I don’t know what’s going on with me, I just can’t seem to write. I’m just filling up this blog with drafts that never seem to be finished. Or I simply don’t start writing them at all, because I don’t think my thoughts are important enough, because as soon as I start I feel a drowsiness that prevents me from doing so, or because I’m in so much pain from my left hand that I just want to type what’s essential (that is, only work-related stuff) and be done with it.
I’m already wearing an immobilizer because it’s the only thing protecting me from further injuring myself. The meds are not good enough anymore, and surgery has become impending. I postponed it for as long as I could, but I’ve reached my breaking point. I just hope I don’t get to hear my doc saying “had you been here a year earlier, you could’ve avoided this and that…” when I see him tomorrow to start getting the papers ready.
Anyways, as I was saying, I feel almost completely empty all the time inside, the only flashes I get of real, strong emotions, are those of pain… and I can’t even begin to write about those either. Therapy’s not going anywhere since I won’t speak either. Not to Mr. Shrinky, not to N, not to anyone… When I’m there, I start to think about things I should or like to say, but it just seems like an enormous waste of time. Everything inside me’s indescribable right now.
That’s why I’ve chosen today to borrow some. Remember I was determined to getting my hands on Sarah Kane? Well I finally did it. L found her for me at a bookstore in Madrid and I haven’t dropped her complete plays ever since. I’ve been meaning to write about it, and to write to the lovely person who made her known to me, but I…just…can’t right now.
I’ve been reading her just little by little (or chiquiteándomela, as we say in Mexico) because I don’t want to be done with her work. Because I want to digest each one of her pieces on itself. A couple have been harder than the rest, I’m talking about Phaedra’s Love and Cleansed. Others have made me think of just how talented, honest and bold Kane was, like Blasted and Skin. And tonight I gave room for Crave. I knew this one was different, breaking almost every convention about theatre.
What I didn’t know was just how deeply it would resonate within me. I’ve found words for what I’m feeling, and just for tonight my lack of words of my own isn’t going to be an obstacle for me to share what I feel. It’s funny, even knowing that the following words I’ll quote sound truer than anything else I’ve come in contact with in months, they still can’t manage to make me feel something. They’re true for me, and about me, and that’s it. And it just sucks, it just abso-fucking-lutely sucks ass. I don’t feel alive inside, but I don’t feel dead either. I feel nothing. My soul is un-dead. Perhaps this is the reason for my current zombie addiction, one for which I wish to someday dedicate at least a post to.
“Depression’s inadequate. A full-scale emotional collapse is the minimum required to justify letting everyone down”
“I want to feel physically like I feel emotionally.
“No one can hate me more than I hate myself”
“Why can no one make love to me the way I want to be loved?”
“She ceases to continue with the day to day farce of getting through the next few hours in an attempt to ward off the fact that she doesn’t know how to get through the next forty years.”
“She’s sick to the fucking grills of herself and wishes wishes wishes that something would happen to make life begin”
“You can only kill yourself if you’re not already dead”
“I write the truth and it kills me
[…] I hate these words that keep me alive
I hate these words that won’t let me die
Expressing my pain without easing it”
“Vanity, not sanity, will keep me intact”
“I”m not ill, I just know that life is not worth living”
“What have they done to me? What have they done to me? What have they done to me? What have they done to me? What have they done to me? What have they done to me? What have they done to me? What have they done to me? What have they done to me? What have they done to me? What have they done to me? What have they done to me? What have they done to me? What have they done to me? What have they done to me? What have they done to me? What have they done to me?”
“Where’s my personality gone?”
“What I sometimes mistake for ecstasy is simply the absence of grief”
“I am an emotional plagiarist, stealing other people’s pain, subsuming it into my own until
I can’t remember
And again, the funny thing is I don’t even feel bad or sad or anything about these words. They’re true and that’s it. I don’t even feel like I’m struggling or going through an active rough stage emotionally, I’m just jammed. Ni ‘pa’trás ni ‘pa’delante. Have you ever been utterly stuck inside a turtle neck sweater trying to get it off? Remember that moment when you just get tired and stay still with your hands in the air and your face covered in wool? That’s where I’m at right now. Maybe I just need someone to help me pull the sweater off -or maybe even back on-?