It’s now Sunday at three forty in the morning. Yesterday was the most sickening day of my life. I think. I am still fighting the urge to throw up all over myself. I want to make myself sick. I want to cut myself. I want to do something to feel real, tangible pain. Anything to distract me even momentarily from the furness pit of bile welling up in my witch’s cauldron inside me.
I’ve really gone and done it this time. “Oh no, what is it now?”. You don’t want to know. Or I don’t want to tell you. Quarter Pounder. It turns out Quarter Pounder felt he had to lie to me all along. For how long? I don’t know. Longer than I want to admit to myself. Mullingar. Engagement parties. Wanting to be on his own. Out – the usual. All lies. Apparently it was my own fault he didn’t tell me the truth. He’s terrified of me. I’m making his life miserable. He doesn’t love me anymore. I’ve lost someone who was willing to spend hours with me in the hospital. We’re done Dotty.
I haven’t eaten. That’s my only comfort. I have a plan. There’s no way back now, I got home and nobody was talking to me. They’ve had enough. Everyone’s had enough of me. I’ve had enough of me.
I wish he had told me the truth. He felt he had to lie to me for years. He was terrified to tell me anything. Is this me? Terrifying? It must be me – the habitually over-reacting wreck the place me. I wanted him to suffer. Poor girl. Thanks for a nice weekend. Hope you sleep better tonight. xxx There it is. The burning. The physical pain of it. But he’s moved on with his life. And I know he’ll never be bothered to read this. I don’t have a life to move on with.
Chasing Cars – that’s what I did today. Chased imaginary cars delivering quarter pounders around Dublin. The main building work blighted roads blurred into streets and somehow I was in his bedroom brewing up a storm. I was digging my own roads into the depths of my own panic and rage. If I just lay here…I remember him texting me from Electric Picnic years ago when Snow Patrol were playing that song – our song, he typed. I have to turn it off the radio when I hear it.
Would you lay with me and just forget the world? I did forget the world when he was laying beside me. Now he’s laying beside someone else at this very moment. Cause or effect? That boy who has broken my heart over and over and he doesn’t even know it. And I’ve stabbed his, swirled it around in a pool of my own self loathing and discarded it. Did he ever love me? Yes, once, for about a day, but not anymore. Habit, a twisted sense of obligation, pity. Fear.
It’s hard to explain. The fragments I remember probably do it best. Laying a in a forest. “I’m in this for the long haul”. “I’ll try to be better”. “I love you, I know you’re sick of hearing it at this stage”. “I doubt it’ll be seen but happy birthday”. The Tiffany bracelet. The Tiffany necklace. The poem on the red card. Painting ElsaDaughter’s room. Perfectly done steaks. The transfer of money between accounts. The stream of messages. The silence. Does she trace his face? I stopped doing that. Why? I was tired. The never going out. The never being included. Not wanting to go to his place. She doesn’t seem to mind the mess. He’s hers now. I hope he doesn’t make the same mistakes again. I hope she isn’t me. Say something. I don’t know what you want me to say. There’s nothing left to say.
I came in like a wrecking ball. Now there are only the ruins of my rotten foundations. “I’ve had it up to here”, I heard the voice from the living room.I have to go. There’s no turning this around. The point of no return. At least it’s finally arrived and there’s no more waiting. What was I waiting for? Waiting was a song by The Devlins. I liked it.
There’s a dead spider on the floor. Usually I’m repulsed and scared of them. I just feel sorry for this little guy.
Sorry. I’m sorry. I. Am. Sorry.
I thought this episode would be longer. I thought I’d cry. I haven’t. Am I relieved? Yes. Am I scared? Yes. Am I tired? Yes. Am I sad? No.
Yesterday was the last fight I had to fight. I could blame the boy who walked me home when I was sixteen and held me down on the wet grass (I still can’t bear the smell of wet grass)and laughed at me when I tried to drunkenly pull up my underwear. But it’s me. I’m the damaged goods. Shop soiled. Stained. Broken. Faulty. Toxic.
And soon I’ll stop poisoning the strings that connect me to the beautiful faces I love. They’ll be free of the exhaustion Dotty inspires. I’ll be free of her. Fucking Dotty. The bitch. She loved not wisely but too well.
ElsaDaughter, trust me. Mother knows best. I love you.
That’s Life, sang Frank Sinatra, that’s what all the people say. Riding high in April, shot down in May. But if there’s nothing shaking come this here July, I’m gonna roll myself up in a big ball and…
Well I made it to October. Sixteen years too late.
(I’ve only managed to post this now. Posting was the last thing on my mind this weekend. It’s now thirteen twenty on Monday…So that means I’m still here, you can guess that because afterlife wifi hasn’t gone live yet, get it?! More later from your psychotic Dotty Rocker. Xx)