Letters for Burning

Let it be known that on the night of May 8th, 2013, Joseph thought for the first time of how nice it would be to draw a hot bath. He is suddenly no longer a boy. After a long day, he eases his wrinkles in.

Today was my first day of work, a real full-time job. I’ve never had one of those. But I went for an interview this week and I was hired that same day. I don’t know what to make of it all so far, since they’ll be training me for a while. It’s mostly plugging things into computers and office work. The company is quite large, a huge office with little cubicles. It’s very mixed, with people my age and other older people who have been there quite a long time. Everyone was very nice to me. 

I’m going to be 26 soon, which is unbelievable. My brain stopped counting after 18. I am both 18 and 80. Whatever, numbers. I don’t have to think about numbers anymore. I have a degree in English to prove it. (Incidentally, I was always really good at math in school, so go figure…)

My sister’s graduation is also approaching. She was whining about how bored she’s going to be this summer now that I have a job. I promised her we would go shopping sometimes, but just for me, now that I’m making money. 

My aunt started texting me. She wanted to know how my day was. My family is more excited for me than I am.

I have emotion bulimia. My face reads nothing until I have a moment to get it all out. You wouldn’t know I’ve had terrible issues with anxiety because it doesn’t show. And, despite what you might expect, I don’t think I’ve shed a single tear in maybe over a year. My psychologist says I’m so expressive and emotional in my writing, and it is quite a contrast to see. I’m blank, but the pages never are. They get filled easily and quickly. It gushes out in a flood, and the water settles until the next time I need to get rid of something.

I guess these analogies are appropriate, since I’ve been so immersed in the world of self-injury and just finished A Bright Red Scream. Body issues came up, eating disorders. My mom used to think I had anorexia because I was skinny and wouldn’t eat. I don’t think I was, but I am good at controlling what I need to control. I like being in control of something. At least, the one thing I can control: myself. It’s funny though, more and more, I have less and less interest in power fantasies. People are always talking about superheros now, and watching movies about superheroes, and pretending they have other kinds of identities and superhuman abilities. But I always want to write about weakness and passivity, I want paralysis and flailing and maybe, the end will either be tiny kicks or getting on your feet. That type of victory is sweeter and more personal.

I have been given even more control now because I’ve been going on job interviews these past few weeks. I don’t know what on earth I’d do with money other than try to live and maybe eat sometimes. There is less disillusionment now anyway, and more forward momentum. There’s the desire to feel useful and step outside. It’s been raining quite heavily, but that hasn’t stopped me. I really want to go bowling. Who wants to come?

“You know she has to assume the identity of everyone she’s dating.”

That’s a good friend of mine talking about his sister. She has certainly come far. I remember her going from long black pants and dangling chains to wearing camo and shooting off guns. Her skin doesn’t just shed away, it’s like a chameleon reassembling in a completely different environment. It’s really quite something and even surreal when you take a seat and look through journals and trace the lines. Here’s where we came from and here’s where we are now. 

We like to think we don’t change, but we do. We sometimes feel stuck, but we’re never really cohesive. I’ve only been around Scott for a week, but I’ve already noticed how my voice has taken on new qualities. It’s picked up some of his mannerisms. My sister called attention to the hard “k” sounds in my “likes.” I hadn’t noticed. I’m slowly absorbing his power.

I’ve been congratulated for sticking to my own colors. Being a beige blot in purple. Not copying or adapting when I’m thrown into a new pattern. I’m not sure at which age we start to become more like mosaics and quilt our own patches, but I wish it were soon.

I haven’t been writing much, but I have been reading a psychology book on self-mutilation, A Bright Red Scream. I was browsing my boyfriend’s bookshelves and it caught my eye immediately. He said I could bring it home. I’ve always been curious about cutters and why they injure themselves. Although I have known some of their issues, I don’t know the intimate relationship with self-inflicted pain like they do. I’ve never had a desire to self-injure, even on my darkest days. Suicidal thoughts seem to come from a different place, where you just want complete erasure, not stability and reintegration. It seems to me more about catharsis, and trying to articulate things which can’t be articulated.

In the book, is this quote: “For most people, tears, not blood, are the language of the body.”

When tears are gone and the pain still remains, blood is the next step up. I was not so sure about all this though - I am only one person with my own particular feelings. I am glad there are books to help us understand.

I woke up to an acceptance letter today. A story of mine will be published in the forthcoming issue of PANK. I really love them, so this is quite exciting. It is also timely, since my story is, incidentally, about quiet self-destruction. Self-destruction and family dynamics. From all the trauma I’ve been reading about, I wanted to supply an unsung story where the trauma isn’t so evident.

Maybe I’ll try to write a happy story next.

Or not.

I feel stranded in this internet wasteland. There used to be places where I could go to get away. Sail on a sea of quiet conversation on a boat with fellow usernames. The life. But now, everything penetrates everything else. It feels like a tentacular apocalypse. And I can’t hear anything because everyone is always screaming.

People just don’t know when to stop. Taking pictures of their lunch, telling Twitter where they are at every exact moment. Their feed is a factory. Look at me! I don’t care if you stalk me, really; in fact, you probably should! 

When I met Chuck Wendig, he wouldn’t stop tweeting. This annoyed me. Do people really have to be connected at all times? What is so important that it can’t wait until later? When I took my trip to Houston, I was more than happy to detach from all devices and just observe everything around me. When I came home, my mom was upset that I didn’t take any pictures. I wanted to observe, I said. I wanted to experience for the moment. No filters, no devices, no looking back on it as it’s already happening. The present as present, the present as not already past.

I wish people were more selective. Stop thinking in terms of audience. Thoughts can exist by themselves and they can be happy. They can have intimate gatherings with just a few people and it can be worthwhile. They can even be alone and quiet sometimes. Slap yourself and recognize what’s truly important with your words. You’re a writer. It shouldn’t be hard.

Let’s just take a moment to mourn the loss of thinking for thinking’s sake. Just a quiet moment of reflection. Ignore the tentacles coming in through the windows.

Hold on, I should really tweet about this first though…