Repenting Has Never Been My Thing

Dear Diary #11

I’m writing from the tail of a weekend bender no more wiser and mentally at my exhaust. The most—let’s call it transformative— moment of this bender occurred on Saturday night at Paragon, everyone’s rightful favorite. Too much of a good thing is when you’re looking beautiful and the bartenders know your good spirit. Too much of a good thing puts you in a bathroom stall praying for the kindness of strangers’ water as the triptych next to you load up their nostrils with pre-packaged joy and giggle about what could be your dead carcass, a joke bound in sexy tight dress. A hellbound 15 minutes where I couldn’t walk and forgot about my fingers, my sense of self lost in a beat I couldn’t even dance to; oxygen bare bathroom taking everything from me. I’m going to my second AA meeting tomorrow. I have a desire to stop, but I know last Saturday wasn’t my last Saturday, and that’ll have to be good enough for my God for now.

Venus in Pisces has lent me the idea that there are no more encapsulating bonds than those of drug use, sex, or domestication. All facets of life ruled astrologically by the water signs, meaning they’re all in a constant, irritating flux. As with anything, they can’t be confined by connotations of good or bad.

Over the course of the 2020s, I’ve lost the Cancerian and Piscean intimacy I had with an individual, so I attempted to go the Scorpionic route, forgetting the fixed and well-foraged nature of our Aquarian relationship; we’re best friends. Scorpio and Aquarius are both fixed signs that, in my experience, get more fixed with time. If there’s one thing I appreciate about energetic stuffiness, it’s its clarity, but I don’t love thuds.

I’ve lost the ability to be casual about sex; an extremely stressful product of my ability to age. I find myself kissing someone knowing they don’t love me because they don’t know me and it is like the most major boner-killer for all parties involved. I want to be swallowed in a way that only someone whose seen your rock-bottom can; or at least, that’s my assumption, and everything is always better in my head anyway. I certainly don’t have any experience with it.

I have enough knowledge of feminist platitudes to know that you cant actually say out loud that you think being with someone will make you happy. But maybe it’s true. Being alone has gotten monotonous, but getting to know someone feels like an appendectomy with no anesthesia, and God knows I love drugs, because they get me closer to It.

I’ve been cycling really rapidly. I have Bipolar Disorder. The thud of depression hit hard, fast, gave me perfect momentum propelling me into burning bodily Purgatory, the Hell that is the Body, too drunk to function and surrounded by strangers.

I do not know if I will change.

What I Read This Week

EUSEXUA—FKA Twigs