The Writer's Confession

I see you eying your pants lying in a crumpled heap on the floor. You have been lying in my arms waiting for the moment to get up, collect those crumpled things, spout a few pleasantries and quickly exit out my door. All these men, eying their fucking pants on my floor.

Funny, I don't remember wishing for this. I mean, I know I created her... Created this version of myself... But I created her for an artistic outlet; to be a strong image, an interesting examination of my sexuality. I never meant for her to become this. I never meant to be a sexual fantasy (or maybe I did but not in this way). I can not exist in that static form; she is only a part of me (admittedly the most perfected part) but still only a part. The real me is much messier; comes with many more complications. I bleed, spend some nights doubled over in pain, cry at silly things, write to the point of obsession, isolate myself from others, some days I can't even leave my apartment; I'm neurotic, creative, demanding, violent, intelligent, insular, self-loathing and self-loving all at once. Those complications shouldn't be so hard to deal with; we are all complicated monsters, aren't we?

This is the one part of my life I never got right. Most days I feel like opting out; feel like giving up even at this young age. My body turns on me, cripples me with sickness/pain and it makes me feel like turning up the volume on my isolation. The less I have to do with people the less I have to feel. Or more aptly, feel for them. Anyone who makes the unrecommended move towards my arms soon finds the fire burning behind my eyes; I do not want to be this insane so maybe turning off/ turning away from human contact is the better option.

My mother was 15 years older than I am now when she made that decision. She turned her back on the world with purpose and created a home for herself in her little cabin in the woods far from the implications and interruptions of the rest of the world. She tells me, "The only thing that makes me depressed is other people, so I stay away from other people..." I feel like I am on that same path; like I'm arriving at that station even earlier with no children to link me to the world (I never wanted them; I still don't)... Is it my DNA that makes me like this; my mother and I; alike but not alike. Funny, I feel connected to her but so disconnected from everything else.

Has this confession meant anything? Probably not. There will still be crumpled pants on my floor but with increasingly less frequency; I will still feel the twist and pull of amplified emotions, I will still hear thoughts from your head before you speak them, my body will continue it's revolt, and I will still stand in this doorway, stark naked, and wish passion was for something better than this...