Hi, Madison. Long time, no see. How is the California Delta?
I deleted a whole paragraph because I'm in a bad, bad fucking mood. I've had like three sizable drafts sitting in this Story for months now. Bordering on six months now - half of the year. Fuck, it's the middle of the year. It's the middle of the decade. It's 2025. What the fuck am I doing?
Sometimes, when I write these, the words just shit out of me as if I was a giant with diarrhea. Right now, I feel too low to muster up enough strength to slog through writing three thousand poetic-waxing words. My brain feels foggy and all the rest. I'm depressed. Not like before, God no. I am not, like, suicidal. I just feel infinitely fucking lethargic.
I'm fucking mad at my sister. I told you a bit about it a few days ago. The house is still grappling with it. For most of the day, it's business as usual. My family still eats dinner with each other. We're still doing things. People are jovial. But, when my sister leaves or locks herself in a room, my mom will work herself up into nearly sobbing. She told me while actually sobbing on the phone, "This is the day you will remember K--- and I changing." I'm mad at her for what she did to my parents and my dog, for starters. But it's not that simple. My anger isn't so circumstantial. I feel just, fucking, I don't know. I don't know exactly how to word this. I feel like the truth about the dysfunction of my childhood has come out. I hate calling it that because slapping on the label of "dysfunction" on my two-loving-upper-middle-class childhood seems ungrateful. It's what my sister is doing in therapy. (She's going to that, by the way). But, no, two things can be true at once. Some things can be good while others are bad. And I rarely appropriately acknowledge the bad. Here goes nothing: my sister has hurt me really, really bad. I straight-up resent her. It's why she's the only person I know who inspires me to genuine, unreasonable anger, where I'll occasionally lash out at her with the sole intent to hurt her. I don't say hi to her, or goodnight, or anything now. She never has to me, even before she drunkenly chucked my dog against a granite countertop and punched out my mom and dad. She's told me routinely that she doesn't like me. She's told me that every few months for the last five years. She's serious, and I ought to just take her at her word. I don't fucking like her, either. I hate her, to be honest.
R----- says I "desperately need therapy." She's right. She's well aware of my anger, but I've tried my best not to dump it on her. I'm usually very measured when I express stuff like this to her (besides the one time I unironically told her that I "sometimes hate [E---]'s fucking guts" when I was in a terrible mood before we were dating.
Here's a quick run-through of the last two and a half months, given the fact that you and I have made it a routine to not really talk to each other much for months-long stretches: I got terminated from my practicum for reasons, decided to move back in with my parents for a few weeks I can barely remember, and came back to Edmonton after two weeks to drink as if my liver was evil and must be destroyed, permanently damage (and for a time, ruin) my friendship with H----- because of a night of drunken taunting. Then, I entered a situationship with R-----, and ended the situationship with her out of some vague fear it would get bad or something, which she successfully bargained her way out of a few days later (and now regrets on the grounds of her unnecessarily "humiliating" herself, and she "[shouldn't] have had to beg and plead for something [I told her] I didn't want.")
Then, I helped throw what became technically the most financially successful show I've ever thrown, even though all the footage, supposedly some of the best of my still young filmmaking career, I shot of it is now lost. The day after, I hauled my ass and the assess of two of my friends to the Rockies, drank even more, topped it off with two days of acid and mushrooms, drove back to Edmonton on virtually no money and a irrational commitment to not asking for help from my parents out of pride, despite me then having barely $14 to my name. During this time, all I could think about was R-----, so, virtually the second I got back to Edmonton, I asked her out formally.
For the next month, I have had no luck finding a job, and after a few weeks of barely trying, I stopped trying completely. Instead, I relied on reselling on Facebook Marketplace for some money and my credit card (did somebody say financial responsibility?), and spent every day with R-----. We woke up together late in the day, sometime around 3 p.m. I would make her scrambled eggs and coffee with a single tablespoon of sugar in it. She still takes the coffee, but no longer eats the eggs. She used to rave about them, and "not just because [I'm her] boyfriend." I undercooked them one time, and now my eggs are "evil."
The chaos of the last school year made these last few months feel like I'd washed up on a deserted island. There's only one other person with me. Perhaps she's another survivor. Perhaps she's lived there longer than I have: an expatriate. She's at least more settled than I am. In the mornings, I sit cross-legged on the seashore. Each wave skims my toes. The green of the ocean is yet to be lit by the rising sun. I stare at the horizon, dumbfounded, as if each day on the island is my first. The sun screams its light over a flat, deep sea: the bedside for this celestial argument. I look up to it like it's about to tell me off, as if its warmth is reprimanding me for not knowing better. I beg for forgiveness, and it gives me nothing but the same. She tells me to come inside.
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I can't finish this Wattpad on such fucking anger. I should allow myself to feel it. R----- gives me flak for "wanting to be angsty," which she's right about. "I often am." She says, often.
I miss you, Madison. I hope to see you soon.
