10:38 p.m. - May 12, 2002
Non-Descript, Young III
A couple years ago I took Crista to Kell's, a then-favorite bar in Seattle where it was easy to get in underage, and we both drank too much though I think I was only buzzed but it was a strong one, if you know what I mean. We had taken her car and it was up to me to drive us back and late at night somehow the two of us made it back to her car and I remember making a left hand turn directly in the path of an on-coming car and laughing hysterically while soberly etching the moment onto my Stupid List.
Crista was paranoid that we would be discovered, a drunk driver and an incapacitated passenger and kept urging me to drive slower but I couldn't communicate to her that I was going less than 20 miles per hour because the only thing I could think about was that I had to piss and that my bladder was punching me from the inside out. I was tempted to stop the car midway on Queen Anne Avenue so I could relieve myself but Crista wouldn't let me and I seriously considered pissing my pants because the intensity, the pressure, was too much. Somehow made it up the hill and down the other side where it took a few tries to park expertly. Immediately I pulled it out and pissed and the relief and headrush and wooziness went away and I laughed and laughed and Crista laughed until realizing she, too had to piss and so I went back to my abode where my then-roommate woke up and asked Have You Been Drinking and all I could do was laugh some more because I couldn't climb on the bunkbed and wound up sleeping on the floor because the couch was too high.
It's remembering the disabling need for release and being incabable of egress that is exactly like the thoughts in my head. Here is the photo of me I dislike looking at and the one I've put off thinking and writing about--but that is untrue, all I've been doing is thinking about it.
This was in the middle of it and hadn't yet learned the way to hide from people sufficiently. It makes me angry that my eyes are hot right now and I want to stike out and hit and fight and hurt people and yell. Why didn't anybody see what was happening? How could they not? Was I that good at covering up and I probably was. The only thing I know to that effect is that I spent that summer with my grandparents far from home and was the first time I ran away. I am 10 in this photo and I look younger than in the previous, when I was 9.
There's so much in my head that it hurts and it's light and sound and images and I want to hold someone's hand. What a stupid thing to say and feel. But it's true. I want to reach out to someone and talk about all this and not be embarrassed or ashamed and non-clinical and get it out and over with and be done with it but this isn't like pissing no matter how hard I try to metaphorize.
And I can't even write my thoughts because they don't make sense.
