So moving is about to commence: Officiall accepted into City Year and moving in a few weeks. Four to be precise. The plan is to leave on the eighteenth; So until then I’m trying to enjoy being twenty one in Atlanta as cheaply and as much as possible. Shit is finally rolling back to normal; Kevin is finally gone after mishaps with his bus ticket. I’m back to looking for a job, along with Christopher, and starting to get ready to move, both mentally and physically.
I want to live alone but there’s a certain amount of security in having a roommate; it’s nice. I’ve found a few affordable apartments outside of Shaker Square: a nice area of Shaker Heights I’ve heard. I hate going off of hearsay but I don’t have much of a choice. My aunt — well, my dead uncle’s ex-wife — told me I could stay with her and my cousin’s dad said he’d help me look for a place and move my shit in. Which is awesome. But I can’t stand my roommate furnishing my apartment; wtf am I going to feel like living off of someone else? No, I’d rather find my own place and be situated with hardly no furniture. But I also will need a car and a license; money spent on fees and moving in could be spent on a car, and then I could move after a month or so when I start getting a paycheck.
But even if I did that, I need my license before I leave Georgia and I need a car to take the test in and I don’t think any of my friend would let me drive their car for the test. Then again, I haven’t asked. It’d be nice; if I decide to go to GA State when I come back to Atlanta and do my whole nursing/midwife thing, then I’d still have state residency and I wouldn’t have to pay an out of state rate. Convenient. But things don’t usually try to be convenient for me. We’ll see what happens.
A lot of this moving stuff requires me to talk to people, to ask for things, to make requests. Of my roommate, the leasing office, my daddy, my mom, etc. I hate doing that lately. Any kind of confrontation is frightening, even though I act like I’m the queen of it. I’m aa strong black woman or so I’ve pegged myself (and so has the rest of the world, friends, boyfriend and all) and I’m supposed to keep up this charade of toughness and not-giving a fuckness that had been my whole life and demeanor. But I’m tired lately. I’ve been having shitty dreams, shitty thoughts. I think about Aris a lot, maybe too much. I think about Brandy, the girl that was kidnapped and murdered by her ex last year. We’d talked a few times and met maybe once or twice. Thought of going on a date, and I kind of stood her up. I was still scared of my lesbian side. But she died about a year and a month ago. And that poor girl that jumped from Vista Bridge too a few months back — she was only fifteen. And that Morehouse guy that got shot last week, and all the terrible fake stories on Criminal Minds! Dead faces on my mind, in my dreams, my subconscious, on my soul! And pain —- its the thing people who have never been depressed or grieving don’t understand. The physical pain of stress, of sad, a dull, dull ache that you can forget and the minute you remember it, it’s back just as bad as before. My breath is short just typing about it. The fluttering of panic starts. You could never tell looking at me but there it is; a tapeworm, a malignant tumor waiting out the way.
A few days ago was me at my worst I have been in months. I didn’t know why. Well, I had a fight and I was angry. I was sad. I felt really alone even with Kevin and Chris in the house, and I was mad that I was lonely; they’re what I have, all that I have really besides myself. But I was afraid, and I took as many of those Vistiril as I found at the time and I had a dream, about a dollhouse, filled with photos, and of someone telling me — making me, demanding — that I stop with all the suicidal ideation. That I couldn’t go out like that, right now, right here. I had shit to do, I had a person and a self to be; not my time yet. I felt like it was Aris. But maybe it wasn’t; maybe dead means dead, and it’s just my self destructive subconscious arguing with itself in ways it knew how to reach me. My cousin. This book using a dollhouse as a primary metaphor of controlling life that I’ve been reading for a few weeks. Makes sense. I don’t want things to make sense. I want it to be her. Just because symbols because symbols through imagination, it doesn’t mean less. Imagination isn’t nothing in this world. The tagible and intangible have values within themselves, never meant to be compared. It’s something I forget I know deep down, so affected by a world white and black, a world of needing to appeal, of needing to make sense in the way that the colonial stifling of generations has made things make sense.
So all humanistic and existential rambling besides, I’ve been on edge as a motherfucker, my back is killing me and so are most of my other joints. Probably going to the hospital for something good tomorrow or just waiting. I don’t know how bad it will get. There’s hardly food in the house and I try to keep in there because some people *cough cough* are grumpy when they are hungry. Despite all the stress, I guess I’m going to trudge along, one day at a time. I’ve made it this far with music, with medication and liquor and coffee and tea and comfy sweaters. My dog. My shitface cat. I’ll keep slowly dripping through my life for now. One day at a time.