I went and bought a suitcase today. Actually, a three-piece luggage set, which at regular price was $199, but I got it for $70. Pretty great deal. It’s just weird to buy luggage. It struck me as something real people do, and I’ve lapsed back into feeling like I’m not a real person. Does the fact that I now own a matched luggage set make me a real person?
I’m not sure that will make any sense to anyone outside my head. I’m not entirely sure I’m capable of making sense.
It’s all surreal, you know? I’m really dysfunctional; I hardly leave my bed or get dressed or brush my hair or anything. But at the same time, I’m planning for this big trip all on my own. Going back to where I grew up, to most of the people I grew up with. And I don’t know how I’m going to do with it.
I still sort of think of Birmingham as home. It’s a little confusing–I never intend to live there again, I never really fit in anywhere there, but I’m still fond of it. But I haven’t been back there in seven years, and there are a lot of bad memories there too. And some bad people.
And then–Florida, with my mother, to help her after her neck surgery. I volunteered for that: why? I thought I was past trying to be good enough to make her love me, but is that why I’m doing it? I’d prefer to think it’s mostly selfish, that I wanted to spend time at the beach and I volunteered because she’ll be at work most of the time, so I’ll get to do what I want. I don’t know which is true; it’s probably a combination of both. But it disgusts me that I’m weak enough to still go seeking her approval by playing the good daughter.
I think a lot of the confusion is because there are so many parts with conflicting feelings. Cognitive dissonance, because it doesn’t make sense together. Luckily I’ve gotten good at ambivalence. I can hold multiple contradictory beliefs or wishes simultaneously, and I don’t know if that’s a good thing or if it just means I’m extra crazy. It probably doesn’t matter which.
I’m not making sense, am I? I don’t think I’m making sense. Part of me cares, but most of me doesn’t, anymore. I don’t know what I’m talking about. I don’t know what I’m writing. It probably doesn’t matter.