the shift. He told me if I ever needed anything, to text him. So that felt like a win. He’s 25 years older than me, and truthfully love it when he talks about his family. It fills me up. Makes me feel a sense of family, something I don’t think I have ever felt. I’m envious. His age gives him experience, and I want him to read aloud his story like a book. I don’t know if that’s a good or bad thing. His wife also drinks Kiefer. I don’t know why I am including this; maybe for the inclusion, the note of being similar to the one he loves most. But it instantly made me think of my mother. I miss my mom so much. Thanksgiving is her favorite holiday. She prioritized gratitude in Padre Pio. Today’s Monday, so I got paid, I got my yummy medication, and hopefully get referrals from my endo. I’m trying not to beat myself up over the fact of my withdrawal this semester, but truthfully, my priorities have changed, and that’s okay. I have to, just trust the timing of everything, like that, seriously, is the only option. That or wallow in self-pity, pity, and ah, I am done doing that. Being sober for the past three days has allowed me to really think about the things that make me uncomfortable, specifically, the grief of my mother. I can’t take the guilt out on my body, but more on my actions. Action as in ascension. I’m lovable be she loves me. I feel ready to make moves, even though I don’t know what move to necessarily make, and I’m comfortable with that. I’m going to be okay with being patient. I’m comfortable with not knowing, as I am releasing expectation. Be present, Mattea. It’s 4 am, and I can’t fall back asleep. I think it mite be because of the twelve hours the night before. Actually, maybe it doesn’t work like that. I work at 10; there’s a part of me that wonders if I should walk this morning. The sun’s not out yet, so I won’t decide until I can see her. It’s 4 am, and I can’t fall back asleep. My mind feels as if sitting in a cup of hot water. I feel as if there is no pressure in this world; a much-needed softening. I’m going to be alone at work. That’s okay, I’ll use the solitude to my advantage; start another book and aimlessly research. I’ll think about Scott as I drink my Kiefer. CC texted me about the schedule for December; my second job is starting to feel more real. I must hold gratitude in the reminder of these two opportunities I have. For the first time since my mom’s passing, I am actually thinking and planning for my future. I’d like to save more than I spend. I feel the need to preserve and maintain. Independence is the only way to make me feel secure. I will release expectations while I figure out what I want. I don’t know really what else to update you on. I’m still at work, and I have an hour to go. I’m getting enchalidas with my sister after work; I am very eager. I did not, in fact, read any of One Hundred Years of Solitude, maybe 5 pages that I will reread. I spent the whole shift getting health insurance, talking to doctors, playing Supertramp, and coding this fucking website - which, like I’m so shocked I figured out. like so shocked. mmmmm what else. I don’t really know what else. I wanna start writing, but I don’t know what. I just have to start. And that is it. My mind feels empty. I was once friends with a 50-year-old woman named Willow who took an Italian class with me. She passed, I failed. We don’t text or talk anymore, but the last conversation we ever had, she told me I’m too young to be too jaded. But maybe she wasn’t jaded enough. Jade jaded jade. Is it better to be too much or not enough? Who are we basing this standard on? Or are these all stupid ideas and constructs; she doesn’t know my full story, more so, has an image of myself, the idea of who I am. I felt like I was talking to a man. The inevitability of being both too much and too little is that of a rounded life, no? I know I can be too much, but I also know I can be too little, and sometimes I can be just enough. It just depends on who my audience is. I should text her happy Thanksgiving. I did more than I bargained for. I know I spelled that wrong. I fell asleep at what felt like 930pm. I did more than I bargained for, so of course I passed out early. The two couples of the evening were able to watch, but I did more than I bargained for and passed out too early. I had fun by the fire. I just know I completely lost my filter, and maybe I sounded bad. But for the first time, I won’t try to digest my own perception. I was what I was, and I’ll become what I’ll become. Is it freedom, the loss of a filter? It’s not like I said anything bad, but I spoke with such ease I couldn’t help but think maybe something could’ve slipped my awareness. I need to drink lots of water today, and maybe be a whore who uses red lite therapy and isn’t intimidated by her own soft curves. She eats. Today is my mom’s favorite holiday. happy happy happy. I feel like falling asleep in an emotional car, isolated inside a wooden box, spurring uncontrollable, undetectable poison all around my enclosed atmosphere. I wore fur the whole night and smoked cigarettes. I woke up at 545. I’m gonna wear a black dress to dinner. I’ll be high all day. There are times now where the mess feels richer in life than some pristine -does that make sense? There’s a story in there somewhere, and someone above I hope is watching it unfold in such a way that only they alone can name the nameless. I’m not aware of it, and I think that’s the lesson inside; maybe just stop fucking saying blah blah blah blah. It’s all action, Mattea. I don’t need to hear you say shit, as it will all be witnessed and experienced, and that isn’t controllable, it’s an inevitable exchange in energy, but words are like puzzle pieces and gift names to the nameless, no? Sometimes trying the idea takes you further away from what you are actually supposed to be doing, like a really aggressive undertoe. How juvinielle. I feel like maybe I could just smell it on you, you’re sweating. It’s so cold, baby, the coldest!!! I’m at work, and I’ve been at work for 11 minutes, and it feels more like an hour, but I think that’s because I’m still groggy from last night, or I guess spending the whole two days crossed. But all I can think about is getting high again after work. It’s so cold, baby, it’s 32 degrees. I am sipping on four shots of espresso with the tiniest splash of soy milk, and I am determined to eat nothing for the whole day. I hope I hear back from the doctor in Miami. I feel like water. I taste absolutely nothing. I put the blinds up by the window so the sun can warm me up. I wonder if I’ll see Andrew today? I feel like I’m still waking up. I’m going to go back to reading now- I’m reading The First Bad Man by Miranda July, and mainly because she is indeed my favorite essayist, but I have yet to read a novel through her words. Update you more later. I don’t wanna be here. I am by the windows, and I don’t know if the owner is fucking cheap, but I am cold as actual fucking fuck. Like my nipples are ripping through my two fucking layers. My stomach hurts, mainly from the release and digestion of yesterday’s all-day meal. The doctor from Miami reached out, so I am grateful that this process is actually getting started. What else? I’m too specific to read right now. Five more hours. Right now, I’m thinking about crushes, as the feeling is somewhat foreign to me. Not only is it foreign to me, but there are multiple couples, people crushing on each other, engulfed all around me. I can’t help but feel left out. The last time I had a crush on someone, it was this girl, nicknamed Jess, and she bought me wine and dinner, and it was very short-lived. That was three years ago. I don’t know what else to say. I love public displays of affection. I love the idea that it pisses people off. A special type of person you are, to recoil at such a subtle display of love; a peck, a hold, a gesture. Some people act as if this display is the witness of an impersonal fuck, which couldn’t be further from the truth. That is emotional unavailability, in the worst way possible. I crave the experience of being so enough for someone that he wants to hold my hand or my hips in front of the rest of the world. To be seen in public with him might be a dream. So for me, a hand hold will never just be a hand hold. A kiss on the cheek in front of the cashier, to me, could totally shift my world. Melt the ice around myself. To be declared publicly. mmmmm. That’s all I have to share for now. Talk more later. Xx When I hugged him, he smelled sweet like cigars, a marinade of the bar across the street. I wanted 2 live inside his hug just so I could stay in the bouquet of the sweet-smelling cigar. I wonder if he drank anything. I want to spell cigar like sigar. sweet-smelling cigar. Anyways, after our hug, I quickly retreated back into the comfort of my natural stance; pigeon-toed and arms crossed. He spoke with such excitement, telling me the introduction of his day, intermission, and where he’s headed 4 his final act of the day. He gave me a recipe for four fried green tomatoes and left me in expectation of four more. This was my introduction to our acquaintance. What a sweet interaction from the man across the street.