I’m really good at being independent and looking after myself. I always had a suspicion that I was, but since moving out it’s been confirmed and I am very happy. This weekend I feel like I finally found what makes me tick.
I was under the naive assumption that I might have loved someone recently, then I nearly slept with his best friend without a thought for his feelings. It made me realise that I only loved the idea of him, not the person himself. I don’t know much about love, in fact most days I doubt its existence entirely. We can be infinitely happy with anybody we want. I miss Marty a lot, but I know that he is happy and healthy, and I know that being at my parents house is the best place for him right now where he can have wide open spaces and wild animals to chase. That’s love I think. A different sort, but I think it still matters.
I stopped caring recently. I do my grocery shopping in my track pants and I don’t care that I’m probably bring down the tone of my upmarket suburb. I’ve also smoked more in the past three weeks than i have in my entire life. I love the smell of tobacco. My dad used to smoke and the smell always takes me back to when I was little. It’s nice to give my hands something to do in the winter to avoid the cold as well.
I think the reason I was so upset with someone recently was because they let me assume that I meant more to them than I did. I’m addicted to the feeling that I matter to somebody, and when somebody goes out of their way to remember details about me, or little stories that I’ve mentioned in an off-hand way, I let myself think that it means they care about me. Perhaps they do/did. But right now it’s easier for me to demonise this person and move on with my life right now than to dwell on what they really feel. I haven’t had a proper conversation with them in about a month. (Since that night) and yeah, it sucks a lot. I guess their actions confirmed something I’ve always had my suspicions about; that I’m disposable/replaceable. Not really worth it. Whatever ‘it’ is.
I saw my mum the other week, we spoke about death. I cried. I told her I was terrified about somebody close to me dying because I know that I don’t have the resources to cope. I’ve never had to deal with a big death in my life and I’m worried that when it happens it’s going to hit me hard. Like chickenpox.
I’ve definitely found my love of life returning ever since I quit my job. It made me realise what a drain that place was on me, and although I’m not earning anywhere near as much as I was there, I earn enough to live and that’s all that I really care about now.
I do want to move back home though, I really want to save money and paying my rent each week makes me miss the expense free living i had at home so much. It’s hard though because the house is so far away from uni and I don’t think I could cope with living so far away from everything again. It’s been so lovely to be able to drunkenly stumble home at night, and waking up hungover in my own bed is a million times better than waking up hungover on a friend’s living room floor.
And now I know that I can look after myself, and pay bills, and feed myself, and wake up in time for my responsibilities and it’s like I’ve proven to myself that I’m not totally reliant on my parents which is such a good feeling.
I still haven’t heard from Dad. I think it’s been about seven or eight months. I don’t really know how I feel about it. I know I should be upset and missing him, but I just don’t. I ring mum and find out how her and Marty are and that’s all I really care about.
Uni is okay, I need to work so much harder though. This term is going to be the term that I really knuckle down because I can’t afford to act like I did this term. No more emotions getting in the way of what I’m supposed to be doing. It’s only one more year and I’ll be totally free. A glorious thought.