My ex came over last night. He comes over about once a week, or I go to his place, for the sake of visitation with our kid, and then I spend the rest of the week trying to refrain from binge drinking, flirting like a 30-year-old whose body WANTS ANOTHER FUCKING BABY, or going on some kind of shame spiral that involves stuffed-crust pizza and freaking out on Twitter.
I'm not trying to create some narrative for my life right now, like seeing my ex is some kind of defining moment of shittiness.I know that shit abounds, everyday, in ways both obvious and subconscious, like just having to buy a 50-dollar vacuum that is definitely going to probably break in a few months, and then even having to budget for that, and thinking about the plastic parts coming from China, and how they will never biodegrade, and how my roommate has to help me put it together, because I will never know how to use a screwdriver--there is one thing like this at least every day, so I know that 'seeing my ex' isn't the fucking thesis of 'why my life sucks,' or whatever.
Seeing my ex does suck though, and this is because it is really bittersweet--picking him up, playing that Crystal Castles and Robert Smith song, "Not in Love," and him saying something that is so, very, emo-punk of him, "Of course this song is awesome, because everything Robert Smith does is awesome,"
And then remembering what it was like to be married to this emo-punk guy who would make me a mother's day card with skeletons exploding out of my stomach. (My interior monologue being," um, that's sweet honey, but oh my god, you would not think this was sweet if you had the birthing experience, things, happened, to me, but I will probably keep this forever...")
Or how I am getting ready for bed, and I tell our two-year-old to tell Daddy to get me some water, and through the coordination of the two, I don't have to get out of bed, it's so cute, and also awesome, and how he is going to stay the night, but gets someone to pick him up instead, probably his new girlfriend, not that I care, I'm relieved he 'found someone,' but it kind of fucks with me anyway--
I didn't really understand why my ex's 'betrayal' was such a 'big deal' until recently. My response on the surface is pretty cliche, so I'll spend as few words on this as possible--I didn't care about him having sex with someone else, or even wanting to. I cared about losing my Madonna status. This was my "will to power," which Freud describes as an infantile need to obtain love from the Father, but which Jung deconstructs as a subconscious need for power, with love being one means to that ultimate end. I need to be Madonna, because I need to matter, because I need to exist.
But I don't actually need to exist, really. I need to diffuse myself, and become not "one with the universe," which is still to be "one," but rather to become nothing--voiceless, soundless, invisible, tasteless, person-less...
What all of this psychobabble means, other than that it is 4:47 a.m., and I've already tweeted too much, and can't binge-eat, because being skinny is important to me, is that I am so fucked.
I am 30 years old, and my body is begging for a baby and a regular person to have sex with. But my knowledge of what these things entail is too, uh, distinct. I still remember those things that--happened--to me. The psychotic, bloated year in a basement with an emo-punk alcoholic husband and some alcoholic friends, watching Law & Order: SVU, waking up every morning covered in Cheez-it crumbs, the fifth of Mylanta I carried in my purse, getting no sexual attention except from creepy guys on skeazy streets--oh my god. And then you finally become Madonna, like you always wanted to be, but it isn't fun--your nipples hurt, and you feel used, consumed, and 'completely taken for granted'--it's horrible.
Even now, my kid is two, and she consumes me. This 25-pounder demanding with an adorable whine and pleading eyes, that I hold her, all the time, oh my god.
And anyway, I want another baby, and I don't even know why.
And I want to be with someone.
But there is something so, very, colonizing about relationships. Right? There has to be a different way of being together. I never want it to be my business, ever again, what porn someone watches, or if they are ever going to get a 'real job,' or if I 'settled,' or whether I'm 'really set for the next 30 years,' or if this person will be helpful in the event of an apocalypse.
So also, I'm not going to bring fresh meat home every two weeks like some 'sexually liberated' person because this thought makes me want to cry, and I know that my ego drive cannot be satisfied by things like a cat, a baby, and an internet following. So I'm going to end up in another relationship probably soon as I can meet someone who is smart and hot enough to make me 'willingly forget' all the 'stupid bullshit' about being in a relationship. But I also know, it is going to suck--in ways that I haven't even experienced yet. I'M SO FUCKED. It isn't even deep. Just stupid.
Ok, I'm not even going to attempt to copyedit or intellectualize these thoughts. I think the scare quotes are 'wrong' and maybe not that cool anymore, but it's cute, because it's a cliche of not trying to be a cliche, which is basically the core of my expression.