26 May 1983
My hair looks like a boy hair cut! Mommy curl ironed it a little though. It still looks like a boy hair cut. My birthday’s soon here!! I’m getting an ODIE DOLL!!!!!!!!
8 November 1984
I hate Ma! She’s making me go get a haircut in 15 minutes. At that dumb beauty salon. I’m really crying because I don’t wanna go. She says she’ll pay me a dollar and she wants the nicest lady to work on me. She treats me like a baby. I’ll have to not speak to her. I bumped my head on the bars. It hurts my head, stomach, all hurt.
4 June 1985
Tomorrow is the last day of school. Amy T. is my BEST friend. I brought in cupcakes today. Everyone sang to me. It’s my birthday! I have the BEST class: everyone was signing autograph books. I got everyone’s name but 6 people. I’ll get them tomorrow. I got Manny’s and Matt’s. Oh boy! I got a Care Bear! from Maggie. Cheer Bear. He’s cute. Amy gave me an Anastasia book as another present. At exactly 9:10 PM tonight I’ll be 11!
Oh boy!
30 March 1986
Today is Easter and was fun. First, I got a good Easter basket and in it was a J pin. Then we went to the Pancake House to eat breakfast. I had eggs, cereal, etc. Kris and I fought when we went home but then I rode my bike and when I got back, the whole family went on a bike ride. Kris and I exchanged bikes then Daddy tried to fix hers because it’s broken. While he did that we wrote all over the house in chalk. Then we went to Nanny’s and ate a delicious meal and I watched MTV. Since it was hot out, I went outside barefoot many times, it felt good on my toes, and found a golf ball! Kris and I toured the houses across the street and found a huge dirt and stone mountain, climbed it, and found a poorer housing development. That was neat too.
11 March 1987
Today D. acted cold towards me. She said stuff like I’m a copycat, and I’m stupid and that she wasn’t getting a Hershey pass anymore. I don’t know if that’s true or not. I hope she changes her mind. Punky said that she thought D. and Angie were best friends. That’s probably true. I mean, if we were best friends, she’d write me notes, act NICE, call me, say “hi” in the halls, and sit with me at lunch. None of those things happen. I’m so confused about friends and all. I wish I were REAL popular. That’s why I’m not sure if I’ll have a birthday party. Because I have hardly any friends. It’s just not fair! I also wish that I’d find a new best friend. That would show her I’m no loser.
27 May 1988
God, I am mad. Kris just said that I looked like I’m doing coke just because I’m tired and my nose is red. Well let me tell you—I am NOT. I’m tired because of Olympic Day and gym class today. My nose is red because it got sunburned yesterday. I told her this, but I don’t think she believed me. That’s the second person who thinks I’m using drugs. Mom told me a few days ago at Nanny’s that she thought I was on drugs in the past. Now I see why people who are accused get so mad at school. Don’t they know I would never use drugs? It’s true! In my book (and please don’t think I sound like a commercial) drugs are stupid. The only reason I act(ed) the way I do because I was, and still am, going through a hard period in my life. And I wouldn’t classify it as DRUGS, but ADOLESCENCE.
4 June 1989
Today’s my birthday, but it doesn’t feel like it, and I’m not yet fifteen. Everyone’s at Baccalaureate. I’m supposed to be studying for my A.M. final; however, I left my book in my locker and the school doors are locked, so I can’t. Antoinette said you need to use common sense for it. Nan and Papa are coming over for cake tonight, which looks brilliant with its British flag on it. … I was reading back over last year’s diary, with my hang ups and struggles. How I’ve changed! What will I be like a year from now? So much has happened…yet so little remains. Yesterday existed, today is here, and tomorrow is an illusion, an image, a dream. In a flick of a moment it could all change, and that’s what frightens me.
4 June 1990
One year later, it’s my birthday. In four minutes (no, make that three) I’ll be 16. I’m writing to you because one year ago I wrote about my feelings of the times, and wondered where I’d be in one year. Well, here I am, a true survivor.
It’s 9:10. I’m 16. Oh God, is that old. Now I closed my eyes and it’s 9:11. It’s official. I’m 16.
One year ago, I closed my eyes to my parents’ rage, praying for hope, and now they’re divorced. I speculated on my freshman year, now I’m reaching towards my junior. Life works in funny ways. I wonder where I’ll be one year from now, when I’m almost a senior.
19 April 1991
I wanted to kill them all this afternoon. I wanted to scream and kill and run, but I don’t think I have enough strength to do that, do I? I don’t have enough strength to do much of anything, except maybe lie down and die. I’m too much of a wimp to do even that. They’re probably all downstairs talking about me now. Oh God. Oh God! Oh God! Why must it be like this? Why must I bleed inside as I do? It’s always there…this monster of utter and pure and religious darkness…
10 May 1992
Have we drifted apart because we have nothing in common anymore? Did we ever? Maybe I’m a little too weird and off-the-wall for them. Maybe I threaten the safety of their comfortable little world. Maybe I’m just a fucking nut who is mega-crazy for thinking that anyone could possibly want to spend any time with me. Of course that’s got to be it. Others see the insanity in me that I only suspect exists. They’ve known longer than me that I’m a useless, hopeless, revolting, pathetic little shit who’s unfortunately stuck on the bottom of their shoes. They keep trying to wipe me off on the pavement, but I just won’t go. If I did go, would they notice? Would they mind? Would they keep on walking or stop to laugh at me smeared on the ground? Sometimes, when I think of dying, it’s a beautiful thought. The word “suicide” is entwined with flowers and happiness and light. I don’t want to live to be 18. I don’t want to work this summer, or go on senior week, or go off to college, or grow up to be stuck in some shit-town, working at a menial job and paying off college loans for the rest of my life. I only want to curl up and die in secrecy…to go away for awhile. To never have to dream this sour dream of life again. Its odor is choking me. I’d rather die by my own hand than by life’s, especially when I continuously feel as if I’m losing my mind. My brain has huge holes in it, I’m constantly plagued by anxiety, I can’t even bloody spell anymore! … Am I supposed to scavenge up the tattered shreds of my life and build something with it? Or am I supposed to throw them in the ocean and cover myself with the wet sand of darkness, betrayal, lies, and hatred, until I’m totally buried, and no one can see me anymore? I wish God, if there is one, would let me know. Why the hell does s(he) keep me hanging on like this—lonely, confused, afraid. I’ve never been in an accident, I’m never sick, I’ve never even broken a bone, for Christ’s sake!
“How does it feel to never be allowed to die…?”
22 June 1993
While I was writing to you, I began to inexplicably cry. Sort of ashamed, I headed for the attic with my box of pills and razor blades. Once there, I bawled my eyes out, mumbling to myself about how I’m so sick of holding everything in. I grabbed a razor blade and made one deep (borderline vein) slash in my right wrist, which gushed endless blood. Kristen called me to dinner, and frantically I mopped up the blood and dried my tears; a bunch of Kleenex, a maxi pad, and an ace bandage covered the wound.
I am I am I am
15 December 1994
Oh god, everything’s falling apart. I’m falling apart, but that’s nothing new. I’m beginning to cry again now. Things like these inevitably lead to my lashing out at myself in self-beratement. I think that I’ll never do anything with my life, and that I’ll have to kill myself before graduation, anyway, so I may as well do it now. You can’t know how badly I need to slit my wrists as I sit here writing this.
11 September 1995
By the way…on Friday night, he and I went to Farley’s for drinks. We got hassled by three drunk townies, and afterwards we tried to steal a parking meter that lay felled in the middle of the street. We were unsuccessful, as it was quite heavy. We couldn’t even get any money out of it. So, we went to the library to do e-mail, which was kind of fun in its patheticness. After all, it was like 1 a.m. and we were in the library on a Friday night, being cybergeeks like the other losers there.
19 February 1996
Anyway…spending so much time reading about gothic things and vampires this weekend got me thinking about being gothic. On the outside, I don’t look very goth, and other goths might look down on me for that, claiming I’m not “real.” However, I feel that I’m more goth than goth poseurs who dress like it, listen to all the goth bands, etc., but do it all for image purposes. I’m just as goth as people who look and act like it, and genuinely believe in it. I once looked pretty goth…I had the dyed-black hair, the constant pale face and blood-red lips, and wore almost all black. The pale face remains, and sometimes I have the red lips and black clothes, too. It doesn’t matter how I look, though; what matters is how I feel. The true state of gothic isn’t what bands you listen to, or how bizarre you can make yourself look, but how attracted you are to the dark side. And the dark side covers a wide range of genres. I’ve been into many dark things for years…depression, insanity, suicide, death, cemeteries, horror…shallower things like the colour black, dark poems and photos and winter, and more serious things, like a fascination for the occult, Satanism (a studious interest! That’s it!) paganism and witchcraft, and the paranormal…dark, wicked sense of humour…and above all, a burning interest in the dark side of regular life. Every person and every place has a dark side. Shadows lurk under the brightest, most plastically perfect façades of people and suburbia. That’s a powerfully intriguing thing, and I think that’s what makes me gothic. I examine the dark side of everything, of myself. And if, along the way, I maintain an interst in gothic literature, The Cure, Highgate Cemetery, Elizabeth Bathory, and vampires, and I own a black velvet cape and black lipstick, then all the better. Carpe noctum, baby…
10 June 1997
When I was at one tourist mecca (which invites you to join in “The Amish Experience” in a top-of-the-line multimedia theater and laser show, even though the Amish don’t even believe in electricity or cars for chrissake—what a contradiction!), I saw a large group of elementary school students having lunch on what was obviously their class field trip. There was one adorable boy who was eating lunch all by himself on the fringes, looking sad, yet looking like he was struggling to maintain some sense of dignity at being alone while everyone else chattered and sat in groups of friends. I just wanted to cry. I felt like hugging him and exclaiming, “I understand! I, too, spent my life on the fringes of my asshole classmates’ warped little hierarchal caste system!! It will get better!” But then I thought to myself, “No, it doesn’t get better! It’s my 23rd birthday and I’m all alone today, just like I’m alone every night!!” Oh, it was too depressing for words.
4 June 1998
I turn 24 today! I’m a little apprehensive and a little hopeful. In a way, it feels right, like it did when it became 1998. 24 is an even number, so it seems harmonious. Not to mention the fact that I lost my virginity in room 24, and I now live in apartment 24. My life is rather hellish right now, but apartment 24 is a safe place. Will age 24 be a safe place? I hope so.
… What will age 24 bring? Love? A sense of peace? A fulfilling career? I’ve come quite far since my last birthday. I’ll reward myself for that and refuse to beat myself up for what I’ve failed to accomplish. As far as I’m concerned, what I’ve achieved more than makes up for what I haven’t done. And there’s always this upcoming year…
I’ll never be 23 again. I’m sliding further and further away from my teen years and the excusable follies of youth, although I’m still quite young—so very young. There is still time to burn before I must be established in life, completely and thoroughly. But what if there isn’t time? Everybody has limited time, limited chances. Wasting both time and chances is almost a sin. What if I don’t get to accomplish anything significant (to myself or others) before I run out of time and chances?
The sun is disappearing. A gray beach is a good beach.
17 June 1999
I thought it was a smart idea—it’s better to nip something before it even becomes a bud than to try and claw your way out of a depression after you’ve crashed down the hole. After we hung up, it occurred to me that maybe my misanthropy is actually the beginnings of a depression. I was startled and distressed by this. My depression generally doesn’t manifest itself in an anti-people sentiment. I mean, yeah, I guess when I’m depressed I often want to be alone, but that’s more so I can sulk and cry and feel black in peace, and not because I hate people so much I want to kill them. But this feels so different from my normal depressions, which can barely even be described. Or maybe it’s just been so long since I’ve had a true depression, I don’t even remember its little nuances. Whatever the root, I’m not happy about this. I’m terrified it will blossom into something more.
18 January 2000
I can’t believe that I’m dealing with all of this at once without cracking, or at least without slitting my wrists. I want to cry so badly, but I don’t think I can. Perhaps the Paxil and St. John’s Wort have made me immune. I think about slitting my wrists…but I honestly don’t think it would be therapeutic for me anymore. It would just hurt, and then I’d have the added aggravation of needing to hide my wrists from my coworkers and rental office workers/potential landlords.
I try telling myself, It could be worse. And I know it could be. I could be living on the streets, or unemployed, or sick. I could be dealing with death after death in my life, like poor Nina H. I am grateful for the things I have. … Slitting my wrists and writing in my journal may have hauled my exhausted, immobilized ass through depression, but they can’t find me a place to live or get me the bank loan that I need.
Yeah, occasionally those old, sweet desires for death resurface, but I really don’t want to die right now. It’s more like my desire to “just go away for a while.” I used to ingest poison partially to self-injure away my pain, and partially because I hoped that I would lapse into a coma from it. So I sort of think about doing that again, but in a way, I’m too tired to even try it. And a little too scared.
19 November 2001
… it is better to be unpopular, strong, independent, and capable of enjoying time alone than to be popular, afraid of being alone, and needy of a group dynamic. I know this, but it doesn’t make it any easier to just sit here knowing that I’m only capable of attracting freaks while A. goes on and on about how many men worship her. It makes me doubt myself and my worth as a person. It makes me depressed because it reminds me that most of the world doesn’t appreciate what I feel are my assets: my dark, witty, self-deprecating sense of humor; my love of staying home and doing low-key, intimate, sometimes wacky activities with friends rather than constantly going to crowded bars and huge parties with a wide social group; my ability to be intense/serious/introverted and yet silly/goofy/friendly; my lack of a desire to drink, smoke, and do drugs; my nonconformity; my creativity. To me, and I guess to my friends, those things make me cool. To the outside world, those things make me a geek and a waste of time—maybe even scary. Or, worse maybe those things make me unremarkable and unmemorable, which is why K. and W. and most of [that] crowd don’t remember ever meeting me after we met several times.
I need to just…I don’t know…I need to just be alone and lick my wounds and try to convince myself that I am an okay person and someday I’ll find a guy who realizes that and finds pale, geeky, cerebral, unique, creative, dark-humored former self-injurers on antidepressants sexy…
6 March 2002
Oh god I feel like I’ve got one foot in the grave of depression and another foot on solid ground. I hate this grinding dichotomy inside of me. If I’m going to be depressed, then I almost want to be solely depressed so I can deal with it and get better. I don’t like these bumpings and rumblings beneath me, barely shirring my calm surface, yet active all the same. What’s worse: staring at the placid Loch Ness, not seeing anything moving in its depths yet knowing that there’s some hideous monster down there, breathing and living and surviving completely hidden, or actually seeing the monster in all its mind-shattering glory?
Part of me wants to just stop everything and go to bed and not wake up. She doesn’t want to work, talk to anybody, clean her apartment, play with her cats, do the laundry, pay bills, and so on and so on. Everything exhausts her. Everything overwhelms her. She doesn’t want a social life. She doesn’t want a relationship. She doesn’t want to look for a new job. She doesn’t want to petsit. She doesn’t want to ever advance above her current mediocre state of working as a lowly coordinator and living in an overpriced basement apartment in the dreary suburb of Beltsville. Forget about taking it one day at a time—she can barely make it one step at a time.
Then there is the other part of me who still sings in the car during her commute, laughs uproariously at the emails sent to her by friends, giggles at the random thoughts she has when driving home from work. She wants to work on her website, find a new job, save money for a trip to Finland, find a boyfriend, learn pottery-making. She feels ashamed of her lack of a social life and wants to improve it. She’s excited to attend the two happy hours planned for this Thursday and next Friday. She’s excited that the scale claims she has lost six pounds.
What does this mean? Do I have some kind of mild multiple personality disorder? Cyclothymia? Or is it just a regular depression gestating in a womb completely reformed by my antidepressants?
23 December 2003
After that, we headed to a bar in Alexandria which has karaoke on weekends. We met up with two of Missy’s fellow Clay Aiken fanatics—Tony and his girlfriend Danielle—and had a fucking blast. Danielle sang one song and Charlie was scheduled to sing one, too, but we had to leave before his name was called because Gates got totally trashed and sick. (After drinking that bottle of wine at the Indian restaurant, she proceeded to drink—at the Rock It Grill—something like three super-strong melonballs, three Long Island iced teas, and a gin and tonic.) I guess it was around 12:30 that we left, because Gates had passed out at the table, prompting numerous people to come up to us and say, “Uh, is your friend okay?” Then she woke up and came very close to vomiting, and we had to rush her to the bathroom, past an angry line of women waiting to use the john, so she could vomit into the toilet, instead of puking on herself at the table.
Anyway, this is a fabulous place and is a haven for drunk misfits. One of them even started breakdancing while two people sang a duet from Grease. Whoever heard of breakdancing to music from Grease??? We had a great time watching those drunk misfits sing their hearts out. Two of the guys I liked best weren’t drunk at all, and they were actually talented. One looked like a meek, gay, mild-mannered businessman, and we expected him to sing a treacly love song. Hell no! He belted out an amazing rendition of Welcome to the Jungle! He sounded just like Axl Rose. And he didn’t even need to use the screen at all—he knew all the words! We were flabbergasted. It was just so surreal to hear “You know where you are? You’re in the jungle, baby, and you’re gonna diiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiie!!!” screeching out of this anonymous cardigan-wearing businessman. Another guy—who looked like a run-of-the-mill frat boy jock—also sounded just like Axl Rose when he bellowed (by heart) a fierce rendition of Paradise City.
There were these two other guys I really liked, and they were both drunk as skunks. The first slurred and gyrated his way through I Fought the Law, and at one point he fell and almost knocked over all the karaoke equipment. Yet the karaoke DJ didn’t force the guy to stop and get off the stage! He let him continue until the very end. When a bunch of people started booing him, he yelled, “Boo yourself!” and repeatedly thrust the microphone into his crotch. The second guy was middle-aged and also did a lot of crotch-grabbing. I can’t even begin to explain to you how hilarious he was as he sang this one Stone Temple Pilots song (I can’t remember the title). For some reason, every time he sang the line “when the dogs begin to smell her,” Missy and I lost control. We were laughing so hard, we were literally in pain and we couldn’t catch our breath. Occasionally one of us would gasp, “It hurts!” or “I…can’t…breathe!” I don’t think I’ve laughed that hard in years, and I am honestly astounded I didn’t pee my pants.
And there was a half-hour or so when the DJ halted the karaoke and played dance music instead, so everyone could crowd onto the tiny dance floor. A surreal moment happened when Santa Claus came into the bar, and after hugging a few people and downing a few drinks, went out into the dance floor and was dancing and grinding to Nelly’s song Hot In Here (“It’s getting hot in here / so take off all your clothes”). It was so strange to see Santa in that position!!
On the way to the bar, Gates repeatedly farted and burped in the car. Her burps were grotesque because they sounded like dry-heaves. Charlie and Missy kept saying to me, “You can’t comprehend how bad her farts smell! … Imagine sewage left outside for three days during the middle of summer. Her farts smell worse than that.” There was one time—a few months ago—when Charlie actually threw up on himself because Gates’s farts were so nasty! They literally made him puke! So, on Saturday night I was actually glad to be anosmic.
5 July 2004
I don’t plan to talk politics with Olivia. Whether she’s two or twelve, I don’t plan to secretly smuggle her into political marches and preach to her about why she needs to be pro-choice and anti-religion and anti-Fox News. It’s fucking ridiculous to do that to someone else’s child. She’s not a puppet—she’ll be entitled to make her own choices. But when she’s older, I want her to know that when it comes to ideology, she will be entitled to make her own choices. If she chooses to be conservative and bigoted … well, I won’t like it, but I’ll accept it, as long as she reaches those viewpoints on her own and isn’t just blindly copying [people]. Too many kids don’t realize that in a world of adult-inflicted rules and restrictions, they do still have freedom of thought. It’s not my goal to inflict my beliefs onto her. All I want to do, when she’s older, is to help her realize that it’s a big world out there—a world full of lots of different people, races, religions, and beliefs. Nobody is uniform and everybody needs to find an ideological belief system that feels right to them. If you don’t like somebody’s belief system, fine, complain about it all you want, but just don’t do it to that person’s face or—even worse—try to convert them to your side.
2 June 2005
Being a Lostphile, I of course am sitting here at my boarding gate at BWI sneaking glances at the other waiting passengers. If we crash on a desert island, what will these people mean to me? Who’s the Jack of this group? The Locke? The Hurley? Will I have to build a new island society with these people? Jesus, I hope not, because every other person is middle-aged and frumpy. There’s a bitchy-looking chick, curled up in on herself, chortling occasionally as she reads Bridget Jones’s Diary. Now she’s making a call on her cell phone. There’s a smiley man with Down syndrome. A granola-crunching sort of couple carrying an REI bag. A teen with casually tousled sea-tossed blonde waves, looking slightly bored and reading Us Weekly. A kinda cute, kinda geeky-looking Indian guy reading a book and listening to an iPod (like me!). An old woman in a wheelchair. A little girl in blue track pants. Are these the people who will die a fiery horrific death with me? Will we face Lostzilla together?
song heard most recently before posting:
That’s It, I Quit, I’m Moving On—Adele
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Tuesday, September 09, 2008
25 years: a retrospective (part 3)
19 September 1983
We have gym and art today. In gym we either have to play baseball or softball. Gross me to the max!!! But I love art!
14 September 1993
I feel so strange right now. So useless. So blah. I want to go do something wild, spontaneous, full of life. I at least want to go take a walk down the tracks or to one of my numerous hiding spots. I feel so caged in by my stressful, worrisome, difficult classes, my lack of friends, and the rigorous daily schedule which I hold myself to relentlessly: everything from when I make my morning coffee as compared to when I put in my contacts, to getting into bed at exactly 11:00 p.m. every night. I get enough sleep but I’m still tired; I don’t get enough food but I’m not hungry (I better be losing major weight here). I’m going to be a failure in all of my classes. I want to go home but I’m almost scared to. 3 ½ weeks to go. Time is racing by mercilessly. September bleeds away into the band aid of time, and if next semester goes by as quickly as this semester, I’ll be abroad before I know what hits me. I’ll be twenty, which is virtually the crest of old age oblivion. Youth and time are pouring through my fingers and I can do nothing to stop it—my hands are shaking too violently to cup and keep them. I keep listening to the same tapes over and over again. Missy had a violent breakdown at dinner on Sunday, and I want to badly to be able to do the same. Even my breakdowns are quiet, hidden, and reserved…like me. I want to scream and curse and throw things. I want to chop my arms into raw meat and thrust them into people’s faces, screaming, “Look at this! Look at ME!”, but they are already looking at me, so that would be nothing new. Everyone is staring at me.
4 March 2003
Anyway, I don’t actually believe in Lent, and not just because I’m a recovered Catholic. I think that if you’re going to give up something to test your willpower, fine, then do it…but don’t do it just because it’s Lent. Do it when nobody else is doing it. Give up sweets during Christmas—now that takes willpower. My feelings toward Lent are similar to my feelings toward Valentine’s Day—you don’t need a day on the calendar to tell you what you should or should not be doing. If you love someone, you show them that you love them every day, not just on V-day. You buy them gifts out of the blue on an ordinary August day. You treat them to a romantic dinner when they are least expecting it in August. You don’t wait until February 14th to be romantic and devoted. Same thing with Lent! Also, I have no desire to give up anything. Life is too short. If something becomes really bad for me, like my shitty diet, or my propensity for not moving from the sofa, then I will work on cutting back on the bad thing or altering my routine, but I won’t abolish anything completely. Nothing in my life is so bad that it merits complete surrender. I’m proud of the fact that I don’t smoke, don’t do drugs, don’t really drink, don’t have casual sex, don’t cheat the government or my creditors, don’t drink a lot of coffee, etc. For the most part, I lead a good life. So why should I engage in self-sacrifice? Haven’t I earned the right to say “screw it” to the whole idea of self-sacrifice? I always say that I’m giving up sex, meat, drugs, and exercise during Lent because I’m a celibate, drug-free vegetarian sloth. So basically, I’m giving up all the things that are already missing from my life!
20 October 1984
I am so mad at Ma. She made me go to this shopping center in the mountains last Sunday. (It turned out pretty neat.) She and d[ad] yelled at me last Saturday and this evening. She told her friend Sissy that I’m a immature ten-year-old. Nanny and Papa stopped report card money, and I’m broke. Kris threw Emily around. Now she’s gone too far. I hate them! Kelly got her preemie—Skipper. We went to the D.Q. Nanny and Papa came for supper on Thursday. I made Papa a pillow. Kris was home Thursday. I was home last Friday. Ma’s blaming me of having my shopping cart in the middle of my room. We got a math decimals cartridge for Terri. I’m mad at everyone. I could only talk to you. Will you please help me? Sometimes I feel as [if] I don’t belong here. I feel as though no one likes me. I’m very unhappy.
P.S. Fluffy got a haircut. She’s really cute. Pat says sometime Fluffy might go blind. I hope not.
24 January 1994
I feel so blah. I guess it’s just depression and wariness over the knowledge that I’ll be back to school in less than a week. I’ve hardly done anything over this break, and I can’t even spend my final days hiking, going to Middle Creek, driving through Gretna, or visiting the Swatty, because the roads are still so awful. I can’t believe how heinous this winter has been, especially since I was honestly anticipating a mild winter after last year’s kicker. I guess the joke’s on me. “I don’t know…if January will hold together the bones of need…” I don’t know if I’ll survive this winter, this black February that’s to come. It scares me; I feel so weak. God, I want to see Terry. I hope my pictures of him came out okay. I feel bored, alone, stir-crazy.
“There must be something terribly wrong with me…”
10 December 2004
I guess I’m feeling a little cranky today. It’s dark, gloomy, foggy, and drizzly outside. Normally I don’t mind gloomy days at all, because they remind me of England and because I just think, darker, sadder things are beautiful, but it’s the end of the week and I’m tired and worn out and today gives me yet another compelling reason to want to stay on the sofa, wrapped in a blanket, vegging. I’ll try not to complain, though, because I hate when people whine incessantly about bad weather and winter. I should consider this journal entry my manifesto in defense of bad weather and winter.
... And winter is a necessary thing, too. The earth needs an opportunity to rest and regain its strength for the lush bloom of spring and summer. Humans understand their own need to sleep, yet they fail to understand that the earth needs sleep, too. Besides, without the distracting, chaotic bustle of leaves and flowers, we get to see the earth stripped down to its barest, finest form, and that gives a glimpse of an otherwise overlooked source of beauty. It forces us to notice the overlooked. It heightens our senses in a different way. We notice silence and the way the sky grows luminescent at night when there is reflective snow on the ground. We notice the bones of trees. We notice how nature is suddenly calm.
Besides, don’t most of us raised in northern climes have fond childhood memories of winter? Snow was magical and mysterious. It transformed the landscape. It allowed us to do fun things like go sledding. Okay, so now snow also means backbreaking shoveling and crappy commutes, but the magic is still there! We just choose to ignore it. Just because I’m an adult doesn’t mean I’m not allowed to go sledding or throw a snowball. And it certainly doesn’t mean that I can’t still see snow as being wondrous and beautiful.
And anybody can appreciate the overt, undeniable beauty of spring, summer, and fall, but it takes a truly special—and aware—person to appreciate the beauty of winter. It’s like the difference between the most classically pretty girl in school (for instance, the blonde-haired, blue-eyed, slender cheerleader) and the unconventional beauty in the shadows…
21 October 1985
I was at the school again today. That seems to be the new hangout place. I hate Scott and Christian. They’re always criticizing me. Ew, it’s Boyer! (that’s all anybody calls me) or, Hey, Boyer! I dig your bike! Ha! I don’t need them. Last night I saw the Pound Puppies in a cartoon at Nanny’s. They are so cute. I want one so bad! I’ll call him Flannel.
12 August 1995
Missy, Gates, Charlie, and I went to Laura’s, sans Terry, but she wasn’t home, so we went to [lead singer of Live] Ed Kowalcyk’s neighbourhood and stole garbage from the house that we thought belonged to him. Once we rooted through it, we found that we were sadly off-base. It actually belonged to a sick, probably elderly couple named Hazel and Francis Card.
8 July 2005
How sad that it always takes something like this to make me and others appreciate how fucking delicate we are, how delicate the balance is between comfort and catastrophe. You know I’m not religious in the least, but I recognize that everything in the world is a miracle in its own way. The fact that the universe and human beings manage to exist at all—and not only exist but thrive—is miraculous in the purest sense of the word.
Earth floats in a sea of cosmic debris and chaos, and yet it stays alive. One extra degree of tilt on our axis and everything could end. We are perched on that ledge of annihilation and yet we don’t drop over the edge. We continue our languid twirl.
All those chattering cells, spinning in their proper orbits in the groundwater of blood, doing what they need to do to keep the human body working. All those neurons firing at proper intervals.
The growth of trees, the bloom of flowers, the way the sun and rain may bring ruin through drought and flood and yet, in the end, they manage to trade places and restore balance.
There is wonder everywhere, for those who bother to look. But the thing is…we don’t look. Or else we only look occasionally, and then turn away, bored. And amidst all the wonder, such waste…such dreadful, sickening waste. The things people are capable of doing to each other!
Mother Nature isn’t perfect; the Boxing Day tsunami proved that better than anything. So you’d think that in the face of that, humans could maybe work together and be good to each other so at least they’d have something beneficent and sustaining to carry them through Mother Nature’s psychotic episodes. And there IS goodness among mankind: I see it, I know of it. But there’s so much horror there, too. The gamut runs from genocide to pickpockets. So much barbarism in such flawed little creatures.
22 June 1986
I did go to church today. D. and I went to see Karate Kid II. It was very good. Then we went in the mall to a couple selling stamps. I started collecting them. We went stamp crazy. I relaxed the rest of today and Ma and Daddy dropped us at Nanny and Papa’s while they went to Hershey. Tonight something terrible happened. My temperature was 103 and I thought I was gonna die. Ma put me in a cold tub and then after being in the air conditioner it helped.
7 April 2006
Oh Christ, I hate losing my mind over a boy. It really sucks. I just wish I could figure out how to shut up my yammering, stupid heart!
January 22, 1983
Fluffy is sick today. Daddy said she threw up and pooped at the same time. She pooped on daddy’s flashlight. Last night I watched Alligator. It was decent.
October 24, 1984
I’m working on Terri. Or I’m supposed to be. Barbara is taking charge complaining and ohhh! I hate her. Just wait when she breaks Terri. I’ll kill her!
July 14, 1985
Today I took Barb to the pool. Oh God, I burst crying because she and I were going to ride to Valley Beach on our bikes. But no, my parents won’t let me ride anywhere but the “simple trusty streets of boring Lebanon.” See, she’s got a 10 speed and didn’t say stuff like “oh I have a bike and you don’t.” But stuff like “switching gears is hard” and stuff like talking about 10 speeds and saying “you know.” My parents said if she says “mean” stuff they’ll call her parents! They think that always helps but it just makes the kid more embarrassed than ever!!! I don’t want to be with anyone but you. I can express my feelings to only you. Can’t my dumb parents see I’m growing up?
June 4, 1986
My Birthday! Almost everyone sang to me at lunch! Today was okay. I got to help in cleaning out the room. We had an award ceremony and I got a certificate for being a good student and another one for reading. Amy still came over. We had Gumby cake, ice-cream, and pizza. We also saw the movie TOP GUN. It was boring!
June 4, 1987
This morning everybody was yelling and singing Happy Birthday to me. Then Bridget, Sevannah, and D. ran to the office so they could announce it. Embarrassing!! Mom gave me a little party. There was cake and I got a new purse as a present.
June 4, 1988
Finally, officially, I’m fourteen! Most of all, I survived! Yes, I managed to survive my long, grueling thirteenth year, and live! On Friday, Wendy had my name announced over the loud speaker. It was the only one read, and they said it quite loud—so everyone heard. In first period English, everyone said “Happy birthday” to me and then, they all sang! I heard more “happy birthdays” throughout the day. In home ec, our free lab was really fun. (In our group, at least.) Everyone agreed that it was a sort of party for me. The food we made was disgusting, though.
15 November 1989
Sometimes I wonder if indeed the world would be better off without me. Everybody is staring. You come to school in a pensive mood, and they all look at you like an exhibit, that maybe you’re not real. Suddenly they care, because you might do something that they will feel guilty for. Please leave me alone. I can’t tell you! I can’t tell you. I think I’m hyping myself up for nothing. Anyway, it’s just empty gestures, empty concern.
I almost want to laugh. I’m sane! Really, I am! It gets me angry that people take peace of mind and serenity for granted. Sometimes I feel I’ve gone mad. Every person’s laugh is about me, every whisper is mocking my existence. Those around me, endure me. Perhaps they would never even hear my screams. If I’m invisible, a phantom, then that’s how I shall act…
5 July 1990
…they all think I’m crazy but I’m not. I hate them all so much; how they enjoy turning around and stabbing me in the back. They probably all hate me and want me to die and I don’t care. There’s no one to trust anymore. Today I was especially angry. So upset that while walking I was ready to come home and just scream “FUCK” or put a knife through my wrist.
31 January 1991
I’m sick of everything; I hate school, I hate musical, I hate everybody, I hate geometry, I hate Mr. Stuckey for making me feel stupid. Some days I know I’ll die when I wake up, and sometimes I can handle it. I worry so much about everything. When I walk through the halls I have panic attacks and become so paranoid that everybody’s talking about me. Nobody can like me
And this is the philosophical finding: these moods I get…they catapult me into unreality. They hit just like that. I go under the waves; I can’t talk or love, or laugh, and it’s like worms eating my soul. It’s the Bell Jar. That’s what it is. It descends on me, with its “stifling distortions,” and when it’s down I’m numb and cold and can’t breathe. This is how Sylvia Plath described it—”To the person inside the Bell Jar, blank and stopped as a dead baby, the world itself is a bad dream.” But mine isn’t really the Bell Jar…it’s the Shadowman. And in those moods he stalks me. Oh boy. And I thought monsters only existed in childhood’s world. The wall between there, and here, was opened…something came through.
10 May 1992
I don’t know. It’s all so fucking messed. I wish I wasn’t so afraid of everything. This has got to stop, as it’s getting to the point where I’m terrified to do anything, much less prepare for the “Great College Experience” in August. Sometimes I’m even too scared to just call my friends. I wonder what the hell’s wrong with me…what mental disorder, what psychoses, what ghosts haunt my brain. I’m caging myself in, and I’m unable to stop. Oh God … there’s so much wrong with me! I live in a delusion-packed world, I’m a totally different person with my friends than I am with me (they think I’m a silly, clueless space cadet), I’m absolutely terrified to do things like work or go out with guys (thus, to my mother, I am disgustingly “lazy” and abnormal), and I’ve begun talking to myself (out loud, no less) all the time. That all sounds so stupid, insane, and exaggerated, but it’s not. It’s the truth. And it’s killing me.
31 January 1993
…it only reminds me about how unhappy I am. It’s as if I can’t escape from this pain, no matter how hard I try. This great debate whirls in my head: should I or should I not commit suicide? At times like these it is so damn tempting. There’s nothing to look forward to, no hope to grasp. But the idea of suicide…of me actually going through with it…scares me beyond comprehension. I don’t even know if I could go through with it. I doubt I could. Then again, it would be ten times easier to kill myself than to continue existing as I am. I don’t fit in anywhere, no matter how hard I try. …what should I do? How am I going to survive? Who or what is going to pull me through this? If I wouldn’t kill myself, I could just give a half-hearted attempt, so I would be pulled from here and stuck in some mental hospital, where I could avoid life for a while. I don’t want to fuck up my chances of going to England, though. I’m so scared. What if I make the wrong choice? What if I commit suicide, and then destroy future chances for happiness which just aren’t evident right now?
I’m about to start crying…
14 March 1994
I’ve been suicidal since I was like fourteen years old, and I’ve never had such a chilling terror of it, like I did in my dream. Maybe because it’s so potentially close now…when it comes down to the wire, I lose my dark bravery and run like hell, my bowels releasing the whole way there. Maybe it’s because I’m in good sorts right now, despite and impossible psychology test on Wednesday. I’m in good sorts because I’m excited to see Heather again, to go home on break, to hang out with the whole gang two weekends from now. Plus, I got a B+ on my astronomy test. I know that beyond all this false light, the shadows hang; however, I’m not really thinking about all that now. I’m thinking of this sweet light, this sudden ability to breathe…it feels so good. The thought that I might have to kill myself in a few weeks makes me feel almost sick. But I have to do it, you know, if I can’t go abroad. I couldn’t even stay here if I wanted to, because I won’t have a place to live, and I won’t be registered in any classes. I thought about saving up my money this summer and then running away, but I know that wouldn’t work. I probably couldn’t even legally get a job in London. So, once again I come back to “an attempt,” only I wouldn’t know how to go about doing that. Slit my wrists in the tub? Take a load of sleeping pills? How would I direct my family’s attention to me in enough time to save me? They’d probably hate me, anyway, because pills and wrist-slashing are so lame, so cowardly. I have to do it. But I’m so afraid. Oh god, I am so very afraid.
23 February 1995
There’s a part of me unaccessed by any of them. A part I haven’t fully acknowledged to my diaries or to myself. I think that something strange and beautiful and frightening is breathing in that little square of hidden black. I’m feeling for its pulse and when I find it, I’ll open its vein and let it bleed out, but only on myself. I still have to keep something hidden from my friends, in order to protect myself.
22 August 1996
I really hate myself for not writing more, for holding back when I can’t afford to do so. Maybe I gave this analogy already, I don’t know, but I picture myself in a coffin-like box whose sides are throbbing black walls of agony. I lie as still as possible, rigidly constricting my arms and legs to my body so that they don’t accidentally brush against the walls and send pain ricocheting through my body. It’s hard to describe how I am now…I am just walking carefully, rigidly through my days, not thinking. I cannot think of anything at all. I daydream about England and my future a lot, but I don’t think about Terry, or this past terrible year, or analyze myself too much. I keep my mind strangely blank and constricted, focusing only on the future. Otherwise, I’m afraid, I’ll just snap.
Fall 1987
I know I didn’t write in a while but I’ve been busy. Oh, diary I feel so terrible. Nobody likes me anymore. Wendy called and kept begging me to come over. Mom finally agreed angrily after giving me another one of her lectures. About how I have only 1 friend and how I’m so sloppy and have no social life. I’m a loser, that’s what she’s trying to say. I have a good group of friends at school but what I need is people to hang out with me. Friends. Just good friends. My life is such a mess right now. No friends, no family, no boyfriend, no life, nothing. I don’t even like my poetry anymore. My life is over. Worst of all, I just can’t stop loving M.G. I’m building my life into a fantasy and I can’t take it any more. I need help.
14 September 1995
I wish I could tear the darkness out of me … stuff [it] in a box and bury [it] in the mountains, in those cold blue mountains that have held me captive for so long.
15 May 2001
But at the back of my mind was this nagging voice saying, “You were miserable because of him and now you’re happy because things are okay with him, happy because he graced you with a 5-minute conversation … happy because of some stupid little trip to the beach. Why can’t you be happy for better reasons? Why can’t you be happy for genuine reasons?” I feel partially disgusted with myself. Disgusted that I can’t be happy and unhappy on my own terms, rather than because of a single guy, or because of friends, family members, or coworkers who let me down. I’m almost 27…when will I get over my propensity for being so affected by the people around me? I’m not going to say that I feel like I am the puppet and they are the ones pulling the strings, because that connotes a deliberate maliciousness on their end—a willingness and desire to control me. I really believe that nobody understands how much effect they have on me, how much they can whack me in the kneecaps with what they say and do or don’t say and don’t do. The problem lies with me. I am too damn sensitive.
And the bottom line, of course, is that am just sick of mood swings…up and down, up and down. As if, after 14+ years of unipolarity, I am suddenly blossoming into bipolarhood. … And I am also tired of the weight of depression. I hate being reminded that I haven’t yet learned how to kill it. I sedate it every night [with antidepressants] and trick myself into believing that it is as good as dead. Then something happens to remind me, “Hey, it’s not dead. It’s still inside of you. It can’t sleep forever. It’s going to come back.”
It’s going to come back.
How the hell do you run away from something that is padlocked inside of you? Can I reach inside my chest and yank it out, this malignant, throbbing, slippery, deformed mass, and toss it into a fireplace somewhere?
For the most part, no, I don’t feel overtly depressed. But I feel like it is leaching into my bedrock like contaminated groundwater. It is becoming more difficult for me to focus on little things. I am procrastinating more and more. Everything—no matter how mundane, like bill-paying, grocery shopping, and putting away dishes—becomes a hill to climb. I don’t want to talk to anybody when they phone, although I do. I don’t want to be social. It is summed up best by Caroline Kettlewell:
Am I slowing to a crawl? Am I icing down to the barest possible level of functioning? I am young and healthy, and yet I live each day just to come home at night, veg, and then go to sleep. When I wake up in the morning, one of my first thoughts is, “How long until I can go to sleep again?” It reminds me of college, when I would frequently take sleeping pills early in the evening. Not because I was addicted, not because I was sleep-disordered. It was just that no amount of sleep was enough. I didn’t want to sleep the 8-10 hours my body would grant me each night. I wanted to sleep 24 hours a day, because that was the only thing that gave me a temporary respite from my depression. If I couldn’t die, the next best thing was to sleep, sleep, sleep, and pray for something to put me in a coma. At a minimum, I wanted to drop out of life at 6pm and not have to worry about it until 8am. I wanted to disappear as frequently as I could. Is that what I am returning to now? An all-encompassing, organic desire to just disappear? To cut back on my daily activities until there is nothing left but a catatonic state of complete inactivity that renders me essentially invisible?
January 28, 1986
Today, the space shuttle Challenger blew up! It’s a tragedy because there were 6 astronauts and that schoolteacher Christa McAuliffe. I’m sad. They all died and we were all surprised and shocked.
May 2, 1984
My braces got tightened. We got SUPER BREAKOUT!
28 December 2004
On Sunday, en route home, I stopped at Heather’s house for a little while. Elizabeth and Whitney were playing Breakout on the Playstation, and I made no move to play because I knew I would suck if I tried to use anything other than an Atari paddle. Elizabeth kicked Whitney and Heather’s asses, and I was thinking, “No way will I allow my ass to get kicked at Breakout by someone born in 1995.” After, all I am the former Super Breakout Queen of the mid-’80s. So yesterday I dusted off my Atari set and played Super Breakout for the first time in like two years. The first score I got was decent, but I knew I could do better. Sure enough, within a few rounds I was a killing machine, topping out at 1200 points (the highest I saw Elizabeth get was 250 points) on four levels. That’s right, the Breakout bitch is back in town! After I blew on my smoking paddles, I sat back smugly and said, “Beat that, Elizabeth.” I’ll gladly take Elizabeth on, but only if we play with my Atari set. No way will I attempt that game with the ridiculous Playstation controller. It’s Atari paddles or bust, baby!
6 April 2000
What I was thinking about on my way to work this morning: loneliness, and how I am lonely at such a core depth, I don’t even feel it. I discussed vague details of this with Annida recently, and may’ve written about it in my journal, too. I compare it to that experience of being so hungry, you don’t even feel hungry anymore, or being so exhausted, you don’t even feel tired anymore. I feel like maybe there’s this membrane-stratosphere of things like hunger, tiredness, loneliness, hatred, etc., that surrounds us, and when you get temporarily tangled up in it, that’s when you feel those pangs clearly. But sometimes you push past the stratosphere, and you’re in this clean, bare room that is pure hunger, pure tiredness, pure loneliness, etc., and in that room you are consumed by the tiredness, loneliness, whatever—it invades your cells, you breathe it, you sweat it…and yet you don’t feel it because you are past that stratosphere of feeling. That’s how I feel about loneliness. I don’t feel lonely. I like being alone—always have—and get antsy when I go too long without getting some alone-time. But I think that at my core, I am pure loneliness. It’s a deep, engulfing loneliness…one that surpasses feelings like, “Oh, I feel lonely because I haven’t spoken to or seen anyone all weekend long” or “I haven’t done anything socially in a month.” It is beyond that. It is, “I want to spend my life with someone. I want to wake up in the middle of the night and roll over and feel his warm skin breathing next to me. I want to have someone who is first in my mind to call when something great happens. I want someone who will just as willingly accompany me to the Kennedy Center to see an opera as to Blockbuster to rent a cheesy horror flick. I want somebody who will dine with me at both Burger King and some ultra-fancy restaurant, where we will giggle at the rich people.” I don’t have that, and so I ache for it, and the aching is loneliness at a core, cellular level. The loneliness is a second skin around me, and it is so all-encompassing, I can’t feel it. So I don’t feel lonely, even though that’s all I am. I don’t know if this makes sense or not.
March 1992
If I was to die tonight I could handle it, for I am perfectly happy. I lay on the browned needle-grass on the smooth roll of a large hill in the midst of this Lancaster park. There’s something brilliant and pure about being able to fromp barefoot through the cold mud, twisting madly on the hillside, laughing and dancing and being free. Michelle is blowing massive color-fringed bubbles into the perfect spring-like day. They hover against the graying sky like perfect dreams, then pop. Why must they always pop?
Jessica is sketching, Jen is strumming the guitar, Shakti is reading and playing with Terry’s yin-yang balls, Laura and Jen and Terry went to sail a message on the pond, Greg and the crew are flinging a Frisbee into the carefree abandon of the wind.
I am laying on my stomach feeling my elbows grow wet. All around us, on this hill, are the wiry brown veins of mid-winter trees, throwing their proud breasts against this torrent of spring.
“Alas, I suppose I am turning into a God,” it was said. I could turn into a god of stone right here, if I allowed myself. I hate the thought of returning to the hated, filthy snatches of life tomorrow. No time, no time. School, musical, quiz bowl, meetings, obligations, and more and more and more…I just want to be me. Me. I want to forget about everything for a while.
song heard most recently before posting:
Nowhere Fast—The Smiths
We have gym and art today. In gym we either have to play baseball or softball. Gross me to the max!!! But I love art!
14 September 1993
I feel so strange right now. So useless. So blah. I want to go do something wild, spontaneous, full of life. I at least want to go take a walk down the tracks or to one of my numerous hiding spots. I feel so caged in by my stressful, worrisome, difficult classes, my lack of friends, and the rigorous daily schedule which I hold myself to relentlessly: everything from when I make my morning coffee as compared to when I put in my contacts, to getting into bed at exactly 11:00 p.m. every night. I get enough sleep but I’m still tired; I don’t get enough food but I’m not hungry (I better be losing major weight here). I’m going to be a failure in all of my classes. I want to go home but I’m almost scared to. 3 ½ weeks to go. Time is racing by mercilessly. September bleeds away into the band aid of time, and if next semester goes by as quickly as this semester, I’ll be abroad before I know what hits me. I’ll be twenty, which is virtually the crest of old age oblivion. Youth and time are pouring through my fingers and I can do nothing to stop it—my hands are shaking too violently to cup and keep them. I keep listening to the same tapes over and over again. Missy had a violent breakdown at dinner on Sunday, and I want to badly to be able to do the same. Even my breakdowns are quiet, hidden, and reserved…like me. I want to scream and curse and throw things. I want to chop my arms into raw meat and thrust them into people’s faces, screaming, “Look at this! Look at ME!”, but they are already looking at me, so that would be nothing new. Everyone is staring at me.
4 March 2003
Anyway, I don’t actually believe in Lent, and not just because I’m a recovered Catholic. I think that if you’re going to give up something to test your willpower, fine, then do it…but don’t do it just because it’s Lent. Do it when nobody else is doing it. Give up sweets during Christmas—now that takes willpower. My feelings toward Lent are similar to my feelings toward Valentine’s Day—you don’t need a day on the calendar to tell you what you should or should not be doing. If you love someone, you show them that you love them every day, not just on V-day. You buy them gifts out of the blue on an ordinary August day. You treat them to a romantic dinner when they are least expecting it in August. You don’t wait until February 14th to be romantic and devoted. Same thing with Lent! Also, I have no desire to give up anything. Life is too short. If something becomes really bad for me, like my shitty diet, or my propensity for not moving from the sofa, then I will work on cutting back on the bad thing or altering my routine, but I won’t abolish anything completely. Nothing in my life is so bad that it merits complete surrender. I’m proud of the fact that I don’t smoke, don’t do drugs, don’t really drink, don’t have casual sex, don’t cheat the government or my creditors, don’t drink a lot of coffee, etc. For the most part, I lead a good life. So why should I engage in self-sacrifice? Haven’t I earned the right to say “screw it” to the whole idea of self-sacrifice? I always say that I’m giving up sex, meat, drugs, and exercise during Lent because I’m a celibate, drug-free vegetarian sloth. So basically, I’m giving up all the things that are already missing from my life!
20 October 1984
I am so mad at Ma. She made me go to this shopping center in the mountains last Sunday. (It turned out pretty neat.) She and d[ad] yelled at me last Saturday and this evening. She told her friend Sissy that I’m a immature ten-year-old. Nanny and Papa stopped report card money, and I’m broke. Kris threw Emily around. Now she’s gone too far. I hate them! Kelly got her preemie—Skipper. We went to the D.Q. Nanny and Papa came for supper on Thursday. I made Papa a pillow. Kris was home Thursday. I was home last Friday. Ma’s blaming me of having my shopping cart in the middle of my room. We got a math decimals cartridge for Terri. I’m mad at everyone. I could only talk to you. Will you please help me? Sometimes I feel as [if] I don’t belong here. I feel as though no one likes me. I’m very unhappy.
P.S. Fluffy got a haircut. She’s really cute. Pat says sometime Fluffy might go blind. I hope not.
24 January 1994
I feel so blah. I guess it’s just depression and wariness over the knowledge that I’ll be back to school in less than a week. I’ve hardly done anything over this break, and I can’t even spend my final days hiking, going to Middle Creek, driving through Gretna, or visiting the Swatty, because the roads are still so awful. I can’t believe how heinous this winter has been, especially since I was honestly anticipating a mild winter after last year’s kicker. I guess the joke’s on me. “I don’t know…if January will hold together the bones of need…” I don’t know if I’ll survive this winter, this black February that’s to come. It scares me; I feel so weak. God, I want to see Terry. I hope my pictures of him came out okay. I feel bored, alone, stir-crazy.
“There must be something terribly wrong with me…”
10 December 2004
I guess I’m feeling a little cranky today. It’s dark, gloomy, foggy, and drizzly outside. Normally I don’t mind gloomy days at all, because they remind me of England and because I just think, darker, sadder things are beautiful, but it’s the end of the week and I’m tired and worn out and today gives me yet another compelling reason to want to stay on the sofa, wrapped in a blanket, vegging. I’ll try not to complain, though, because I hate when people whine incessantly about bad weather and winter. I should consider this journal entry my manifesto in defense of bad weather and winter.
... And winter is a necessary thing, too. The earth needs an opportunity to rest and regain its strength for the lush bloom of spring and summer. Humans understand their own need to sleep, yet they fail to understand that the earth needs sleep, too. Besides, without the distracting, chaotic bustle of leaves and flowers, we get to see the earth stripped down to its barest, finest form, and that gives a glimpse of an otherwise overlooked source of beauty. It forces us to notice the overlooked. It heightens our senses in a different way. We notice silence and the way the sky grows luminescent at night when there is reflective snow on the ground. We notice the bones of trees. We notice how nature is suddenly calm.
Besides, don’t most of us raised in northern climes have fond childhood memories of winter? Snow was magical and mysterious. It transformed the landscape. It allowed us to do fun things like go sledding. Okay, so now snow also means backbreaking shoveling and crappy commutes, but the magic is still there! We just choose to ignore it. Just because I’m an adult doesn’t mean I’m not allowed to go sledding or throw a snowball. And it certainly doesn’t mean that I can’t still see snow as being wondrous and beautiful.
And anybody can appreciate the overt, undeniable beauty of spring, summer, and fall, but it takes a truly special—and aware—person to appreciate the beauty of winter. It’s like the difference between the most classically pretty girl in school (for instance, the blonde-haired, blue-eyed, slender cheerleader) and the unconventional beauty in the shadows…
21 October 1985
I was at the school again today. That seems to be the new hangout place. I hate Scott and Christian. They’re always criticizing me. Ew, it’s Boyer! (that’s all anybody calls me) or, Hey, Boyer! I dig your bike! Ha! I don’t need them. Last night I saw the Pound Puppies in a cartoon at Nanny’s. They are so cute. I want one so bad! I’ll call him Flannel.
12 August 1995
Missy, Gates, Charlie, and I went to Laura’s, sans Terry, but she wasn’t home, so we went to [lead singer of Live] Ed Kowalcyk’s neighbourhood and stole garbage from the house that we thought belonged to him. Once we rooted through it, we found that we were sadly off-base. It actually belonged to a sick, probably elderly couple named Hazel and Francis Card.
8 July 2005
How sad that it always takes something like this to make me and others appreciate how fucking delicate we are, how delicate the balance is between comfort and catastrophe. You know I’m not religious in the least, but I recognize that everything in the world is a miracle in its own way. The fact that the universe and human beings manage to exist at all—and not only exist but thrive—is miraculous in the purest sense of the word.
Earth floats in a sea of cosmic debris and chaos, and yet it stays alive. One extra degree of tilt on our axis and everything could end. We are perched on that ledge of annihilation and yet we don’t drop over the edge. We continue our languid twirl.
All those chattering cells, spinning in their proper orbits in the groundwater of blood, doing what they need to do to keep the human body working. All those neurons firing at proper intervals.
The growth of trees, the bloom of flowers, the way the sun and rain may bring ruin through drought and flood and yet, in the end, they manage to trade places and restore balance.
There is wonder everywhere, for those who bother to look. But the thing is…we don’t look. Or else we only look occasionally, and then turn away, bored. And amidst all the wonder, such waste…such dreadful, sickening waste. The things people are capable of doing to each other!
Mother Nature isn’t perfect; the Boxing Day tsunami proved that better than anything. So you’d think that in the face of that, humans could maybe work together and be good to each other so at least they’d have something beneficent and sustaining to carry them through Mother Nature’s psychotic episodes. And there IS goodness among mankind: I see it, I know of it. But there’s so much horror there, too. The gamut runs from genocide to pickpockets. So much barbarism in such flawed little creatures.
22 June 1986
I did go to church today. D. and I went to see Karate Kid II. It was very good. Then we went in the mall to a couple selling stamps. I started collecting them. We went stamp crazy. I relaxed the rest of today and Ma and Daddy dropped us at Nanny and Papa’s while they went to Hershey. Tonight something terrible happened. My temperature was 103 and I thought I was gonna die. Ma put me in a cold tub and then after being in the air conditioner it helped.
7 April 2006
Oh Christ, I hate losing my mind over a boy. It really sucks. I just wish I could figure out how to shut up my yammering, stupid heart!
January 22, 1983
Fluffy is sick today. Daddy said she threw up and pooped at the same time. She pooped on daddy’s flashlight. Last night I watched Alligator. It was decent.
October 24, 1984
I’m working on Terri. Or I’m supposed to be. Barbara is taking charge complaining and ohhh! I hate her. Just wait when she breaks Terri. I’ll kill her!
July 14, 1985
Today I took Barb to the pool. Oh God, I burst crying because she and I were going to ride to Valley Beach on our bikes. But no, my parents won’t let me ride anywhere but the “simple trusty streets of boring Lebanon.” See, she’s got a 10 speed and didn’t say stuff like “oh I have a bike and you don’t.” But stuff like “switching gears is hard” and stuff like talking about 10 speeds and saying “you know.” My parents said if she says “mean” stuff they’ll call her parents! They think that always helps but it just makes the kid more embarrassed than ever!!! I don’t want to be with anyone but you. I can express my feelings to only you. Can’t my dumb parents see I’m growing up?
June 4, 1986
My Birthday! Almost everyone sang to me at lunch! Today was okay. I got to help in cleaning out the room. We had an award ceremony and I got a certificate for being a good student and another one for reading. Amy still came over. We had Gumby cake, ice-cream, and pizza. We also saw the movie TOP GUN. It was boring!
June 4, 1987
This morning everybody was yelling and singing Happy Birthday to me. Then Bridget, Sevannah, and D. ran to the office so they could announce it. Embarrassing!! Mom gave me a little party. There was cake and I got a new purse as a present.
June 4, 1988
Finally, officially, I’m fourteen! Most of all, I survived! Yes, I managed to survive my long, grueling thirteenth year, and live! On Friday, Wendy had my name announced over the loud speaker. It was the only one read, and they said it quite loud—so everyone heard. In first period English, everyone said “Happy birthday” to me and then, they all sang! I heard more “happy birthdays” throughout the day. In home ec, our free lab was really fun. (In our group, at least.) Everyone agreed that it was a sort of party for me. The food we made was disgusting, though.
15 November 1989
Sometimes I wonder if indeed the world would be better off without me. Everybody is staring. You come to school in a pensive mood, and they all look at you like an exhibit, that maybe you’re not real. Suddenly they care, because you might do something that they will feel guilty for. Please leave me alone. I can’t tell you! I can’t tell you. I think I’m hyping myself up for nothing. Anyway, it’s just empty gestures, empty concern.
I almost want to laugh. I’m sane! Really, I am! It gets me angry that people take peace of mind and serenity for granted. Sometimes I feel I’ve gone mad. Every person’s laugh is about me, every whisper is mocking my existence. Those around me, endure me. Perhaps they would never even hear my screams. If I’m invisible, a phantom, then that’s how I shall act…
5 July 1990
…they all think I’m crazy but I’m not. I hate them all so much; how they enjoy turning around and stabbing me in the back. They probably all hate me and want me to die and I don’t care. There’s no one to trust anymore. Today I was especially angry. So upset that while walking I was ready to come home and just scream “FUCK” or put a knife through my wrist.
31 January 1991
I’m sick of everything; I hate school, I hate musical, I hate everybody, I hate geometry, I hate Mr. Stuckey for making me feel stupid. Some days I know I’ll die when I wake up, and sometimes I can handle it. I worry so much about everything. When I walk through the halls I have panic attacks and become so paranoid that everybody’s talking about me. Nobody can like me
And this is the philosophical finding: these moods I get…they catapult me into unreality. They hit just like that. I go under the waves; I can’t talk or love, or laugh, and it’s like worms eating my soul. It’s the Bell Jar. That’s what it is. It descends on me, with its “stifling distortions,” and when it’s down I’m numb and cold and can’t breathe. This is how Sylvia Plath described it—”To the person inside the Bell Jar, blank and stopped as a dead baby, the world itself is a bad dream.” But mine isn’t really the Bell Jar…it’s the Shadowman. And in those moods he stalks me. Oh boy. And I thought monsters only existed in childhood’s world. The wall between there, and here, was opened…something came through.
10 May 1992
I don’t know. It’s all so fucking messed. I wish I wasn’t so afraid of everything. This has got to stop, as it’s getting to the point where I’m terrified to do anything, much less prepare for the “Great College Experience” in August. Sometimes I’m even too scared to just call my friends. I wonder what the hell’s wrong with me…what mental disorder, what psychoses, what ghosts haunt my brain. I’m caging myself in, and I’m unable to stop. Oh God … there’s so much wrong with me! I live in a delusion-packed world, I’m a totally different person with my friends than I am with me (they think I’m a silly, clueless space cadet), I’m absolutely terrified to do things like work or go out with guys (thus, to my mother, I am disgustingly “lazy” and abnormal), and I’ve begun talking to myself (out loud, no less) all the time. That all sounds so stupid, insane, and exaggerated, but it’s not. It’s the truth. And it’s killing me.
31 January 1993
…it only reminds me about how unhappy I am. It’s as if I can’t escape from this pain, no matter how hard I try. This great debate whirls in my head: should I or should I not commit suicide? At times like these it is so damn tempting. There’s nothing to look forward to, no hope to grasp. But the idea of suicide…of me actually going through with it…scares me beyond comprehension. I don’t even know if I could go through with it. I doubt I could. Then again, it would be ten times easier to kill myself than to continue existing as I am. I don’t fit in anywhere, no matter how hard I try. …what should I do? How am I going to survive? Who or what is going to pull me through this? If I wouldn’t kill myself, I could just give a half-hearted attempt, so I would be pulled from here and stuck in some mental hospital, where I could avoid life for a while. I don’t want to fuck up my chances of going to England, though. I’m so scared. What if I make the wrong choice? What if I commit suicide, and then destroy future chances for happiness which just aren’t evident right now?
I’m about to start crying…
14 March 1994
I’ve been suicidal since I was like fourteen years old, and I’ve never had such a chilling terror of it, like I did in my dream. Maybe because it’s so potentially close now…when it comes down to the wire, I lose my dark bravery and run like hell, my bowels releasing the whole way there. Maybe it’s because I’m in good sorts right now, despite and impossible psychology test on Wednesday. I’m in good sorts because I’m excited to see Heather again, to go home on break, to hang out with the whole gang two weekends from now. Plus, I got a B+ on my astronomy test. I know that beyond all this false light, the shadows hang; however, I’m not really thinking about all that now. I’m thinking of this sweet light, this sudden ability to breathe…it feels so good. The thought that I might have to kill myself in a few weeks makes me feel almost sick. But I have to do it, you know, if I can’t go abroad. I couldn’t even stay here if I wanted to, because I won’t have a place to live, and I won’t be registered in any classes. I thought about saving up my money this summer and then running away, but I know that wouldn’t work. I probably couldn’t even legally get a job in London. So, once again I come back to “an attempt,” only I wouldn’t know how to go about doing that. Slit my wrists in the tub? Take a load of sleeping pills? How would I direct my family’s attention to me in enough time to save me? They’d probably hate me, anyway, because pills and wrist-slashing are so lame, so cowardly. I have to do it. But I’m so afraid. Oh god, I am so very afraid.
23 February 1995
There’s a part of me unaccessed by any of them. A part I haven’t fully acknowledged to my diaries or to myself. I think that something strange and beautiful and frightening is breathing in that little square of hidden black. I’m feeling for its pulse and when I find it, I’ll open its vein and let it bleed out, but only on myself. I still have to keep something hidden from my friends, in order to protect myself.
22 August 1996
I really hate myself for not writing more, for holding back when I can’t afford to do so. Maybe I gave this analogy already, I don’t know, but I picture myself in a coffin-like box whose sides are throbbing black walls of agony. I lie as still as possible, rigidly constricting my arms and legs to my body so that they don’t accidentally brush against the walls and send pain ricocheting through my body. It’s hard to describe how I am now…I am just walking carefully, rigidly through my days, not thinking. I cannot think of anything at all. I daydream about England and my future a lot, but I don’t think about Terry, or this past terrible year, or analyze myself too much. I keep my mind strangely blank and constricted, focusing only on the future. Otherwise, I’m afraid, I’ll just snap.
Fall 1987
I know I didn’t write in a while but I’ve been busy. Oh, diary I feel so terrible. Nobody likes me anymore. Wendy called and kept begging me to come over. Mom finally agreed angrily after giving me another one of her lectures. About how I have only 1 friend and how I’m so sloppy and have no social life. I’m a loser, that’s what she’s trying to say. I have a good group of friends at school but what I need is people to hang out with me. Friends. Just good friends. My life is such a mess right now. No friends, no family, no boyfriend, no life, nothing. I don’t even like my poetry anymore. My life is over. Worst of all, I just can’t stop loving M.G. I’m building my life into a fantasy and I can’t take it any more. I need help.
14 September 1995
I wish I could tear the darkness out of me … stuff [it] in a box and bury [it] in the mountains, in those cold blue mountains that have held me captive for so long.
15 May 2001
But at the back of my mind was this nagging voice saying, “You were miserable because of him and now you’re happy because things are okay with him, happy because he graced you with a 5-minute conversation … happy because of some stupid little trip to the beach. Why can’t you be happy for better reasons? Why can’t you be happy for genuine reasons?” I feel partially disgusted with myself. Disgusted that I can’t be happy and unhappy on my own terms, rather than because of a single guy, or because of friends, family members, or coworkers who let me down. I’m almost 27…when will I get over my propensity for being so affected by the people around me? I’m not going to say that I feel like I am the puppet and they are the ones pulling the strings, because that connotes a deliberate maliciousness on their end—a willingness and desire to control me. I really believe that nobody understands how much effect they have on me, how much they can whack me in the kneecaps with what they say and do or don’t say and don’t do. The problem lies with me. I am too damn sensitive.
And the bottom line, of course, is that am just sick of mood swings…up and down, up and down. As if, after 14+ years of unipolarity, I am suddenly blossoming into bipolarhood. … And I am also tired of the weight of depression. I hate being reminded that I haven’t yet learned how to kill it. I sedate it every night [with antidepressants] and trick myself into believing that it is as good as dead. Then something happens to remind me, “Hey, it’s not dead. It’s still inside of you. It can’t sleep forever. It’s going to come back.”
It’s going to come back.
How the hell do you run away from something that is padlocked inside of you? Can I reach inside my chest and yank it out, this malignant, throbbing, slippery, deformed mass, and toss it into a fireplace somewhere?
For the most part, no, I don’t feel overtly depressed. But I feel like it is leaching into my bedrock like contaminated groundwater. It is becoming more difficult for me to focus on little things. I am procrastinating more and more. Everything—no matter how mundane, like bill-paying, grocery shopping, and putting away dishes—becomes a hill to climb. I don’t want to talk to anybody when they phone, although I do. I don’t want to be social. It is summed up best by Caroline Kettlewell:
I was disentangling myself piece by piece, severing my obligations. I wanted less and less to be asked of me. You sometimes hear stories of people who fall into icy lakes and survive drowning because their metabolisms slow to the barest possible level of functioning. That’s what I did with my life, a kind of icing down to the survivable minimum.
Am I slowing to a crawl? Am I icing down to the barest possible level of functioning? I am young and healthy, and yet I live each day just to come home at night, veg, and then go to sleep. When I wake up in the morning, one of my first thoughts is, “How long until I can go to sleep again?” It reminds me of college, when I would frequently take sleeping pills early in the evening. Not because I was addicted, not because I was sleep-disordered. It was just that no amount of sleep was enough. I didn’t want to sleep the 8-10 hours my body would grant me each night. I wanted to sleep 24 hours a day, because that was the only thing that gave me a temporary respite from my depression. If I couldn’t die, the next best thing was to sleep, sleep, sleep, and pray for something to put me in a coma. At a minimum, I wanted to drop out of life at 6pm and not have to worry about it until 8am. I wanted to disappear as frequently as I could. Is that what I am returning to now? An all-encompassing, organic desire to just disappear? To cut back on my daily activities until there is nothing left but a catatonic state of complete inactivity that renders me essentially invisible?
January 28, 1986
Today, the space shuttle Challenger blew up! It’s a tragedy because there were 6 astronauts and that schoolteacher Christa McAuliffe. I’m sad. They all died and we were all surprised and shocked.
May 2, 1984
My braces got tightened. We got SUPER BREAKOUT!
28 December 2004
On Sunday, en route home, I stopped at Heather’s house for a little while. Elizabeth and Whitney were playing Breakout on the Playstation, and I made no move to play because I knew I would suck if I tried to use anything other than an Atari paddle. Elizabeth kicked Whitney and Heather’s asses, and I was thinking, “No way will I allow my ass to get kicked at Breakout by someone born in 1995.” After, all I am the former Super Breakout Queen of the mid-’80s. So yesterday I dusted off my Atari set and played Super Breakout for the first time in like two years. The first score I got was decent, but I knew I could do better. Sure enough, within a few rounds I was a killing machine, topping out at 1200 points (the highest I saw Elizabeth get was 250 points) on four levels. That’s right, the Breakout bitch is back in town! After I blew on my smoking paddles, I sat back smugly and said, “Beat that, Elizabeth.” I’ll gladly take Elizabeth on, but only if we play with my Atari set. No way will I attempt that game with the ridiculous Playstation controller. It’s Atari paddles or bust, baby!
6 April 2000
What I was thinking about on my way to work this morning: loneliness, and how I am lonely at such a core depth, I don’t even feel it. I discussed vague details of this with Annida recently, and may’ve written about it in my journal, too. I compare it to that experience of being so hungry, you don’t even feel hungry anymore, or being so exhausted, you don’t even feel tired anymore. I feel like maybe there’s this membrane-stratosphere of things like hunger, tiredness, loneliness, hatred, etc., that surrounds us, and when you get temporarily tangled up in it, that’s when you feel those pangs clearly. But sometimes you push past the stratosphere, and you’re in this clean, bare room that is pure hunger, pure tiredness, pure loneliness, etc., and in that room you are consumed by the tiredness, loneliness, whatever—it invades your cells, you breathe it, you sweat it…and yet you don’t feel it because you are past that stratosphere of feeling. That’s how I feel about loneliness. I don’t feel lonely. I like being alone—always have—and get antsy when I go too long without getting some alone-time. But I think that at my core, I am pure loneliness. It’s a deep, engulfing loneliness…one that surpasses feelings like, “Oh, I feel lonely because I haven’t spoken to or seen anyone all weekend long” or “I haven’t done anything socially in a month.” It is beyond that. It is, “I want to spend my life with someone. I want to wake up in the middle of the night and roll over and feel his warm skin breathing next to me. I want to have someone who is first in my mind to call when something great happens. I want someone who will just as willingly accompany me to the Kennedy Center to see an opera as to Blockbuster to rent a cheesy horror flick. I want somebody who will dine with me at both Burger King and some ultra-fancy restaurant, where we will giggle at the rich people.” I don’t have that, and so I ache for it, and the aching is loneliness at a core, cellular level. The loneliness is a second skin around me, and it is so all-encompassing, I can’t feel it. So I don’t feel lonely, even though that’s all I am. I don’t know if this makes sense or not.
March 1992
If I was to die tonight I could handle it, for I am perfectly happy. I lay on the browned needle-grass on the smooth roll of a large hill in the midst of this Lancaster park. There’s something brilliant and pure about being able to fromp barefoot through the cold mud, twisting madly on the hillside, laughing and dancing and being free. Michelle is blowing massive color-fringed bubbles into the perfect spring-like day. They hover against the graying sky like perfect dreams, then pop. Why must they always pop?
Jessica is sketching, Jen is strumming the guitar, Shakti is reading and playing with Terry’s yin-yang balls, Laura and Jen and Terry went to sail a message on the pond, Greg and the crew are flinging a Frisbee into the carefree abandon of the wind.
I am laying on my stomach feeling my elbows grow wet. All around us, on this hill, are the wiry brown veins of mid-winter trees, throwing their proud breasts against this torrent of spring.
“Alas, I suppose I am turning into a God,” it was said. I could turn into a god of stone right here, if I allowed myself. I hate the thought of returning to the hated, filthy snatches of life tomorrow. No time, no time. School, musical, quiz bowl, meetings, obligations, and more and more and more…I just want to be me. Me. I want to forget about everything for a while.
song heard most recently before posting:
Nowhere Fast—The Smiths
Thursday, September 04, 2008
interlude: home and depression
I ended up going home to Pennsylvania for Labor Day weekend and had a great time with my posse, the Lebanon Fury (as we have taken to calling ourselves, because really, is there anything cooler than a clusterfuck of thirtysomething professionals referring to themselves by a badass gang name?). We hit our customary sleazy dive bar, where one guy claimed to have thought I was a college student (yeah!!) and he called me a “little hottie,” and another guy declared that I’m an “undercover freak.” Oh, that’s so true! Only not so much with the “undercover” part. I was also eager to convince the sleazebags that I worked in the Russian fetish porn industry, but alas, I lost my window of opportunity. Next time, maybe. Oh, and we also played laser tag, which is something I’ve never done before. It was surprisingly fun. Less surprising: I did terribly, coming in last place among both teams.
I also got some freelancing done, which freed up Labor Day for nonstop relaxing back at my condo.
This upcoming weekend, aside from working on more freelancing, I’d really like to check out the Jerry Springer Opera in DC (it closes on Sunday), but I think laziness and horrible Hurricane Hanna-related weather will probably keep me at home. Plus I’m scheduled to give Julie a Dreamweaver tutorial, capped by dinner at the British restaurant in Frederick. (Yay! Cornish pasties! And Heinz puddings!)
I’ve been slowly plowing my way through all my old journals, gathering nuggets for my 25-year journal retrospective on this blog. Parts of the journal entries make me laugh, but for the most part I’m left cringing and feeling awful (which is one reason why it’s appropriate that two of these journal entries appear in the Cringe book). I won’t deny that I was heavy-handed with the melodramatic teen angst bullshit (I really knew how to spackle it on thickly), but at the core of the maelstrom was a very real case of clinical depression. I was just so, so sick, and I don’t think I fully realized until now—while reading each journal end to end—just how deeply the sickness ran. Obviously it didn’t completely obliterate me, because I’m still here. And I still have friends from that era, so the depression didn’t destroy those connections, although it came damn close.
It’s sad, really, because so much valuable time was lost, and I wonder how differently my life could’ve been during my formative years if I had sought treatment. That’s not to say that I never experienced any joy or had any happy memories, but life in general could have been more…shall we say robust...if I hadn’t been stuck in that depressive mire. I think of it as living in color versus living in black and white.
My journals too often give the impression that my life was an unbearable stretch of prolonged victimization. In reality, it was much closer to being a charmed life. Nothing is perfect; I certainly had some issues to deal with, such as my health problems and my parents’ unhappy marriage and subsequent split, but compared with what many other people go through, good lord, my life was like Leave it to Beaver. That’s one of the more insidious aspects of depression—it blots out the good around you, forcing you to fixate on the bad and genuinely believe that the bad is all that exists. It’s somewhat comparable to a total solar eclipse, in that you’re only able to see the faintest shimmer of the sun at the periphery of the darkness. On an intellectual level, especially if the eclipse is transitory, you recognize that the sun is, in fact, still there—just hidden. But if the eclipse goes on and on? After a while you start doubting the sun’s existence. And that’s how it is with depression: the darkness becomes reality and the light becomes myth.
I’ve been medicated nonstop for nearly 13 years now. I’m not delusional about its power; I know it hasn’t killed the monster—it just keeps it sedated. The medication hasn’t cut the tumor out of me and cauterized what remains (salting the earth, so to speak). It’s similar to those old WWII shells that are occasionally found buried and unexploded in back yards in Europe. This means that a relapse, whether I stay on medication or not, remains a very real threat. But for now I’m content to take my little pink pill each night and offer up a hallelujah of gratitude for the gift it gives me: an end to the eclipse and the ability to recognize the good in my life—and acknowledge that it was there all along.
song heard most recently before posting:
#1 Crush—Garbage
I also got some freelancing done, which freed up Labor Day for nonstop relaxing back at my condo.
This upcoming weekend, aside from working on more freelancing, I’d really like to check out the Jerry Springer Opera in DC (it closes on Sunday), but I think laziness and horrible Hurricane Hanna-related weather will probably keep me at home. Plus I’m scheduled to give Julie a Dreamweaver tutorial, capped by dinner at the British restaurant in Frederick. (Yay! Cornish pasties! And Heinz puddings!)
I’ve been slowly plowing my way through all my old journals, gathering nuggets for my 25-year journal retrospective on this blog. Parts of the journal entries make me laugh, but for the most part I’m left cringing and feeling awful (which is one reason why it’s appropriate that two of these journal entries appear in the Cringe book). I won’t deny that I was heavy-handed with the melodramatic teen angst bullshit (I really knew how to spackle it on thickly), but at the core of the maelstrom was a very real case of clinical depression. I was just so, so sick, and I don’t think I fully realized until now—while reading each journal end to end—just how deeply the sickness ran. Obviously it didn’t completely obliterate me, because I’m still here. And I still have friends from that era, so the depression didn’t destroy those connections, although it came damn close.
It’s sad, really, because so much valuable time was lost, and I wonder how differently my life could’ve been during my formative years if I had sought treatment. That’s not to say that I never experienced any joy or had any happy memories, but life in general could have been more…shall we say robust...if I hadn’t been stuck in that depressive mire. I think of it as living in color versus living in black and white.
My journals too often give the impression that my life was an unbearable stretch of prolonged victimization. In reality, it was much closer to being a charmed life. Nothing is perfect; I certainly had some issues to deal with, such as my health problems and my parents’ unhappy marriage and subsequent split, but compared with what many other people go through, good lord, my life was like Leave it to Beaver. That’s one of the more insidious aspects of depression—it blots out the good around you, forcing you to fixate on the bad and genuinely believe that the bad is all that exists. It’s somewhat comparable to a total solar eclipse, in that you’re only able to see the faintest shimmer of the sun at the periphery of the darkness. On an intellectual level, especially if the eclipse is transitory, you recognize that the sun is, in fact, still there—just hidden. But if the eclipse goes on and on? After a while you start doubting the sun’s existence. And that’s how it is with depression: the darkness becomes reality and the light becomes myth.
I’ve been medicated nonstop for nearly 13 years now. I’m not delusional about its power; I know it hasn’t killed the monster—it just keeps it sedated. The medication hasn’t cut the tumor out of me and cauterized what remains (salting the earth, so to speak). It’s similar to those old WWII shells that are occasionally found buried and unexploded in back yards in Europe. This means that a relapse, whether I stay on medication or not, remains a very real threat. But for now I’m content to take my little pink pill each night and offer up a hallelujah of gratitude for the gift it gives me: an end to the eclipse and the ability to recognize the good in my life—and acknowledge that it was there all along.
song heard most recently before posting:
#1 Crush—Garbage
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
interlude: the good and the bad
The bad:
Lately life has been crazier than a shithouse rat. Remember that scene in Little House in the Prairie (shut up—you know you love it) where James and Cassandra Cooper’s parents were driving their wagon down a steep hill, and Pa Cooper ended up losing control over the wagon? It began violently bumping its way faster and faster down the hill, splintering apart in the process, until finally it smashed into a heap at the bottom—a charnel house of fractured wood—with Ma and Pa Cooper’s bloody limbs poking lifelessly out of the wreckage. Yeahhhh, that’s how I’ve been feeling lately. And remember that scene where Alice Garvey was trapped in the burning blind school, and she had to use Mary’s baby as a battering ram to smash a window in an attempt to escape, and she was shrieking and begging for help but she still couldn’t escape, so they both burned to death? That too. And remember that scene where Albert’s girlfriend Sylvia got stalked, terrorized, and raped by a mime (Walnut Grove’s blacksmith in disguise), and eventually, when he was chasing her, he caused her to fall off a rickety ladder to her death? Well, you get the point.
On top of that, my fucking condo association really pissed me off when they sent me a letter this past weekend saying that the board of directors has passed a resolution banning satellite dishes from being attached to people’s balconies/patios. Instead, all dishes are supposed to be attached to a tripod or a bucket (???) that is sitting on the balcony floor. And if having the dish on the floor means you can’t get a signal, then you’re shit out of luck—you’re not allowed to have a dish. What the hell! It’s not like these dishes are ’80s-era flying saucer-sized eyesores, and it’s not like they’re a new thing, either—people have had them for ages. Why are they just now suddenly realizing that they don’t like them? And doesn’t the board have better things to do with their time than target people’s satellite dishes? So now I have until September 30th to get a technician to come to my place (and you know how that goes: “Sure, we’ll be there sometime between 9am and 5pm”—gee, thanks), and who knows how much it will cost, and if the new arrangement means I can’t get a signal, then I’ll have to get cable. Grr! Thankfully I face southwest, though, so my odds of getting a signal are pretty strong.
The good:
This past weekend was the first weekend in months where I had no freelancing to do. I actually used the time constructively, giving my car and condo much-needed cleanings, typing up more journal excerpts for the 25-year retrospective I’m running on this blog, reading (I finished Henry Miller’s Tropic of Cancer and began a collection of Rainer Maria Rilke’s poems and letters), adding more quotes to my website, catching up on Netflix discs, and, best of all, babysitting Olivia on Saturday. Now, here is where things got good. I knew in advance that we’d be swimming in her neighbor’s pool, so beforehand I went to the dollar store and bought a gaudy silver plastic purse with blue heart-shaped gems on it which came with matching clip-on earrings, and I also bought a blue gem necklace. Then I ripped a seashell from a wedding favor I got at a friend’s wedding back in the 1990s and put all the items in the purse, which got furrowed away in my swim trunks pocket.
On the way to the pool I told her that I’d read in the newspaper that the ocean was getting really crowded, so mermaids were moving to the suburbs and swimming in people’s pools at night. Once we began swimming, I dropped the purse to the bottom of the pool when she wasn’t looking. After 5-10 minutes, when she brought up the mermaid subject again, I pointed to the bottom of the pool and said, “Hey, what’s that?” and I dove to the bottom of the pool to retrieve the purse. I showed it to her and said, without cracking a smile, “I think a mermaid must have left this.”
Holy shit, she went berserkers over this thing, immediately becoming obsessed with it. She commanded me to search the entire pool for more treasure and mermaids, then sat at the edge of the pool, opening and closing the purse repeatedly and pulling out the items over and over and talking about it incessantly, asking a million questions about it and about the mermaid(s) who left it for her.
This set the stage for the rest of the day. After swimming I gave her a bath, and she took the purse into the tub with her. She held it the whole way through Annie (I Netflixed it because I wanted her to see that classic film, which I adored as a kid) and really only put it down when we went outside to play. At night she took it to bed with her, as she was really worried that someone was going to try to steal it unless she kept it beside her. She talked about it nonstop and kept asking, “Why did the mermaid leave this for me?” and “How did she know I would be in the pool and find it?” and “Ella’s going to be really jealous when she sees my treasure, won’t she? But she’s not allowed to have it. It’s mine.”
I do worry that she’ll now expect to find treasure every time she swims. She said several times that she hopes the mermaids leave her a purse with pink gemstones on it next time. The dollar store did have one like that, but I don’t think I’ll be doing a repeat performance. For one thing, I don’t want to give her a reason to expect treasure to materialize every time she swims. Also, magic gets lost when it becomes commonplace.
song heard most recently before posting:
Who Would You Have Me Love?—GMT w/ Hinda Hicks
Who Would You Have Me Love?—GMT w/ Hinda Hicks
Saturday, August 16, 2008
25 years: a retrospective (part 2)
Another unseasonably beautiful weekend, only this time I’m spending it indoors, working on a stack of freelance manuscripts. But I wanted to take a quick break to post the next installment of my 25 years of journal-keeping retrospective:
30 November 1994
Suki just came in here and borrowed 2 condoms. Yesterday and today she urged me to get some for her next time I’m at the clinic. Next thing you know, I’m going to be lurking around dark alleyways, ripping open my seedy trenchcoat to revel condoms sewn inside, like a drug dealer. I’ll be a condom trafficker!
3 December 1994
At the concert I sat with Silvia and Manu. Afterwards, some lady offered to take us and Annida home in her funny little car. It would barely start and we were smashed in the back seat, unable to even get the doors closed at first. We couldn’t stop laughing. She only took us as far as the top of Church Street (not even on the side we needed to be on!) and then she dropped us off. We were like, oh shit, we’re gonna get raped. We hurried home through the cold, and Emanuella and I sang “Gloria, in excelsis, in excelsis deo!” in a high-pitched voice half the way back.
16 May 2002
Here’s an interesting thing. When Savvy, Louise, and I were touring the manor house at Ladew Gardens last week, Savvy asked our tour guide why the master of the house never got married. Well, I had sensed from the beginning that this guy was gay, and Louise thought the same thing. The guide, however, snipped, “Everybody thinks that marriage is the be-all, end-all to life. Why should he have gotten married? He was wealthy, educated, talented, creative, and free. He could go anywhere he wanted and do anything he wanted. He didn’t have to answer to anybody. Why would he want to ruin that? Besides, when you are of a certain artistic temperament, you want somebody who is on your level. Somebody who understands you and challenges you and invigorates you. And it is hard to find someone like that when you are of a certain artistic, intellectual, creative temperament.” I wanted to scream, “Hallelujah, sister!!!!” It made me feel better about being alone.
17 November 2000
It is absolutely crazy, but I have been feeling as though someone reached into me with a rusty fork and dug out some vibrant part of me and now I just throb and ache…I feel as if I’ve lost something crucial and now I’m mourning it, but how can that be, when I never had it in the first place?
18 May 1995
When I write to you, I hold a mirror up to my face, and I never like what I see. Beneath my crusty surface boils unimaginable hatred and anger. I am a cauldron in which I have thrown years’ worth of pent-up betrayals, annoyances, rage, and hurt. I can’t tell people how I feel, so I just throw it in the pot so it gets all mixed together. If someone pisses me off, what rises to the surface isn’t necessarily a response to what they did to me. It could be my reaction to something that was done to me five years ago. I guess that’s why I sometimes overreact to insignificant situations. … When I write, I create slices in my surface that let my rage trickle through. When I peer down into those slices, I see the cauldron bubbling out with a blackness so thick, it takes my breath away. And then I hastily seal over my cracks, lest any more of that awfulness come through. It’s all bottled up inside of me, from my toes to my ears, seething and waiting. It frightens me what I could be capable of [doing]. In the past, I always thought it was just depression living inside of me, but now I know there’s more.
7 June 1995
So it’s quarter past 12 in the morning, and I’m bawling like a fucking moron all over my Lollapalooza tee shirt. I had to leave Missy’s house because I was so deeply buried in misery. Every day brings the truths to light that I am so desperately trying to suffocate and drown…the truths that I am nothing, that I am constructed of nothing, and I shall return to nothing when I die. How pathetically I try to forget that I loathe myself, inside and out. I am incapable of feeling, loving, succeeding, writing, finding peace. The reason the future always appears so fuzzily out of focus is that I’m not going to live more than a year. Hopes of a terminal disease to destroy me have thus far eluded me; I am left with only my own hands to accomplish the deed. Ignoring it all these years has been pointless. Let’s face it—I am going to kill myself. I don’t know when, I don’t know how. But it will happen. I don’t understand how I could have lived so long with such a ravaged mind. I am so afraid of everything. My body, my heart, my head are all filled with blankness. I feel nothing but a cold numbness. God, how I hate myself. I want to cry whenever I look in the mirror or read old diaries. I can’t stop sobbing now. I can scarcely breathe. The only person capable of understanding is half a country away, and ever since she had her baby, she’s been healing. Perhaps she won’t be able to understand anymore. Anything that may have once been good inside of me is dead. I shoved it into a remote corner of myself and starved it to death, giving it no nourishment, not even light. I killed it, so I shouldn’t mourn it. I am so nauseous now. My wrists scream to be slashed. I want to take my stash of Inderol and die in the comfort of my dark, air-conditioned room. So many things are closing in on me. I hate myself, everything is a lie. It hurts that I can’t love or trust anymore. People keep taking from me. If I don’t die, my partially latent insanity will devour me, and I don’t want to rot alone in a mental hospital, when it’s bad enough rotting alone at home. I’m so tired, so terrified. I can’t go one much longer. … I’m okay to die now. I have my will, and my room is organized neatly. Everyone can take whatever the hell they want, as long as they don’t take my memory and idealize it, turn it into something it’s not. I am tainted, and I should be remembered for the vile, evil, disgusting monster I am. Not as someone good. There is no good anymore.
17 May 2001
…I explained how frustrated I’ve been lately with people trying to pigeonhole me. Everyone at work seems to think that I’m dark and gothy and a fountain of knowledge with anything to do with death, suicide, gore, etc…and nothing else. That irks me. I am more than just “the dark chick.” Yes, I am very much in touch with my dark, sardonic, cynical, bitter, misanthropic side, and I’m proud of it. But I am more than that. I have never liked being categorized, and throughout high school and college I managed to evade categorization successfully (probably the only descriptions people could agree on were “creepy” and “freaky”). I certainly don’t want to start being pigeonholed now. I don’t want to be a typical adult who becomes someone when she graduates from college and more or less stays that same person for the rest of her life.
19 November 2001
Oh, bloody hell. Why am I suddenly starting to feel the creakings and groanings of sadness? Thanksgiving is this week—I should be happy. Never mind that the holidays usually bring about a tinge of depression in me. Thanksgiving means that I have a five-day vacation. It means there is joy in the air. And, despite how shitty my year has been, I really have a lot to be thankful for. I think many people feel the same way this year. Those of us who didn’t lose anybody in the September 11th attacks, the subsequent anthrax attacks, and last week’s jetliner crash are thankful. We are thankful that there have been no more terrorist attacks, as feared. We are thankful that bioterrorism hasn’t engulfed us. We are thankful that the US hasn’t been hit by any nuclear weapons or EMPs. In spite of the war in Afghanistan, we are still alive and free. Who isn’t thankful at such things? I am thankful, and grateful that I’ll be home with most of my family (Kristen and Bryan will be in Erie). I’m thankful that we’ll be in Massachusetts this year, united for the first time since Papa’s 80th birthday three years ago. I’m thankful I didn’t lose my job when the Transfusion staff lost their jobs. I’m thankful the tornado didn’t destroy my new car or any of my possessions or—more importantly—my cats. I’m thankful my family has been kind enough to help me out financially, with a little money here and there.
But O, sadness! Gray little wings flapping soundlessly!
15 January 1992
…you realize how humiliating it is to start crying in the middle of psychology class? Today makes it the second time that I have felt tears rise and fall, while I prayed no one would see me as my brain got eaten up by black worms…all in the midst of class, usually in the mornings. Now I suppose Mr. Tuscano’s going to give us ten pages of notes that are illegible and then Pam’s going to start talking to me and she won’t shut up. They never shut up. I think all I ever want to do anymore is run away from all of this—all the crowds, the people. They are so goddamn loud. I am so tired of being submerged and dredged up from the depths of the well, which is claustrophobic and dark and so scary. I don’t think I can stand it anymore.
Oh God, God, God…I really, truly hate myself. I hate myself, my family, my friends, because they hate me. I pick up self-murder like a stone and smooth its cold comfort around and around in my moist palms, thoughtlessly caressing and loving it. When I think about killing myself, I ponder how frightening and lonely an act it is, and how ultimately beautiful. It loves me; I love it. What’s the point of being alone on this teeming, decaying planet anymore? I obviously can’t do anything right and it’s impossible for any person to like me, as all they ever do is talk about me behind my back. I can’t do anything. I’m so tired, and when I think of the shadows, the bastards around me won’t let me alone. They’re all tearing my silence to tatters, killing me…
For the millionth time since I was thirteen…I wish I was dead. The whole world would be better off.
25 December 1995
I’m so tired of crying. I’m tired of feeling so alone. I’m tired of slaying the Shadowman, only to find that he’s immortal. He has chased me since I was fourteen, and I’m growing hoarse from screaming “Be gone, be gone, be gone.” I used to exorcise him through stacks of shitty poems, but somewhere along the way since then I lost my will to write. That essentially signed my death warrant. My new year’s resolution? To kick the darkness until it bleeds daylight. But “even the sunlight burns if you get too much.” What then? Kill myself? Poison myself into a coma? Where do I go from here?
31 October 1994
Darkness creeps up on me again, both outside, amidst the torrential grey clouds, and inside. I have to learn to stabilize these fucking emotions of mine. Today, at breakfast, I was filled with a consuming rage towards Paula because I felt that she was laughing too much, and when she called me “Jenny,” I thought I’d go insane. “MY NAME’S NOT JENNY!!!” I wanted to shriek at her. “It’s JENNIFER! JENNIFER!!! JENNY IS DEAD!!!” Jenny is dead. She died when I grew up, grew away from my inner light, though it was always a bit tarnished. She made a brief appearance beneath a highway bridge in Scranton last spring, shaking and cold. Savvy’s sending me my diary from that time this week, and I’m beginning to think it might’ve been a mistake for me to ask her to do so. Time can cover up old wounds, but that doesn’t mean they’ve gone away. They’re still there, hovering beneath the surface. I’m afraid that by re-reading that diary, after a considerable amount of time has passed, will awaken all of the hurt, the anguish, and the betrayal I felt, clawing open the scars. It haunts me now: like a ghost, I sail through the chilly April night, along the railroad tracks, and I see myself huddled beneath that bridge. I see a child who is lost and has been stripped of all security and warmth. I see her banging her head methodically against the concrete, trying to drive those demons out. I see her weeping while curled up in a ball in her pajamas, terrified about what has just taken place, and what had yet to come. I will read about those times and my anger will resurface with all of its almighty strength … I buried it in my diary’s pages, in Heather’s ears, in the back of my mind, which only succeeded in preserving it in a freezer-like state. When I pull it out and defrost it, it’s as fresh and alive and preserved as ever.
13 February 1995
Jorge, Annida, and I cooked stir-fry in her kitchen, and shortly after we started, Deb, Manu, and Camilla came in so Manu could cook them some pasta. Soon the place was hopping with people—Maki, Simone, Beatrice, Suki, and Brigitte were all cooking their dinners. The five of them eventually left, and the remainder of us ate each other’s food and sang (very loudly, I may add) songs from musicals. We covered Grease, West Side Story, Les Mis (most of us were particularly bitter during “On My Own”), Phantom, Wizard of Oz, and I forget what else. We also sang that scales song, “Do, a deer, a female deer…” Annida, Jorge, and I went back to her room to hang out, and then Lucy came by to claim Jorge. Manu came over, and Lucy and Jorge returned. We danced around to Grease wildly, wrote on Annida’s fogged-up windows, and generally acted quite stupid.
28 February 1995
When it comes to my depression, I think of it as swimming in a tar pit. It’s a struggle, an exhausting struggle, especially since I never learned to swim properly. It’s thick and black, and even when I escape to solid ground, I have to scrub and scrub to remove all traces of the tar. But then I’m raw and sensitive and vulnerable, in so much pain that I must return to the tar to soothe myself. Scrubbing doesn’t remove all traces—it always sticks to my hair, my nails, my teeth. Little, secretive places that remind me that the darkness is always going to be a part of me.
21 March 2003
On Wednesday night, when I was driving to Debbie’s house, I glanced at one of those electronic signs over the Beltway that provides information about gridlock, accidents, slippery conditions ahead, etc. But instead of reporting on those conditions, it provided info about our heightened state of alert and gave a phone number to call to report suspicious activity. It was really kind of creepy. But the interesting thing about the sign was this: I was listening to the song “I Grieve” as I drove down the Beltway, and as I read the heightened alert sign, he was—at that exact moment—singing the line, “They say life carries on.” And that’s the bottom line. Life carries on, whether we want it to or not. Folks in the Middle East learned this lesson long ago. There is war, there is terrorism, there is danger lurking at every given turn, there are maniacs in charge (that includes Bush)…and there are also jobs that have to be done, groceries that have to be bought, classes that have to be attended, pets that have to be fed, laundry that needs to be washed, bills that have to be paid. Duty doesn’t stop and joy doesn’t stop. Amidst all this crap—amidst me stockpiling water and thinking about assembling a first aid and emergency kit—I am also working on my website, planning my trips to Scotland and Finland, dreaming about skydiving again, reading a new book, and thinking about a new Danish film I really want to see. I refuse to let [terror] rob me of the pleasure that comes from thinking about those things.
10 April 2000
This is what I was thinking about while sitting in typical weekday traffic along University Blvd. this morning: it amazes me how weeds and grass can push through the slimmest of cracks on the concrete barriers between the sides of a highway and on sidewalks. There, in the midst of a sea of concrete, is a lone dandelion or a tuft of grass. How can it survive? What makes it push up in such an unforgiving environment? What else lurks beneath the surface that one would think is impenetrable? Are weeds just bumping restlessly beneath the surface of the concrete and asphalt, waiting for the moment when they are able to burst through the narrowest of cracks? It just seemed like a metaphor for life in general, or maybe my life.
7 November 1994
This morning I went to Greenwich to get one hr. reprints from Emanuella’s film (I’m picking them up tomorrow, since it’s cheaper), and I decided to walk the footpath that goes beneath the Thames. It took me to the Isle of Dogs and the Docklands Light Railway. It was a very surreal, dream-like experience. The tunnel seemed to stretch on forever, and it was filled with dirty tiles, sickly yellow lighting, and grey-faced people who moved past me like ghosts. I was feeling sick all day long, so I was rather dizzy, light-headed, and hallucinogenic down there.
21 March 1995
Something alarming happened yesterday. After walking home from college with Jorge, Jim, and Annida, they stopped into my room to see my Stonehenge photos; Jim really wanted to see my wrist-slashing photos (but I kept one hidden). For some reason Jon B. came by and saw the blood photo, and he asked what it was, if I had gotten a nosebleed. I wouldn’t say, but Jorge kept saying, “Show him!”, so I reluctantly flashed my wrists and said that it was a wrist bleed. I didn’t care too much until I saw the expression on his face, and then I knew that it was a mistake, because of his being a holy roller. I mumbled embarrassed replies to his continuous questions. Jorge commanded Jon not to question it, to just let me do what I want. After that, I got really worried that he would tell Goldsmiths about it, or even worse, O’Grady. I emotionally cannot re-live last spring again!!! Jorge and Annida kept saying, “No, no, don’t worry, he won’t do anything.” When everyone left the dinner table but Annida and me, Jon plopped down and began making small talk. “Oh shit,” I thought, “I know what’s coming.” I shakily excused myself to go take my walk, and that’s when he hurriedly said that he wanted to ask me something. We ended up having a long religious talk—well, he talked, I semi-listened while trying not to laugh. It pissed me off, as I could tell his concern really wasn’t with me, it was with god getting angry because I’m damaging his property through self-mutilation. He just used it as a launching pad to babble on about how only Jesus can save me. In a way, I was even offended, because it sounded as if he was putting down my faith, just because I’m not a Christian. Annida said that wasn’t the case, but I feel it was. I may not believe in God, or even a god, but I believe in something (don’t know what yet…), and just because my faith doesn’t take on traditional forms, doesn’t mean that it isn’t valid. And I Didn’t like how he was almost trying to make me feel ashamed about my wrist-slashing, as if I’m a piteous heathen. Slashing is, in its own hideous way, strangely beautiful. It’s a part of me, and I won’t allow myself to see it as dirty or shameful. And if god did make me…hey, it’s my body now, and I can do with it what I damn well please. When an architect builds a house, he doesn’t expect subsequent owners to live in it exactly as he left it. No, they decorate it, build upon it, make it their own. Just like we pierce ourselves and cut our hair. Jon wouldn’t even listen to my saying that mutilation is the only way I harm myself—I don’t drink, smoke, or do drugs. He made it sound like mutilation’s worse than that! Asshole.
9 December 1995
After dinner, Dave and I went to the mall, where we got free knives in Boscovs, I stole the slashed wrists cover to the new Hole CD, I tried to buy insecticide (but Kara stopped me when she learned what it was for), and I bought my secret Santa gifts. I returned back to the dorm alone and worked on my paper. Later on, I went to Paragons with Dave and a dyke, Jen, who lives on my floor, but it was closed, probably because of all the snow and ice we got that day. We went back to Dave’s room to gather our bearings, and then we went to Farley’s for drinks. It was pretty fun. We stayed until after 1 a.m., talking and laughing, and staring in amazement when a man and a woman got into a fight right outside our window. It looked like he was trying to steal her purse. Dave and some jocks ran outside to help, with Dave wielding his free paring knife. It turns out that they were a couple, and while drunk, she decided to get back at him for all the times he beat her and treated her like shit, so she slapped him and tried to strangle him with her purse. Exciting. We went back to the dorm and pulled obnoxious pranks, like re-arranging the letters that said “The Crusades” so they said “The crude ass,” stealing Barb’s mistletoe and gluing the church pamphlet on her door shut, gluing “E”s next to the Ho Ho Ho on her wall, filling her mailbox with glitter, adding big lips from one person’s door onto another person’s name crab, etc. Kara had joined us for this merrymaking. Eaflier, Dave and I rubbed out part of the dry erase words on the Gunster calendar that said “Good luck on finals!” so it said “God lick on anals!” and we added crude things to the “All I want for Christmas” list and the “My family traditions are…” list hanging on my floor.
21 September 1998
I was thinking that this aloneness is like winter. It’s a season that is lonely, barren, cold. But it also has tremendous beauty that can’t be rivaled by any other season. What can replace the joy that comes from the season’s first snowfall? Or from the other treasures of winter? Playing in the snow, cuddling with a mug of hot chocolate in front of a fire, celebrating the holidays. Winter is a time when you eat what you want (because you wear bulky clothes that hide your body) and go for weeks without shaving your legs…just like when you’re not in a relationship! It’s a time for you to savor solitude and introspection. It’s a time for you to comfort yourself and take care of yourself. I can console myself by saying that being alone is all of those things, and that for all of the disadvantages of winter—shoveling snow, losing power, getting sick, being trapped indoors—there are so many advantages to consider. Shoveling snow is good exercise, and it usually gives you a chance to talk to neighbors normally ignored. You can moan about shoveling together, and laugh at how sweaty and disheveled you get. Losing power gives you the chance to light candles and huddle beneath blankets, reading a good book. Getting sick gives you a day or two off of work, and permits you to engage in a much-needed vegging session. Being trapped indoors gives you time to read more, or work on crafts that you would normally shove aside. I think that above all, I must remember that winter doesn’t last forever. It can seem interminable sometimes, but eventually it always collapses into spring. Yes, maybe this year spring is damp and cold and not worth much, but in another year, spring might be better. Warm, beautiful. Maybe relationships are like that. After my relationship ended, I found myself in the midst of winter that would not die, but spring will come someday. If it’s a chilly, wet, colorless spring, I can say, “Well, next time it will be better.” In the meanwhile, I should appreciate this winter and embrace it. I should be an optimist for once in my sorry life. I should say, “I need this time to grown and heal. Only when I truly surrender to winter will I be ready for spring to come.” Instead of looking at winter’s bare trees and thinking they are naked skeletons that would look so much better with leaves, I can admire the smooth curves of their bones, and the beautify of their lacework when I lie beneath them and stare at their crisscrossing, delicate branches, black against the gray sky that leaks through them. Instead of saying that the landscape is depressing, I can take haunting black and white photographs of it, capture its somber beauty in intense poems.
What my fear is, though, is that spring won’t come. Winter will rapidly lose its beauty if, because of some fluke, it goes on forever. Maybe spring doesn’t come for everybody…
song heard most recently before posting:
B.M.F.A.—Martha Wainwright
30 November 1994
Suki just came in here and borrowed 2 condoms. Yesterday and today she urged me to get some for her next time I’m at the clinic. Next thing you know, I’m going to be lurking around dark alleyways, ripping open my seedy trenchcoat to revel condoms sewn inside, like a drug dealer. I’ll be a condom trafficker!
3 December 1994
At the concert I sat with Silvia and Manu. Afterwards, some lady offered to take us and Annida home in her funny little car. It would barely start and we were smashed in the back seat, unable to even get the doors closed at first. We couldn’t stop laughing. She only took us as far as the top of Church Street (not even on the side we needed to be on!) and then she dropped us off. We were like, oh shit, we’re gonna get raped. We hurried home through the cold, and Emanuella and I sang “Gloria, in excelsis, in excelsis deo!” in a high-pitched voice half the way back.
16 May 2002
Here’s an interesting thing. When Savvy, Louise, and I were touring the manor house at Ladew Gardens last week, Savvy asked our tour guide why the master of the house never got married. Well, I had sensed from the beginning that this guy was gay, and Louise thought the same thing. The guide, however, snipped, “Everybody thinks that marriage is the be-all, end-all to life. Why should he have gotten married? He was wealthy, educated, talented, creative, and free. He could go anywhere he wanted and do anything he wanted. He didn’t have to answer to anybody. Why would he want to ruin that? Besides, when you are of a certain artistic temperament, you want somebody who is on your level. Somebody who understands you and challenges you and invigorates you. And it is hard to find someone like that when you are of a certain artistic, intellectual, creative temperament.” I wanted to scream, “Hallelujah, sister!!!!” It made me feel better about being alone.
17 November 2000
It is absolutely crazy, but I have been feeling as though someone reached into me with a rusty fork and dug out some vibrant part of me and now I just throb and ache…I feel as if I’ve lost something crucial and now I’m mourning it, but how can that be, when I never had it in the first place?
18 May 1995
When I write to you, I hold a mirror up to my face, and I never like what I see. Beneath my crusty surface boils unimaginable hatred and anger. I am a cauldron in which I have thrown years’ worth of pent-up betrayals, annoyances, rage, and hurt. I can’t tell people how I feel, so I just throw it in the pot so it gets all mixed together. If someone pisses me off, what rises to the surface isn’t necessarily a response to what they did to me. It could be my reaction to something that was done to me five years ago. I guess that’s why I sometimes overreact to insignificant situations. … When I write, I create slices in my surface that let my rage trickle through. When I peer down into those slices, I see the cauldron bubbling out with a blackness so thick, it takes my breath away. And then I hastily seal over my cracks, lest any more of that awfulness come through. It’s all bottled up inside of me, from my toes to my ears, seething and waiting. It frightens me what I could be capable of [doing]. In the past, I always thought it was just depression living inside of me, but now I know there’s more.
7 June 1995
So it’s quarter past 12 in the morning, and I’m bawling like a fucking moron all over my Lollapalooza tee shirt. I had to leave Missy’s house because I was so deeply buried in misery. Every day brings the truths to light that I am so desperately trying to suffocate and drown…the truths that I am nothing, that I am constructed of nothing, and I shall return to nothing when I die. How pathetically I try to forget that I loathe myself, inside and out. I am incapable of feeling, loving, succeeding, writing, finding peace. The reason the future always appears so fuzzily out of focus is that I’m not going to live more than a year. Hopes of a terminal disease to destroy me have thus far eluded me; I am left with only my own hands to accomplish the deed. Ignoring it all these years has been pointless. Let’s face it—I am going to kill myself. I don’t know when, I don’t know how. But it will happen. I don’t understand how I could have lived so long with such a ravaged mind. I am so afraid of everything. My body, my heart, my head are all filled with blankness. I feel nothing but a cold numbness. God, how I hate myself. I want to cry whenever I look in the mirror or read old diaries. I can’t stop sobbing now. I can scarcely breathe. The only person capable of understanding is half a country away, and ever since she had her baby, she’s been healing. Perhaps she won’t be able to understand anymore. Anything that may have once been good inside of me is dead. I shoved it into a remote corner of myself and starved it to death, giving it no nourishment, not even light. I killed it, so I shouldn’t mourn it. I am so nauseous now. My wrists scream to be slashed. I want to take my stash of Inderol and die in the comfort of my dark, air-conditioned room. So many things are closing in on me. I hate myself, everything is a lie. It hurts that I can’t love or trust anymore. People keep taking from me. If I don’t die, my partially latent insanity will devour me, and I don’t want to rot alone in a mental hospital, when it’s bad enough rotting alone at home. I’m so tired, so terrified. I can’t go one much longer. … I’m okay to die now. I have my will, and my room is organized neatly. Everyone can take whatever the hell they want, as long as they don’t take my memory and idealize it, turn it into something it’s not. I am tainted, and I should be remembered for the vile, evil, disgusting monster I am. Not as someone good. There is no good anymore.
17 May 2001
…I explained how frustrated I’ve been lately with people trying to pigeonhole me. Everyone at work seems to think that I’m dark and gothy and a fountain of knowledge with anything to do with death, suicide, gore, etc…and nothing else. That irks me. I am more than just “the dark chick.” Yes, I am very much in touch with my dark, sardonic, cynical, bitter, misanthropic side, and I’m proud of it. But I am more than that. I have never liked being categorized, and throughout high school and college I managed to evade categorization successfully (probably the only descriptions people could agree on were “creepy” and “freaky”). I certainly don’t want to start being pigeonholed now. I don’t want to be a typical adult who becomes someone when she graduates from college and more or less stays that same person for the rest of her life.
19 November 2001
Oh, bloody hell. Why am I suddenly starting to feel the creakings and groanings of sadness? Thanksgiving is this week—I should be happy. Never mind that the holidays usually bring about a tinge of depression in me. Thanksgiving means that I have a five-day vacation. It means there is joy in the air. And, despite how shitty my year has been, I really have a lot to be thankful for. I think many people feel the same way this year. Those of us who didn’t lose anybody in the September 11th attacks, the subsequent anthrax attacks, and last week’s jetliner crash are thankful. We are thankful that there have been no more terrorist attacks, as feared. We are thankful that bioterrorism hasn’t engulfed us. We are thankful that the US hasn’t been hit by any nuclear weapons or EMPs. In spite of the war in Afghanistan, we are still alive and free. Who isn’t thankful at such things? I am thankful, and grateful that I’ll be home with most of my family (Kristen and Bryan will be in Erie). I’m thankful that we’ll be in Massachusetts this year, united for the first time since Papa’s 80th birthday three years ago. I’m thankful I didn’t lose my job when the Transfusion staff lost their jobs. I’m thankful the tornado didn’t destroy my new car or any of my possessions or—more importantly—my cats. I’m thankful my family has been kind enough to help me out financially, with a little money here and there.
But O, sadness! Gray little wings flapping soundlessly!
15 January 1992
…you realize how humiliating it is to start crying in the middle of psychology class? Today makes it the second time that I have felt tears rise and fall, while I prayed no one would see me as my brain got eaten up by black worms…all in the midst of class, usually in the mornings. Now I suppose Mr. Tuscano’s going to give us ten pages of notes that are illegible and then Pam’s going to start talking to me and she won’t shut up. They never shut up. I think all I ever want to do anymore is run away from all of this—all the crowds, the people. They are so goddamn loud. I am so tired of being submerged and dredged up from the depths of the well, which is claustrophobic and dark and so scary. I don’t think I can stand it anymore.
Oh God, God, God…I really, truly hate myself. I hate myself, my family, my friends, because they hate me. I pick up self-murder like a stone and smooth its cold comfort around and around in my moist palms, thoughtlessly caressing and loving it. When I think about killing myself, I ponder how frightening and lonely an act it is, and how ultimately beautiful. It loves me; I love it. What’s the point of being alone on this teeming, decaying planet anymore? I obviously can’t do anything right and it’s impossible for any person to like me, as all they ever do is talk about me behind my back. I can’t do anything. I’m so tired, and when I think of the shadows, the bastards around me won’t let me alone. They’re all tearing my silence to tatters, killing me…
For the millionth time since I was thirteen…I wish I was dead. The whole world would be better off.
25 December 1995
I’m so tired of crying. I’m tired of feeling so alone. I’m tired of slaying the Shadowman, only to find that he’s immortal. He has chased me since I was fourteen, and I’m growing hoarse from screaming “Be gone, be gone, be gone.” I used to exorcise him through stacks of shitty poems, but somewhere along the way since then I lost my will to write. That essentially signed my death warrant. My new year’s resolution? To kick the darkness until it bleeds daylight. But “even the sunlight burns if you get too much.” What then? Kill myself? Poison myself into a coma? Where do I go from here?
31 October 1994
Darkness creeps up on me again, both outside, amidst the torrential grey clouds, and inside. I have to learn to stabilize these fucking emotions of mine. Today, at breakfast, I was filled with a consuming rage towards Paula because I felt that she was laughing too much, and when she called me “Jenny,” I thought I’d go insane. “MY NAME’S NOT JENNY!!!” I wanted to shriek at her. “It’s JENNIFER! JENNIFER!!! JENNY IS DEAD!!!” Jenny is dead. She died when I grew up, grew away from my inner light, though it was always a bit tarnished. She made a brief appearance beneath a highway bridge in Scranton last spring, shaking and cold. Savvy’s sending me my diary from that time this week, and I’m beginning to think it might’ve been a mistake for me to ask her to do so. Time can cover up old wounds, but that doesn’t mean they’ve gone away. They’re still there, hovering beneath the surface. I’m afraid that by re-reading that diary, after a considerable amount of time has passed, will awaken all of the hurt, the anguish, and the betrayal I felt, clawing open the scars. It haunts me now: like a ghost, I sail through the chilly April night, along the railroad tracks, and I see myself huddled beneath that bridge. I see a child who is lost and has been stripped of all security and warmth. I see her banging her head methodically against the concrete, trying to drive those demons out. I see her weeping while curled up in a ball in her pajamas, terrified about what has just taken place, and what had yet to come. I will read about those times and my anger will resurface with all of its almighty strength … I buried it in my diary’s pages, in Heather’s ears, in the back of my mind, which only succeeded in preserving it in a freezer-like state. When I pull it out and defrost it, it’s as fresh and alive and preserved as ever.
13 February 1995
Jorge, Annida, and I cooked stir-fry in her kitchen, and shortly after we started, Deb, Manu, and Camilla came in so Manu could cook them some pasta. Soon the place was hopping with people—Maki, Simone, Beatrice, Suki, and Brigitte were all cooking their dinners. The five of them eventually left, and the remainder of us ate each other’s food and sang (very loudly, I may add) songs from musicals. We covered Grease, West Side Story, Les Mis (most of us were particularly bitter during “On My Own”), Phantom, Wizard of Oz, and I forget what else. We also sang that scales song, “Do, a deer, a female deer…” Annida, Jorge, and I went back to her room to hang out, and then Lucy came by to claim Jorge. Manu came over, and Lucy and Jorge returned. We danced around to Grease wildly, wrote on Annida’s fogged-up windows, and generally acted quite stupid.
28 February 1995
When it comes to my depression, I think of it as swimming in a tar pit. It’s a struggle, an exhausting struggle, especially since I never learned to swim properly. It’s thick and black, and even when I escape to solid ground, I have to scrub and scrub to remove all traces of the tar. But then I’m raw and sensitive and vulnerable, in so much pain that I must return to the tar to soothe myself. Scrubbing doesn’t remove all traces—it always sticks to my hair, my nails, my teeth. Little, secretive places that remind me that the darkness is always going to be a part of me.
21 March 2003
On Wednesday night, when I was driving to Debbie’s house, I glanced at one of those electronic signs over the Beltway that provides information about gridlock, accidents, slippery conditions ahead, etc. But instead of reporting on those conditions, it provided info about our heightened state of alert and gave a phone number to call to report suspicious activity. It was really kind of creepy. But the interesting thing about the sign was this: I was listening to the song “I Grieve” as I drove down the Beltway, and as I read the heightened alert sign, he was—at that exact moment—singing the line, “They say life carries on.” And that’s the bottom line. Life carries on, whether we want it to or not. Folks in the Middle East learned this lesson long ago. There is war, there is terrorism, there is danger lurking at every given turn, there are maniacs in charge (that includes Bush)…and there are also jobs that have to be done, groceries that have to be bought, classes that have to be attended, pets that have to be fed, laundry that needs to be washed, bills that have to be paid. Duty doesn’t stop and joy doesn’t stop. Amidst all this crap—amidst me stockpiling water and thinking about assembling a first aid and emergency kit—I am also working on my website, planning my trips to Scotland and Finland, dreaming about skydiving again, reading a new book, and thinking about a new Danish film I really want to see. I refuse to let [terror] rob me of the pleasure that comes from thinking about those things.
10 April 2000
This is what I was thinking about while sitting in typical weekday traffic along University Blvd. this morning: it amazes me how weeds and grass can push through the slimmest of cracks on the concrete barriers between the sides of a highway and on sidewalks. There, in the midst of a sea of concrete, is a lone dandelion or a tuft of grass. How can it survive? What makes it push up in such an unforgiving environment? What else lurks beneath the surface that one would think is impenetrable? Are weeds just bumping restlessly beneath the surface of the concrete and asphalt, waiting for the moment when they are able to burst through the narrowest of cracks? It just seemed like a metaphor for life in general, or maybe my life.
7 November 1994
This morning I went to Greenwich to get one hr. reprints from Emanuella’s film (I’m picking them up tomorrow, since it’s cheaper), and I decided to walk the footpath that goes beneath the Thames. It took me to the Isle of Dogs and the Docklands Light Railway. It was a very surreal, dream-like experience. The tunnel seemed to stretch on forever, and it was filled with dirty tiles, sickly yellow lighting, and grey-faced people who moved past me like ghosts. I was feeling sick all day long, so I was rather dizzy, light-headed, and hallucinogenic down there.
21 March 1995
Something alarming happened yesterday. After walking home from college with Jorge, Jim, and Annida, they stopped into my room to see my Stonehenge photos; Jim really wanted to see my wrist-slashing photos (but I kept one hidden). For some reason Jon B. came by and saw the blood photo, and he asked what it was, if I had gotten a nosebleed. I wouldn’t say, but Jorge kept saying, “Show him!”, so I reluctantly flashed my wrists and said that it was a wrist bleed. I didn’t care too much until I saw the expression on his face, and then I knew that it was a mistake, because of his being a holy roller. I mumbled embarrassed replies to his continuous questions. Jorge commanded Jon not to question it, to just let me do what I want. After that, I got really worried that he would tell Goldsmiths about it, or even worse, O’Grady. I emotionally cannot re-live last spring again!!! Jorge and Annida kept saying, “No, no, don’t worry, he won’t do anything.” When everyone left the dinner table but Annida and me, Jon plopped down and began making small talk. “Oh shit,” I thought, “I know what’s coming.” I shakily excused myself to go take my walk, and that’s when he hurriedly said that he wanted to ask me something. We ended up having a long religious talk—well, he talked, I semi-listened while trying not to laugh. It pissed me off, as I could tell his concern really wasn’t with me, it was with god getting angry because I’m damaging his property through self-mutilation. He just used it as a launching pad to babble on about how only Jesus can save me. In a way, I was even offended, because it sounded as if he was putting down my faith, just because I’m not a Christian. Annida said that wasn’t the case, but I feel it was. I may not believe in God, or even a god, but I believe in something (don’t know what yet…), and just because my faith doesn’t take on traditional forms, doesn’t mean that it isn’t valid. And I Didn’t like how he was almost trying to make me feel ashamed about my wrist-slashing, as if I’m a piteous heathen. Slashing is, in its own hideous way, strangely beautiful. It’s a part of me, and I won’t allow myself to see it as dirty or shameful. And if god did make me…hey, it’s my body now, and I can do with it what I damn well please. When an architect builds a house, he doesn’t expect subsequent owners to live in it exactly as he left it. No, they decorate it, build upon it, make it their own. Just like we pierce ourselves and cut our hair. Jon wouldn’t even listen to my saying that mutilation is the only way I harm myself—I don’t drink, smoke, or do drugs. He made it sound like mutilation’s worse than that! Asshole.
9 December 1995
After dinner, Dave and I went to the mall, where we got free knives in Boscovs, I stole the slashed wrists cover to the new Hole CD, I tried to buy insecticide (but Kara stopped me when she learned what it was for), and I bought my secret Santa gifts. I returned back to the dorm alone and worked on my paper. Later on, I went to Paragons with Dave and a dyke, Jen, who lives on my floor, but it was closed, probably because of all the snow and ice we got that day. We went back to Dave’s room to gather our bearings, and then we went to Farley’s for drinks. It was pretty fun. We stayed until after 1 a.m., talking and laughing, and staring in amazement when a man and a woman got into a fight right outside our window. It looked like he was trying to steal her purse. Dave and some jocks ran outside to help, with Dave wielding his free paring knife. It turns out that they were a couple, and while drunk, she decided to get back at him for all the times he beat her and treated her like shit, so she slapped him and tried to strangle him with her purse. Exciting. We went back to the dorm and pulled obnoxious pranks, like re-arranging the letters that said “The Crusades” so they said “The crude ass,” stealing Barb’s mistletoe and gluing the church pamphlet on her door shut, gluing “E”s next to the Ho Ho Ho on her wall, filling her mailbox with glitter, adding big lips from one person’s door onto another person’s name crab, etc. Kara had joined us for this merrymaking. Eaflier, Dave and I rubbed out part of the dry erase words on the Gunster calendar that said “Good luck on finals!” so it said “God lick on anals!” and we added crude things to the “All I want for Christmas” list and the “My family traditions are…” list hanging on my floor.
21 September 1998
I was thinking that this aloneness is like winter. It’s a season that is lonely, barren, cold. But it also has tremendous beauty that can’t be rivaled by any other season. What can replace the joy that comes from the season’s first snowfall? Or from the other treasures of winter? Playing in the snow, cuddling with a mug of hot chocolate in front of a fire, celebrating the holidays. Winter is a time when you eat what you want (because you wear bulky clothes that hide your body) and go for weeks without shaving your legs…just like when you’re not in a relationship! It’s a time for you to savor solitude and introspection. It’s a time for you to comfort yourself and take care of yourself. I can console myself by saying that being alone is all of those things, and that for all of the disadvantages of winter—shoveling snow, losing power, getting sick, being trapped indoors—there are so many advantages to consider. Shoveling snow is good exercise, and it usually gives you a chance to talk to neighbors normally ignored. You can moan about shoveling together, and laugh at how sweaty and disheveled you get. Losing power gives you the chance to light candles and huddle beneath blankets, reading a good book. Getting sick gives you a day or two off of work, and permits you to engage in a much-needed vegging session. Being trapped indoors gives you time to read more, or work on crafts that you would normally shove aside. I think that above all, I must remember that winter doesn’t last forever. It can seem interminable sometimes, but eventually it always collapses into spring. Yes, maybe this year spring is damp and cold and not worth much, but in another year, spring might be better. Warm, beautiful. Maybe relationships are like that. After my relationship ended, I found myself in the midst of winter that would not die, but spring will come someday. If it’s a chilly, wet, colorless spring, I can say, “Well, next time it will be better.” In the meanwhile, I should appreciate this winter and embrace it. I should be an optimist for once in my sorry life. I should say, “I need this time to grown and heal. Only when I truly surrender to winter will I be ready for spring to come.” Instead of looking at winter’s bare trees and thinking they are naked skeletons that would look so much better with leaves, I can admire the smooth curves of their bones, and the beautify of their lacework when I lie beneath them and stare at their crisscrossing, delicate branches, black against the gray sky that leaks through them. Instead of saying that the landscape is depressing, I can take haunting black and white photographs of it, capture its somber beauty in intense poems.
What my fear is, though, is that spring won’t come. Winter will rapidly lose its beauty if, because of some fluke, it goes on forever. Maybe spring doesn’t come for everybody…
song heard most recently before posting:
B.M.F.A.—Martha Wainwright
Sunday, August 10, 2008
25 years: a retrospective (part 1)
Hi, I’d like a ticket to Nervous Breakdown Land, please. Oh, wait! I’m already there! And look, my passport even has a permanent residency visa in it. I’m good to go.
Hiding behind an old cliché, I’ll say that things have been a bit crazy lately. Most of it has been good: two action-packed trips home to Pennsylvania in three weeks, two concerts (George Michael and Neil Diamond) in one week, two days of an intensive substantive editing class in Silver Spring, and several overnight guests. Some of it has been not so good: lots of freelancing, a cold that left me with a persistent cough that wakes me up at night, and many stressful work upheavals. Now I’m finally able to sit down and write in this blog again.
This weekend is turning out to be one of those freakish anomalies when I actually have very little freelancing to do. Free time is an exotic creature to me these days—it’s almost worthy of being placed behind glass in a high-end zoo—and this weekend’s wealth of free time stunned me like a blow to the head with its beauty and elegance.
On top of that, the weather is absolutely stellar. I mean, you just don’t get days like yesterday and today in August. There’s no humidity, it’s warm but not hot, there’s a good breeze, and the sky is a dazzling shade of blue. I haven’t had to use the air-conditioner since Friday! Unbelievable!
So aside from working on six freelance manuscripts, I spent quite a bit of time sitting on my balcony, leisurely reading a library book. What a feeling! I also typed up a ton of quotes recently flagged in books I’ve been reading, then added them to my website; I caught up on my journal writing; I’m going to catch up on emails; I’m working on this blog entry; and I sifted through and selected old negatives that I want Ritz Camera to turn into slides (if they even do such a thing anymore), so I can make a lampshade out of them. I’m also going to scan more old high school and college photos for Facebook. And I fixed a problem with my toilet tank, by jerry-rigging this…well, one thing or another. I don’t even know what it’s called. But somehow it broke off and the toilet wouldn’t flush without it, so I fiddled with the broken piece until I was able to get it working again. Plus I finally figured out how to fix my broken filing cabinet. I wanted to hang my new slatted blinds, too, but after examining the instructions on Friday, I decided that it requires n engineering doctorate just to figure it out (I am so not mathematical), so I’ll wait until some math-minded person can help me in the future. Yeah, I ain’t too proud to beg.
Anyway, 2008 marks 25 years since I began keeping a journal. I’ve been wanting do something to commemorate it, but don’t have any mind-blowing ideas lined up, so to compromise, I’m going to publish (on my blog) a random assortment of journal entry chunks from over the years. This will cover journal entries up until the point I started keeping this blog in mid-2006. I didn’t stop keeping a journal at that time—it’s still alive and kicking—but all the experiences/thoughts that happened between mid-2006 and now, which I’m comfortable sharing with the public, are already in this blog. Everything else in my journal is private and will remain for my eyes only.
These journal fragments will have to be spread over numerous blog postings, since there’s a lot of stuff I feel like throwing out there, just for the hell of it. Maybe by the time my 50th journal-keeping anniversary rolls around, I’ll have a better plan for commemorating the occasion. If the world even still exists at that point, of course. Here’s the first lot:
4 January 2001
So there it is. This knowledge feels like a splinter wedged beneath my finger. I think: “How the hell did it get there?” and “How the hell am I going to get it out?” Sometimes I don’t feel it, but if I turn a certain way or brush my finger against something, the pain throbs and reminds me that the splinter is there. How do you make knowledge like this go away? How do you go back to how things were before? It becomes a whole separate entity: Before. A person’s whole life can be splintered into fractions by an event, and the biggest segment to emerge is Before. Before is when things made sense. My life was charmed Before. How much money would I pay to erase what I know and go back to the ignorance of Before? I want to clamp my hands together and pray. “O god, forgive me my trespasses and buy me a one way ticket back to Before. I don’t care if it’s a dirty old bus that hits every pothole in the road. I don’t need to travel First class. I just want to go back to Before.”
And of course there is that terrifying realization that every minute we live is a Before. Two days from now, my apartment could burn to the ground and I will be thinking, “Oh, god, what I wouldn’t do to go back to the ignorance of Thursday, when I still had all my possessions and a home.” I will be craving how I felt Before. Two years from now, someone I love could die and I will think back to now, when everything was still safe and sane and that person was in my life, and I will envy the me who existed in January 2001 and who knew nothing about grief and loss. I will envy the me who existed Before. It makes me want to embrace every second of my life, because I never know when my life will become one big After.
Is this even making any sense?
8 January 2002
I hate the fact that I could end up alone because I’m too weird, too complicated, for any man I meet. I hate it. But I have to accept it, because I don’t want to fucking apologize for who I am. I don’t want to feel ashamed. Life is complicated, it is a million layers, it is always changing, so why shouldn’t humans be the same way? Maybe guys want to “punish” me, so to speak, for being complicated and mercurial, and that’s not fucking fair, but I can’t do anything about it other than become a ditz or one-dimensional or a social butterfly, which I’m not willing to do, so I guess I’m stuck alone. If there is one thing I have learned during my 27 years of existence, it is that life is just too fucking short to be spent wondering why people don’t like you and why things don’t go as you want them to go. April 15, 1991 (Nanny’s death) taught me that. Dad’s bout with cancer last winter taught me that. June 26th (Shoah’s death) taught me that. September 11th taught me that. September 24th (the tornado) taught me that. Not to be too nihilistic or anything, but we’re all the walking dead, just waiting to drop. Life is an ever-ticking time bomb. It should be spent trying to find peace and joy, not verification of worthiness from other people. I don’t want to be alone for my entire life, but I’d rather be alone than settle for somebody who isn’t willing to accept me, scars and all. Fuck!
4 March 2003
I don’t want to settle. At all costs, I don’t want to settle. That’s part of why I’m so supremely picky. I’d rather die alone than settle. Too much emphasis is placed in our society on not being alone, not staying single, not staying childless.
16 September 1999
I have been feeling a little antisocial lately, a little scared. Like maybe a vast ocean of terror, horror, or despair is shifting inside of me, at the level where I can just barely feel it. When I was home this weekend, I thought of it in terms of wearing metal braces to keep my legs upright and moving (my Paxil equals those braces)… One day I look down and realize that my legs have rotted away and all that’s left are the braces, and so if I take off the braces, I’ll crash to the ground. It’s not a feeling that oh, if I stop my meds, I’ll become paralyzed with depression and uselessness again. It’s more a feeling that I will just cease to exist if I stop the meds. Or, I will wither up and die so quickly, it’ll be like ceasing to exist. Another analogy: I feel like my skin is strong and brave, but beneath my skin, my self is contracting into a tight little ball, knocking around the hallow insides of my body. Like a turtle that retreats into its shell when it is afraid. My outside, my skin, is my touch shell, but inside I’m quivering, hidden, withdrawing as far as possible from that skin. Hiding. I don’t know what I’m afraid of.
29 February 2000
In the meanwhile, a quote comes to mind:
I think that’s kind of where I’m coming from. Like I’m standing there in the midst of this crowd, knowing I’m different, and knowing that they know I’m different, and it makes me uncomfortable. Like they look at me and just know that I’m not there with them…I’m closed off…and I’m bored, tired, thinking of other things that you’re not supposed to think about when you’re out and about on the town, like going home and pulling on the warm comfort of my pajamas, or sending emails, or completely nonsensical, random, dark things…they know that if they approach me, I won’t be chatty and giggly and interested in the banalities they’re saying…they know I’m not a part of the scene, but instead I’m standing back and watching it, in a clinical, disconnected way…I’m watching the way everybody moves the same way, stands around casually, yet prearranged in a way…the way everybody nurtures their drinks like little glass babies, taking comfort behind their careful, calculated swigs, their drawn-out exhaling of cigarette smoke…they know I think it’s a charade, and I don’t believe in it or belong…because I’m thinking of strange, stupid, crazy things that would never cross their minds in a million years…or maybe I’m thinking of normal things, like my crush, but all the same, it still means that I’m not there with them, that I’m thinking about kissing him and holding his hand instead of focusing on the bits of introductions and surface chat that are coming out of their mouths.
23 March 2000
In my email, I said that I had written an analogy-laden journal entry about my depression, and obviously that’s not true. The depression realization only hit me last night, and so I haven’t had time to write about it. But here goes (better late than never):
It’s like I was in this very black sea, with no islands in sight. Sometimes my head would be above the water, sometimes not. Then I started on my meds and got my depression under control and found myself on a little white island. I began to lose sight of the fact that the sea was still around me…all I saw was the gleaming white of my island. It blotted out everything else in my landscape. What I realized last night was that the sea does continue to surround me, and at high tide, the water laps up onto my island, getting my feet wet with its oily waters. For some reason, I didn’t notice that before. I thought that my periods of grayness and melancholy were somehow random flukes—little arrows of darkness somehow piercing my white island, then melting away. Now I see that those gray periods aren’t flukes at all, but a constant force that I am able to ignore most of the time. Just because I ignore them, though, doesn’t mean that they go away. That is the paramount idea behind last night’s realization: the idea that depression remains inside of me. Not dormant, like I thought, but quietly active. Although it is darkness, it colors my life. It is quite possibly the reason I hate waking up and facing the day, even after getting plenty of sleep. It is the reason I enjoy hibernating so much and dread going out, even with Angela. It is the reason I am perfectly content to not talk to anybody on the phone. In a nutshell, I realized that because of this thin membrane of depression inside of me, I am not living. I am merely surviving. I am crawling through each day without feeling it or living it, just trying to get through it, just trying to pull through to another night of sleep or another weekend of vegging alone. Just trying to trudge my way through another calendar year. I thought the Paxil and St. John’s Wort were enough…and maybe they were, for a while. I’m not seriously depressed; I’m functioning quite nicely, thank you very much. But even during the worst of it, I was still functioning. I was never completely crippled by depression. I was always a functioning depressive. But that doesn’t mean that it wasn’t crushing me. So if I stood here now and said, “I’m not really depressed right now, because I don’t feel depressed most of the time. More importantly, I’m functioning,” it doesn’t really cut it. The meds aren’t completely useless. They’re helping me a lot, but they are not completely obliterating the depression. Now I Finally understand all those depression articles that tell you that you can be depressed without realizing it. I never understood that! I thought, How can you not know that you’re depressed?! Before I started on meds, I knew I was depressed! Oh my god, the whole world knew! Even if my depression hadn’t been smashing me across the head with its gigantic hammer on a daily basis, I would still know I was depressed! Now, however, the meds seem to have sedated the depression enough to keep it at a flat, pale level that is barely noticeable. Now I’m identifying my depression by the checklist of symptoms those depression articles tout: sleeping too much, feeling numb, eating too much, antisocial… Oh god, what a dissipating feeling, to know it’s still active inside of me. To know I’m only surviving, not living. But at the same time, it’s kind of a relief to know this. If I don’t know about it, I can’t work on changing it. So now that I know, maybe I can work on getting it under control so I start living, and not just existing.
23 April 2001
I just wish someone would come along and surgically remove my heart (and my brain, while they’re at it), so I will maybe, for once know what it is like to feel peace. I hate crushes. I hate liking someone. I hate not being able to write. I hate getting my hopes up in vain. I hate feeling like the ugliest, stupidest, most undesirable monster alive. I hate wanting someone to want me. I hate being the only person in my immediate family who doesn’t have anyone. I hate that my family thinks I’m a lesbian freak because I am alone. I hate feeling like I’m not going to be worth anything until someone is in love with me. I hate that I’m sitting here wiping my fucking snot on a balled-up cheap paper towel, crying because [F.] won’t love me. I hate that I feel like I’m hanging on by a thread, and at age almost-27, I want more than that from life; I want more than feeling as though I am only hanging by a thread. I hate worrying that something is desperately wrong with me, that I am terrible beyond even my low-self-esteem-colored comprehension. I hate the fact that I’m sniveling and whining about stupid crap when I am actually quite blessed because my family and friends are healthy and alive and I have a job and a roof over my head. Jesus Christ, I sound like such a self-centered brat. I really am lucky in a lot of areas…I just wish that were enough for me right now.
22 February 2002
I can’t accurately describe how I feel these days. Hectic petsitting and proofreading duties aside, I still feel wrung out. ... I feel vaguely like a wash cloth that has been wrung out very strongly and roughly, and then tossed on a towel bar, wrinkled, damp, cold, withered. Nobody wants to touch it. As it dries, it dries stiffly and feels unpleasant to the touch.
2 October 2000
The other thing that has been preying on my mind lately is the idea of love/sex/passion/romance being more fulfilling and more important to me than religion. In fact, those things are my religion—when they are in my life, that is. What is sacred and divine to me isn’t a cross, or a bible, or a church—no matter how beautiful they may be. What is sacred and divine and holy is pure love between two people, and all the mechanics of that love: the tangling of limbs, fleeting kisses, comfort, love letters…I have the utmost respect for love and sex. … Sex with someone you don’t love is just an act, just a physical movement like walking or shitting or sleeping. Nothing wrong with that, I suppose, but it would be so devastatingly empty and ordinary to me, and I want no part of it… Sex with someone you love … is gorgeous, primeval, utterly holy. That is spirituality to me. The only thing that comes close to inspiring such spirituality in me is encountering a beautiful glimpse of nature, be it verdant and lush or barren and desolate. If I can have the spirituality of love in my life, I won’t ever be pining for organized religion or traditional spirituality. It helps that loving someone is supposed to make you a better person, and that brings about the strong ethics and morality that are normally associated with religion.
song heard most recently before posting:
This Voice—Ane Brun
Hiding behind an old cliché, I’ll say that things have been a bit crazy lately. Most of it has been good: two action-packed trips home to Pennsylvania in three weeks, two concerts (George Michael and Neil Diamond) in one week, two days of an intensive substantive editing class in Silver Spring, and several overnight guests. Some of it has been not so good: lots of freelancing, a cold that left me with a persistent cough that wakes me up at night, and many stressful work upheavals. Now I’m finally able to sit down and write in this blog again.
This weekend is turning out to be one of those freakish anomalies when I actually have very little freelancing to do. Free time is an exotic creature to me these days—it’s almost worthy of being placed behind glass in a high-end zoo—and this weekend’s wealth of free time stunned me like a blow to the head with its beauty and elegance.
On top of that, the weather is absolutely stellar. I mean, you just don’t get days like yesterday and today in August. There’s no humidity, it’s warm but not hot, there’s a good breeze, and the sky is a dazzling shade of blue. I haven’t had to use the air-conditioner since Friday! Unbelievable!
So aside from working on six freelance manuscripts, I spent quite a bit of time sitting on my balcony, leisurely reading a library book. What a feeling! I also typed up a ton of quotes recently flagged in books I’ve been reading, then added them to my website; I caught up on my journal writing; I’m going to catch up on emails; I’m working on this blog entry; and I sifted through and selected old negatives that I want Ritz Camera to turn into slides (if they even do such a thing anymore), so I can make a lampshade out of them. I’m also going to scan more old high school and college photos for Facebook. And I fixed a problem with my toilet tank, by jerry-rigging this…well, one thing or another. I don’t even know what it’s called. But somehow it broke off and the toilet wouldn’t flush without it, so I fiddled with the broken piece until I was able to get it working again. Plus I finally figured out how to fix my broken filing cabinet. I wanted to hang my new slatted blinds, too, but after examining the instructions on Friday, I decided that it requires n engineering doctorate just to figure it out (I am so not mathematical), so I’ll wait until some math-minded person can help me in the future. Yeah, I ain’t too proud to beg.
Anyway, 2008 marks 25 years since I began keeping a journal. I’ve been wanting do something to commemorate it, but don’t have any mind-blowing ideas lined up, so to compromise, I’m going to publish (on my blog) a random assortment of journal entry chunks from over the years. This will cover journal entries up until the point I started keeping this blog in mid-2006. I didn’t stop keeping a journal at that time—it’s still alive and kicking—but all the experiences/thoughts that happened between mid-2006 and now, which I’m comfortable sharing with the public, are already in this blog. Everything else in my journal is private and will remain for my eyes only.
These journal fragments will have to be spread over numerous blog postings, since there’s a lot of stuff I feel like throwing out there, just for the hell of it. Maybe by the time my 50th journal-keeping anniversary rolls around, I’ll have a better plan for commemorating the occasion. If the world even still exists at that point, of course. Here’s the first lot:
4 January 2001
So there it is. This knowledge feels like a splinter wedged beneath my finger. I think: “How the hell did it get there?” and “How the hell am I going to get it out?” Sometimes I don’t feel it, but if I turn a certain way or brush my finger against something, the pain throbs and reminds me that the splinter is there. How do you make knowledge like this go away? How do you go back to how things were before? It becomes a whole separate entity: Before. A person’s whole life can be splintered into fractions by an event, and the biggest segment to emerge is Before. Before is when things made sense. My life was charmed Before. How much money would I pay to erase what I know and go back to the ignorance of Before? I want to clamp my hands together and pray. “O god, forgive me my trespasses and buy me a one way ticket back to Before. I don’t care if it’s a dirty old bus that hits every pothole in the road. I don’t need to travel First class. I just want to go back to Before.”
And of course there is that terrifying realization that every minute we live is a Before. Two days from now, my apartment could burn to the ground and I will be thinking, “Oh, god, what I wouldn’t do to go back to the ignorance of Thursday, when I still had all my possessions and a home.” I will be craving how I felt Before. Two years from now, someone I love could die and I will think back to now, when everything was still safe and sane and that person was in my life, and I will envy the me who existed in January 2001 and who knew nothing about grief and loss. I will envy the me who existed Before. It makes me want to embrace every second of my life, because I never know when my life will become one big After.
Is this even making any sense?
8 January 2002
I hate the fact that I could end up alone because I’m too weird, too complicated, for any man I meet. I hate it. But I have to accept it, because I don’t want to fucking apologize for who I am. I don’t want to feel ashamed. Life is complicated, it is a million layers, it is always changing, so why shouldn’t humans be the same way? Maybe guys want to “punish” me, so to speak, for being complicated and mercurial, and that’s not fucking fair, but I can’t do anything about it other than become a ditz or one-dimensional or a social butterfly, which I’m not willing to do, so I guess I’m stuck alone. If there is one thing I have learned during my 27 years of existence, it is that life is just too fucking short to be spent wondering why people don’t like you and why things don’t go as you want them to go. April 15, 1991 (Nanny’s death) taught me that. Dad’s bout with cancer last winter taught me that. June 26th (Shoah’s death) taught me that. September 11th taught me that. September 24th (the tornado) taught me that. Not to be too nihilistic or anything, but we’re all the walking dead, just waiting to drop. Life is an ever-ticking time bomb. It should be spent trying to find peace and joy, not verification of worthiness from other people. I don’t want to be alone for my entire life, but I’d rather be alone than settle for somebody who isn’t willing to accept me, scars and all. Fuck!
4 March 2003
I don’t want to settle. At all costs, I don’t want to settle. That’s part of why I’m so supremely picky. I’d rather die alone than settle. Too much emphasis is placed in our society on not being alone, not staying single, not staying childless.
16 September 1999
I have been feeling a little antisocial lately, a little scared. Like maybe a vast ocean of terror, horror, or despair is shifting inside of me, at the level where I can just barely feel it. When I was home this weekend, I thought of it in terms of wearing metal braces to keep my legs upright and moving (my Paxil equals those braces)… One day I look down and realize that my legs have rotted away and all that’s left are the braces, and so if I take off the braces, I’ll crash to the ground. It’s not a feeling that oh, if I stop my meds, I’ll become paralyzed with depression and uselessness again. It’s more a feeling that I will just cease to exist if I stop the meds. Or, I will wither up and die so quickly, it’ll be like ceasing to exist. Another analogy: I feel like my skin is strong and brave, but beneath my skin, my self is contracting into a tight little ball, knocking around the hallow insides of my body. Like a turtle that retreats into its shell when it is afraid. My outside, my skin, is my touch shell, but inside I’m quivering, hidden, withdrawing as far as possible from that skin. Hiding. I don’t know what I’m afraid of.
29 February 2000
In the meanwhile, a quote comes to mind:
All of us have two minds, a private one, which is usually strange, I guess, and symbolic, and a public one, a social one. Most of us stream back and forth between those two minds, drifting around in our private self and then coming forward into the public self whenever we need to. But sometimes you get a little slow making the transition, you drag out the private part of your life and people know you’re doing it. They almost always catch on, knowing that someone is standing before them thinking about things that can’t be shared, like the one monkey that knows where a freshwater pond is.
I think that’s kind of where I’m coming from. Like I’m standing there in the midst of this crowd, knowing I’m different, and knowing that they know I’m different, and it makes me uncomfortable. Like they look at me and just know that I’m not there with them…I’m closed off…and I’m bored, tired, thinking of other things that you’re not supposed to think about when you’re out and about on the town, like going home and pulling on the warm comfort of my pajamas, or sending emails, or completely nonsensical, random, dark things…they know that if they approach me, I won’t be chatty and giggly and interested in the banalities they’re saying…they know I’m not a part of the scene, but instead I’m standing back and watching it, in a clinical, disconnected way…I’m watching the way everybody moves the same way, stands around casually, yet prearranged in a way…the way everybody nurtures their drinks like little glass babies, taking comfort behind their careful, calculated swigs, their drawn-out exhaling of cigarette smoke…they know I think it’s a charade, and I don’t believe in it or belong…because I’m thinking of strange, stupid, crazy things that would never cross their minds in a million years…or maybe I’m thinking of normal things, like my crush, but all the same, it still means that I’m not there with them, that I’m thinking about kissing him and holding his hand instead of focusing on the bits of introductions and surface chat that are coming out of their mouths.
23 March 2000
In my email, I said that I had written an analogy-laden journal entry about my depression, and obviously that’s not true. The depression realization only hit me last night, and so I haven’t had time to write about it. But here goes (better late than never):
It’s like I was in this very black sea, with no islands in sight. Sometimes my head would be above the water, sometimes not. Then I started on my meds and got my depression under control and found myself on a little white island. I began to lose sight of the fact that the sea was still around me…all I saw was the gleaming white of my island. It blotted out everything else in my landscape. What I realized last night was that the sea does continue to surround me, and at high tide, the water laps up onto my island, getting my feet wet with its oily waters. For some reason, I didn’t notice that before. I thought that my periods of grayness and melancholy were somehow random flukes—little arrows of darkness somehow piercing my white island, then melting away. Now I see that those gray periods aren’t flukes at all, but a constant force that I am able to ignore most of the time. Just because I ignore them, though, doesn’t mean that they go away. That is the paramount idea behind last night’s realization: the idea that depression remains inside of me. Not dormant, like I thought, but quietly active. Although it is darkness, it colors my life. It is quite possibly the reason I hate waking up and facing the day, even after getting plenty of sleep. It is the reason I enjoy hibernating so much and dread going out, even with Angela. It is the reason I am perfectly content to not talk to anybody on the phone. In a nutshell, I realized that because of this thin membrane of depression inside of me, I am not living. I am merely surviving. I am crawling through each day without feeling it or living it, just trying to get through it, just trying to pull through to another night of sleep or another weekend of vegging alone. Just trying to trudge my way through another calendar year. I thought the Paxil and St. John’s Wort were enough…and maybe they were, for a while. I’m not seriously depressed; I’m functioning quite nicely, thank you very much. But even during the worst of it, I was still functioning. I was never completely crippled by depression. I was always a functioning depressive. But that doesn’t mean that it wasn’t crushing me. So if I stood here now and said, “I’m not really depressed right now, because I don’t feel depressed most of the time. More importantly, I’m functioning,” it doesn’t really cut it. The meds aren’t completely useless. They’re helping me a lot, but they are not completely obliterating the depression. Now I Finally understand all those depression articles that tell you that you can be depressed without realizing it. I never understood that! I thought, How can you not know that you’re depressed?! Before I started on meds, I knew I was depressed! Oh my god, the whole world knew! Even if my depression hadn’t been smashing me across the head with its gigantic hammer on a daily basis, I would still know I was depressed! Now, however, the meds seem to have sedated the depression enough to keep it at a flat, pale level that is barely noticeable. Now I’m identifying my depression by the checklist of symptoms those depression articles tout: sleeping too much, feeling numb, eating too much, antisocial… Oh god, what a dissipating feeling, to know it’s still active inside of me. To know I’m only surviving, not living. But at the same time, it’s kind of a relief to know this. If I don’t know about it, I can’t work on changing it. So now that I know, maybe I can work on getting it under control so I start living, and not just existing.
23 April 2001
I just wish someone would come along and surgically remove my heart (and my brain, while they’re at it), so I will maybe, for once know what it is like to feel peace. I hate crushes. I hate liking someone. I hate not being able to write. I hate getting my hopes up in vain. I hate feeling like the ugliest, stupidest, most undesirable monster alive. I hate wanting someone to want me. I hate being the only person in my immediate family who doesn’t have anyone. I hate that my family thinks I’m a lesbian freak because I am alone. I hate feeling like I’m not going to be worth anything until someone is in love with me. I hate that I’m sitting here wiping my fucking snot on a balled-up cheap paper towel, crying because [F.] won’t love me. I hate that I feel like I’m hanging on by a thread, and at age almost-27, I want more than that from life; I want more than feeling as though I am only hanging by a thread. I hate worrying that something is desperately wrong with me, that I am terrible beyond even my low-self-esteem-colored comprehension. I hate the fact that I’m sniveling and whining about stupid crap when I am actually quite blessed because my family and friends are healthy and alive and I have a job and a roof over my head. Jesus Christ, I sound like such a self-centered brat. I really am lucky in a lot of areas…I just wish that were enough for me right now.
22 February 2002
I can’t accurately describe how I feel these days. Hectic petsitting and proofreading duties aside, I still feel wrung out. ... I feel vaguely like a wash cloth that has been wrung out very strongly and roughly, and then tossed on a towel bar, wrinkled, damp, cold, withered. Nobody wants to touch it. As it dries, it dries stiffly and feels unpleasant to the touch.
2 October 2000
The other thing that has been preying on my mind lately is the idea of love/sex/passion/romance being more fulfilling and more important to me than religion. In fact, those things are my religion—when they are in my life, that is. What is sacred and divine to me isn’t a cross, or a bible, or a church—no matter how beautiful they may be. What is sacred and divine and holy is pure love between two people, and all the mechanics of that love: the tangling of limbs, fleeting kisses, comfort, love letters…I have the utmost respect for love and sex. … Sex with someone you don’t love is just an act, just a physical movement like walking or shitting or sleeping. Nothing wrong with that, I suppose, but it would be so devastatingly empty and ordinary to me, and I want no part of it… Sex with someone you love … is gorgeous, primeval, utterly holy. That is spirituality to me. The only thing that comes close to inspiring such spirituality in me is encountering a beautiful glimpse of nature, be it verdant and lush or barren and desolate. If I can have the spirituality of love in my life, I won’t ever be pining for organized religion or traditional spirituality. It helps that loving someone is supposed to make you a better person, and that brings about the strong ethics and morality that are normally associated with religion.
song heard most recently before posting:
This Voice—Ane Brun
Friday, July 18, 2008
still a wallflower at heart
I’m flustered by my sudden social life! What the hell is going on!
I had so much work to do last weekend, but I still broke away to make a last-minute trip home to Lebanon, even though I’ll be heading up there again next weekend for a farewell gathering for Kendra, who is moving to Hawaii next month. This particular visit was a tiny reunion of sorts with two old high school-era folks who I haven’t seen in well over a decade: Beck and Abby. A group of us went to a white trash karaoke bar until 2am, then terrorized a former pal by knocking repeatedly on his door and singing show tunes on his lawn (yes, it’s highly appropriate behavior for people in their thirties, thanks for asking, and yes, I was stone-cold sober, of course—I always am!), and then we went for dinner at an all-night restaurant, where Ang’s food had hair in it, Amelia’s dinner was paid for by an admirer, and a flea jumped around our table. I had such a blast all evening long, and it was one of the very few times when I actually wished I lived closer to Lebanon, so the evening could be recreated soon. Missy and I got back to her house at like 4:30am, which only gave me four hours to sleep before I had to meet my family for breakfast in Grantville. I couldn’t even nap after getting home, because I had so much work to do. Well, okay, I did sneak in a tiny nap later in the afternoon, but for the most part, my day was wholly devoted to working. I finally called a halt to it in the evening to spend some time gabbing with friends on Facebook, which is my latest addiction.
Today I went out to lunch with Deborah, tonight Melissa is staying over, tomorrow I’m taking Debbie out for a birthday dinner, and on Sunday I’m going to Antoinette’s house to finally meet her new baby. Next week I’ll have dinner and a therapeutic guts-spilling session with Julie, Cynthia, and Susan, and I’m going to squeeze in at least one Capital Fringe event (the Jerry Springer rock opera, if it’s not sold out). Then it’s back to Lebanon for a BBQ/white trash karaoke/sleazy gay bar/adult bookstore weekend.
Other than that, it’s work, work, work. The last thing I should be doing right now is socializing, because of how much work is heaped before me, but oh well. I need to act my age every once in a while, you know?
song heard most recently before posting:
November Rain—Guns n’ Roses
I had so much work to do last weekend, but I still broke away to make a last-minute trip home to Lebanon, even though I’ll be heading up there again next weekend for a farewell gathering for Kendra, who is moving to Hawaii next month. This particular visit was a tiny reunion of sorts with two old high school-era folks who I haven’t seen in well over a decade: Beck and Abby. A group of us went to a white trash karaoke bar until 2am, then terrorized a former pal by knocking repeatedly on his door and singing show tunes on his lawn (yes, it’s highly appropriate behavior for people in their thirties, thanks for asking, and yes, I was stone-cold sober, of course—I always am!), and then we went for dinner at an all-night restaurant, where Ang’s food had hair in it, Amelia’s dinner was paid for by an admirer, and a flea jumped around our table. I had such a blast all evening long, and it was one of the very few times when I actually wished I lived closer to Lebanon, so the evening could be recreated soon. Missy and I got back to her house at like 4:30am, which only gave me four hours to sleep before I had to meet my family for breakfast in Grantville. I couldn’t even nap after getting home, because I had so much work to do. Well, okay, I did sneak in a tiny nap later in the afternoon, but for the most part, my day was wholly devoted to working. I finally called a halt to it in the evening to spend some time gabbing with friends on Facebook, which is my latest addiction.
Today I went out to lunch with Deborah, tonight Melissa is staying over, tomorrow I’m taking Debbie out for a birthday dinner, and on Sunday I’m going to Antoinette’s house to finally meet her new baby. Next week I’ll have dinner and a therapeutic guts-spilling session with Julie, Cynthia, and Susan, and I’m going to squeeze in at least one Capital Fringe event (the Jerry Springer rock opera, if it’s not sold out). Then it’s back to Lebanon for a BBQ/white trash karaoke/sleazy gay bar/adult bookstore weekend.
Other than that, it’s work, work, work. The last thing I should be doing right now is socializing, because of how much work is heaped before me, but oh well. I need to act my age every once in a while, you know?
song heard most recently before posting:
November Rain—Guns n’ Roses
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