my cat has escaped
Also, I spent £76.90 on Egon Schiele pictures for my bedroom and got shouted at about it yesterday because it’s apparently ‘depressing’ and not made to be found ‘beautiful’.
Weeeeeeeeiiiiiirdo (her, not me).
The same woman told me to stop reading ‘Plath’ and ‘Virginia Woolf’. ‘Take them off your bookshelves and burn them,’ she said. I don’t even read that much of either at the moment, although I can recite ‘Lady Lazarus’ off by heart.
I had to give her a strongly worded talking to about how I’m not a 13 year old girl lusting after death, idealising suicide, determined to make herself miserable. I told her that I am working so hard at being happy (or more accurately, ‘stable’) and I never want to go back to feeling the intensity of the pain that I felt throughout adolescence because I KNOW what it’s like and I KNOW how it feels and shitty doesn’t even cover it. I told her that I feel like there’s a tarpaulin of numbness stretched over a well of anxiety and despair in my mind and that it may be hopeless but it’s better than it was and that I’ve worked my bloody socks off to get here. I told her that these paintings, these words and these films engage me rather than encourage me. I told her that she’s got the wrong idea about me, that it stops here and it changes now. I don’t think she took a word of it in; her final words were ‘Schiele is depressing’.
I’m really very angry about all of this.
Rant, rant, rant…