*Trigger warning? Read tags*

This one is self explanatory. It’s “numb” by Portishead, lyrics written by the beautiful Beth Gibbons, music by the guys. And I can tell you, from my experience, that the “borderline’s” tendency towards feeling “chronic emptiness” is embodied in this song, for me at least. These songs are only here because of what they mean to ME. Please don’t take this as my interpretation of them as what they are supposed to mean for you, and especially not the writers themselves. They are not songs about “borderline girls”. I don’t mean overstatements and overgenralizations, so apologies ahead of time.

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I just got back from Mansie’s surprise birthday party. It was wonderful! And I was ready to write one of my “Good Lists” for Saturday/tomorrow, but I had a trigger on the way home. B was driving me back. I’d drank a little at the party, and though no one from the activist group of friends besides C. and his girlfriend KJK, went out back with them. I went out and I smoked with the two of them, KJK and C, out in the back patio of the J. House. God, I’ve missed Mary J (yeah, yeah, I know it can be a depressant, especially with alcohol not to mention I’m on two different meds and took clonazepam to calm my nerves).

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See, B and I were in the car when all of a suddenl, as if to break a momentary silence, he asked, “You ever been to Victoria, P?”

Victoria. Victoria. Victoria. Victoria. Victoria. Victoria. Victoria. Victoria. Victoria. Victoria. Victoria. Victoria. Is that enough times? God no. Victoria. Victoria. Victoria. Victoria.Victoria. Victoria. Victoria. Victoria.Victoria. Victoria. Victoria. Victoria. Not enough still? Victoria. Victoria. Victoria. Victoria. Victoria. Victoria. Victoria. Victoria. I’d say more. I’ve been to Victoria more than that.

“Yes, I have. Why do you ask?” I quietly replied. I got suspicious that someone had told him. I was still a little drunk, AM STILL a little drunk. He hadn’t drank all night thankfully.

“Uh, I was just wondering what it would be like to live in a place like that. I always pass by there when I go to the valley.” We’d been talking about the valley and an activist girl from there who was at the party.

“Yeah, well I know what it’s like to live there, at least from the times I visited. You remember L?” Tears began to swell.

“Yeah, the guy you were thinking of marrying and had the off and on situation with?”

“Yeah, he died,” I burst into tears.

“Oh no P, I’m sorry… When?”

“In March, at the end of March… and I don’t even know how he died! … Yeah, exactly… speculations… speculations…There are only speculations,” I couldn’t contain it. I didn’t want to tell him I suspect it was an overdose. It kills me, the speculation.

Poor B, he apologized for triggering… apologized to me so many times. He’d already had a bad night with Mansie, his ex. Good for me though; I was able to cry in front of someone besides my immediate family. He cried a little too. He told me about the death of three of his friends in an attempt to console me, and probably himself too. And also as a way to connect.

L was more than a friend, more than an ex-lover boy. He was family to me. I haven’t had the kind of connection I had with L with anyone in my entire life.

And when I got inside the house, I cut (just a bit), more like jabbed at my elbow with a pocket knife from my keys, and I downed four hydrocodones and a clonazepam–crushed the clonazepam. I’m still high and numb at the moment. High. High. I know, I know. Stupid. It felt good though; it helped–only momentarily, I know. It’s only momentarily relief. That’s all this shit provides. It’s superficial relief. I hadn’t done this since last September, this cutting business. It’s so ridiculous. It’s so ridiculous how much more numb I want to be.

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Monkey Man L was raised in Victoria. I have endless memories of that place–beautiful memories, fucked up memories, lovely memories–all of of spending weekends, entire weeks with him there in VICTORIA. Oh yes, I’ve been to Victoria, Texas. I’ve been.

The good thing is I opened up a little to B. He told me about the loss of three friends. I didn’t let him get near me until I was in the doorstep in which I asked for a hug and he stumbled on his own words trying to comfort me again. He’s a nice guys, very sweet–a genuinely kiund heart.

As Beth Gibbons says in this song, I feel like “A lady of war” indeed. A constant war.

But I do need to write that Good List. So more on this in my good list because pleasant, or “good” and progressive things have been happening. I can’t think all black and white now, can I? Night. Night. Numb. Numb. Smile. Smile.

I’m going to go lie down have a conversation with Monkey Man L now. It was a long, eventful day.