Tonight I stuffed my face with three crispy chicken sandwiches. Comparatively that's better than last weekend in which I ate one or two pieces of toast a day. Last weekend in which I had no appetite. Last weekend in which I wasn't present in my own brain. Last weekend in which I funneled all of my overwhelmed feelings into an eruption of violent tears of joy when Cyndi Lauper serenaded the audience Leslie, Steve, and I were a part of with True Colors. I feel more collected than I did last weekend in the sense that I can hear myself think, and know how to translate it. But I still am overwhelmed in an undefinable way. I've been home lately only long enough to sleep a good four hours and wake up to frames falling off of my wall and hitting me in the face, to get a big honkin' cup of iced coffee, and to maintain my physical appearance... and even that is questionable.
Despite the fact that I could probably keep complaining about the inconvenient events of this week I think I'd rather not. Jessie and Kailee fulfilled their roles as the two most trustworthy teenage girls I know and let me spill my guts all over them outside of the science center on Wednesday, and in Christopher's car [complete with a fracking Starbucks intermission] I incompletely explored some personal topics I hadn't previously been able to vocalize about. I think that's been helping. Knowledge and self observation can be one of the most beautiful and torturous feelings. When you've got nothing you can do with it, and no one you can share it with it can be like a butcher knife in your stomach. You don't want to breathe too deeply or you'll cut yourself open, and you're afraid to tell people because you don't know how they'll respond. I've just been unexpectedly finding people who want to figure out how to help me remove it. I can feel the butcher knife shifting into a less painful position, but it's still sharp because I haven't been able to get out everything I need to, and it shows no signs of dulling. Meanwhile I've got four scripts swimming around in my head, and non of them are wearing floaties.
Violent tears of joy were certainly not enough. In the week since, I've been on the verge of breaking a number of times, and I fully anticipate a big nervous breakdown in about a month [and maybe a half] when all of the shows I'm currently working on come to an end and I have all the time in the world to be with myself. I've lately been letting my fears about the coming year get the best of me, which is something that makes me sick - knowing that I'm doing that.
"A play can't hold you at night. But it can ride with you in the car on your way home."
Right now I'm fully aware of this truth. I can get my fix of human interaction via the shows I'm lucky enough to work on; I just need someone to talk to that wont stop listening, and will tell me what I need to hear and not just what I want to. Someone to pull that knife out no matter what it takes. I just turned seventeen, which means really I've just entered my early late twenties. Curses on whoever decided I need to think as much as I do, and that I've got to feel as sickeningly and regrettably alone as I do even when I'm around the people I care about most.
The first and last time for what I assume will be a long time that I've felt undeniably happy was sitting at dinner with my family on my birthday. My whole family. Biological and not. It's hard to find that feeling. It is so hard. I need to use my compass to make sure I know how to find it again, and to find other routes to it too.
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