I watched a movie about Virginia Woolf once, set while she was writing Mrs Dalloway. Every morning I wake up and say to myself, I think I’ll buy the flowers myself. I never buy any, and none are bought for me, but I like to pretend that I’m in a book sometimes, that someone is deciding my fate for me and taking the responsibility away from me.
I feel like Virginia Woolf working on a masterpiece, except I’ve never started and will never finish. My invisible masterpiece. I look at the world so strangely these days, as if my current situation is so limited on time and the balance may shift so drastically for the worse. I love my partner as she loved Leonard, but like their relationship, there is nothing he can do to save me. He tried to keep me, give me everything I want, keep me safe from myself, but in the end I need to do that. I need to find a way of existing without aid from others, to self sustain and have respect for myself instead of living in the shadow of him protecting me from my pain. It doesn’t work, I feel it anyway, ten times worse.
Today I was screaming, crying, lashing out, it was so bad I thought he would leave me there and then. I couldn’t control it and now he won’t look at me. Afterward I felt like a black hole was swallowing me, I briefly saw prison bars looking around at the room and wondered if I’d made this mistake, that I’d gone against my author and doomed myself to madness festering here, stuck in one place because that is what he wanted. To be close to his family, to stay where he was born. I didn’t. I wanted to be free to move about the world searching for the answers to the questions I’ve asked all of my life. Is this where I went wrong? Should I be alone?