“Ja. Sometimes I feel pretty shit.
I’M SUPPOSED TO.
I’m manic major depressive for fuck’s sake.
What the shit do you think you’re going to do to fix that?
You are more likely to birth the child of Amazonian goddess befallen into your lap, you goddamn hero you.”
“Ja. Sometimes I feel pretty shit.
“I know my value.
Even with my mutilated nose and dead leg, somebody will want me. There are too many middle-aged brown men on social media. I know I’m one, “hey bby” away from my next marriage. I got this. I’m fertile.”
“I’m sorry to disappoint. I’m not chemically built to please, really.
Anhedonia is real, Love.”
Why do I talk about my abuse when I talk about myself? Am I more than my abuse? Has understanding the consequences of being abused unintentionally become self-defining? Does my abuse define me, as well as make me? Who am I without my abuse?
This is uncomfortable.
“It’s okay to say, I let this happen to me because I had no self-respect, and chose not to hurt the other person – because I didn’t believe it was okay to fight for myself at the expense of someone else. In fact, at times, I didn’t even know that I could fight for myself. Fight, even at all. I didn’t see how I was being manipulated. I didn’t understand ‘coercion’. I’m so used to hearing, “Baby, don’t be like that”, and feeling guilty – actually feeling remorseful because I’m disappointing someone else.”
“Don’t touch me. I don’t like to be touched. You’re in my bubble – my personal space. I can be in this industry, and still have personal space.
We expect a shitstorm. We expect a mentality that defines us as rude or unservicelike. We don’t get to have personal space in this industry. Are we kidding? We’re servers. How dare we tell our customers that them touching our arm makes us uncomfortable? We don’t have the right to feel uncomfortable. Do we like our jobs, us servers?”
“I want to say things my mind has not even formulated yet. I am bursting at the seams, with wordless thoughts and a gentle fire in my chest. It’s all because of Rowan.”
“I am so hungover.
The throbbing, angry punishment in my skull for all that tasty, tasty tequila and great wastage of money, fittingly matched the growing ache in my ‘art.”
“I’m hurting myself, and I let you hurt me.
I’m sad, but I’m saddened because I wish you were right for me. I’m sad because I wish you were someone you’re not. I’m sad because I wish you’d treat me the way you can’t. I’m sad because you don’t know how to love me, but I want you to love me anyway. I’m sad because I know I can’t ever let you again. I’m sad because I’ve felt you. I’m sad because you’ve touched me. I’m sad because I’d take it all back.”
“I wrote nineteen supps, both by choice and not. I failed seven modules; twice by not even making DP. I was excluded, and in essence, it took five years to complete a three year degree.
Yet, here I am – a waitress with a degree.”
“As time went on, and as my wonderful manager, Lloyd, is not always around to overhear someone calling me beautiful and sarcastically interject with, “Oh, Iola never gets that AT ALLLL”, I’ve come up with some pretty decent approaches:
“The hot waitress is off today. Wait for her. She’ll be here tomorrow.”
“I’m not allowed to prey on my customers, sorry.”
“I’m not gay.”
If they laugh, maybe you’ll get a tip. If they don’t, well, let’s hope their table leaves soon and you get a ten-seater with rich nuns with a penchant for alcohol, but Jesus is still bae. “
“No doubt sparked by my gloriously inappropriate mother asking, “What would you do if I died?”, and having just painfully dreamt that she actually did, I’ve decided to leave this here, an open letter – in my mental sanctuary, so that at no point, ever, will there be any question as to what is to be done, or any things left unsaid.”
“We are left with bittersweet memories and an unsettling feeling that comes with not being able to reconcile that we simply cannot make any more.”
“I want to write to kill.”
These words are sounding in my mind, being fueled by the insatiable anger and anxiety I continually wake drenched in.
I am hateful, suicidal, murderous, aggressive, violent, reckless, hopeless, lost.
I am being dragged by my emotions again.
This I know.
“Love and Loss are holding hands, gazing into each other’s eyes and laughing heartily at the wrath in their wake.”
“With broken breath, in misty meadows,
I seek refuge, hidden beneath shadows.
In, the unwelcome sense of familiarity crept.
My face in thorns, alone I wept.
Along these paths I would often trek,
Wringing my hands unwillingly from my neck..”
“What inside your mind fuels such rage? Why do you want to break bones? What about physically and poisonously expressing your seething rage by means of intimidating and scarring those littler than you makes you feel better? Is it about power? Does it make you feel stronger, or like more of a man? Do you enjoy the stinging of the slapping, punching and the kicking?”
“A person cannot be broken. The mind has no parts, no structure, no known manifestation. If you’re broken, what is? Your body? That can heal; even bones can be mended. Your mind? Your personality? Your soul? Show me how it’s broken?”
““I’m leaving for Cape Town on the 9th. Your place at 8?”
No. Nobody joined my parents and I for a steak and basmati dinner that night at 8.
This was one of the first messages I ever received on Tinder.
It was off to a great start.”
“My social life is like The Bachelorette. I often wonder if there are cameras cleverly hidden behind trees and in dark corners, live-streaming to some dingy website where my straight fans are vouching for the best-looking guy and the lesbigay community watches in excitement every time I meet the ex-ladyfriend.”