25 years: a retrospective (part 8)

I have been woefully neglectful of my blog in recent months, for a myriad of reasons. I vow to thee that this will change after the new year! Meanwhile, since 2008—my 25th anniversary journaling year—is closing down, I want to post a few final journal excerpts for my retrospective. More substantive and non-recycled crap will follow in upcoming weeks!

9 May 1983

Me and Barb cleaned my Barbie house. On Sat. mommy got me a sticker book and Krissy a wooden horse. She was gonna get me a wooden panda or fish but it was mostly farm animals.

8 October 1983

Usually I don’t write on weekends. But I got mad at mom again! I did her wash and she says she won’t give me anything for it! I can kill her. Tomorrow we go to the mountains.

22 January 1986

The kids were so mean! Hardly anyone talked to me except to make fun of me except to call me gross or to blow my nose. I almost cried at lunch! It got a little better when I played hopscotch with Barb and (ugg!) Lori. I’m afraid to go back.

21 June 1986

A lot happened today. First, D. called and I asked her to a movie but she couldn’t go. So we played Barbies but then B. called. We played with her and tricked her. D. said that they had to leave at two because I’m sick. They left, then D. returned without B.! We tried to pick up my Barbie pool filled with water, and it dumped all over us! D. and I went to A&M pizza place. I got a large coke and when I tried to pay for it the guy said, “Who cares, take it for free”! Maybe he knew I was sick! My temperature is 101.

5 November 1987

All night I’ve been trying to write poetry about how I feel about growing up. It’s hard, so that’s why I’m writing this. This has got to be the hardest time in my life. I never felt this way before. When I was littler, I thought my main teen troubles would be boys, friends, sex, drugs, and alcohol. Those are true, but they’re not all. I have the weirdest feelings cursing through my soul. I know that sounds stupid, but it’s true. I feel angry at the world, yet sometimes for no particular reason, I feel happy. Happy at what? Who knows? And the time I don’t even know why I’m mad at people. I just am. I feel sad too. Sad at not being pretty, or popular, and not having a boyfriend. I feel sadness for myself and everything under the sun. I still love M.G. deeply, yet I know he’ll never love me. Why? I wonder. Why is life so cruel and unfair? What will the future hold in store for me? I’m scared, diary. Scared, frightened, confused, angry, and sad. I’m slipping over the edge sometimes. Sometimes I slip into one of my carefree, problemless fantasies and I can’t pull myself out. How should I? How can I help myself?

5 April 1988

Today in the mail I got a card and $5 from Moe. She sent it for my receiving that blue ribbon. In it she said that I would someday be famous and that the world needed poets like me, or something like that. El wowo!

27 August 1988

This sounds odd, but I feel like…I don’t know. How do I feel? I guess really depressed. I haven’t talked to any friends today and I’m down pretty much. Once again I feel like there’s this wall in front of me. It’s blocking me off. I wish I could get to the other side. Maybe school this year will allow me to do that, but I doubt it. I’m in this mood that just makes me want to die. Yes, that’s it—be able to stop; to end. I don’t want to kill myself, though. Just die. I hope it stops.

30 June 1989

In some respects, I’m living life on a fragile wire, teetering up upon darkness and light; madness and reality; hope and despair. I have been bitten by a shadow, and therefore lie on the threshold of the point of no return. The abyss is gaping, but so help me God, I will fight him the whole way through, have I enough strength left. “When you look into the abyss, the abyss looks into you,” they say. What is happening?

30 July 1989

Mom is driving me crazy with her “you’re a lazy-ass” routine. Plus, to make matters worse, her and Dad are sticking me in the middle of their tug-of-war. Forget it. I won’t have any part of it. I think I’m going paranoid. Sometimes I’m afraid to go outside; I don’t watch current TV or listen to current music, and I think I’m building up a wall which is only hurting me more. Oh! Oh! What happens now?

10 August 1989

I’m really torn up over this war between Mom and Dad; mixed up, I mean. Dad doesn’t sleep here anymore. Okay, here goes the game strategy: Mom raves on about how horrible Dad is, and Dad complains how crazy Mom is. In other words, they’re trying to turn me against eachother. Also, Dad is trying to bribe me by talking about what a wonderful room I’ll have in his new house, and how I can call on him anytime, anywhere, and oh, let’s have a little chat, because you’re like me. He also pointed out to me yesterday how Mom has 5 individual pictures of Kris in her wallet, and only 1 of me. Now, had I noticed it on my own, I wouldn’t have given it a second thought, as Kris had more pictures done than me (proms, senior photos). But now that he mentions it, couldn’t she just put 2 or 3 pictures in, not 5? I mean, come on. I know Mom likes Kris better than me, I’d have to be dense not to, but this certainly doesn’t diminish the glare. I’m not saying I’m angry at Dad for all this, in fact I’m rather for him, but not with him. I’m tired of balancing on the rope between the two of them. Kris doesn’t have to face it, so why should I?

10 September 1989

Really, I have got to tell you this, because I’m not sure what to do. Mom wants me to see a psychiatrist. I don’t have to tell you why, as you know me, and know why she suggested it. But I will say that Friday, I was really depressed because I had nothing to do, was having cramps, and all the factors that make me depressed. Mom really had me upset, though, with her dropping hints that I don’t get out, I’m not socialite of the year, and of course, I’m not Kris. So I went out for a walk while she was shopping, and I only came back in once she was home for awhile. She was staring at me like I’m some sort of madness, and was pressing because I was moping around kind of dejectedly. When I was in bed, listening to Evita through my earphones, she asked me what was wrong, and if I had a problem, could I come to her. I said I don’t know. She said if I didn’t have anyone I felt I could talk to, maybe we could get me professional help, like Heather. It didn’t offend me, but once alone in the dark, I started to cry. Oh dear God, what is happening? Am I really that bad off? I have you to talk with, and even Michelle and Antoinette if I was far enough along the edge, but what about my state? I was glad that maybe Mom was finally understanding, except Saturday she started on me again. I don’t need this pressure! She suggested the P. again in the car on our way to Louise’s for dinner. If I was to write the second stage of my memoirs, I’d call it “Falling Apart.” Not just me, my friends. Antoinette is turning badly, Heather…everybody. Why is it there are hardly any sane teenagers? Maybe I should see one. I feel as if I can only bare my soul to you, but I’m afraid of breaking. What should I do? I’m noticing some of the signs in myself…would I kill myself? Could I kill myself? Is it possible for me to take my own life?

14 September 1989

I am so sorry to moan and pray and weep to you all the time, but if I don’t talk to someone, I just know I’ll snap. Please forgive me, but I just have so much on my mind. I’m so depressed. Sometimes I just give up all faith in living. There’s nothing for me! I’m so ugly and unpopular and I don’t have any friends to confide to anymore. Everybody’s got their life to live but me. I want to do it! I want to kill myself! I want it to be over with. I’m a failure in everything. Mom and Dad fight all the time, and obviously no one really likes me. I’m so ashamed of myself because I’m so weak. Oh, make it go away! Make the pain stop, God…why do you punish me so bad? I just wish I could crawl in a corner and die.

There. I got it out. I’m crying while I write this, because I’m getting suffocated in this darkness. Not even Heaven will weep for me now.

28 September 1989

For some reason today I stared at my hand; it was dirty and it represented reality. What is real? What does it take to be able to survive? I think I’m kind of in a bind right now. No, not really that word…kind of…in a state of serenity. Does that sound strange to you? It does to me. Nothing really affects me anymore. A great, comforting numbness has me swimming, drowning, in myself. I shall be mediocre happy if I can feel no pain.

30 September 1989

In answer to my wonderings a few days ago, I think I figured I’m (as in Pink Floyd’s The Wall) in front of the wall. I’m searching for the door, though. Isn’t that strange? I want to be behind it, to hide in insanity, and never be forced to face life again. Every drop of anguish for me is “Just another brick in the wall.”

12 October 1989

I apologize for not having written, but there seems to be something wrong with me. I told you before, I feel numb. And that’s just it. I pass from day to day like a zombie; nothing makes an impression on me. I almost feel as if life is a neverending insanity, with “breaks of reality” in it. I can’t write to you. I am so sorry, but I just can’t. Haven’t you noticed? I haven’t written any poetry, except one. Nothing satisfies me, and everything I use as an outlet no longer works. That means I’m holding it inside, and I don’t like that. I don’t like that at all. If I continue, I may go mad.

31 October 1989

’Fess up, someone. What is happening here? Why does everything good in my life get destroyed? It’s so ironic I could almost laugh, if the idea would sink into my rotten brain.

… I can’t talk to you anymore (tonight). Telly looks good. Gotta go burn myself.

6 November 1989

Tonight I had a long talk with my mother about religion, and the web that surrounds it. I don’t know. I guess I never gave much thought to being Catholic and how it differs from her being Protestant. Michelle is too. They seem (the religions) so alike; I wonder how we group ourselves so differently when it’s all the same God we believe in. Catholics are very ethnocentric. They think they’re the best, and every member of the church must think like the Pope tells them to. Everyone’s like “Horror” when it comes to inter-religious marriages. “If you should decide to marry someone outside of your own religion…” as a warning. So what? What does it matter if my husband’s Catholic, Jewish, Protestant, or an atheist? I mean, what difference does it make? I think we’re all delicate and fragile objects in a very harsh, confused world. Look at the war in Northern Ireland. So full of hate for something so senseless.

Forgive me if I fail to captivate you. I am so freezingly cold, I feel as if I’ve no circulation left. I’m also under alot of stress from quarterlies being all week long. Such, in fact, I’ve been plagued by migraines and constant numbness in my left hand. We all know what that feels like. Strange, but I don’t feel the pressure. It must be building up slowly inside of me, like everything else.

This is also spirit week. I wore my British flag hat today. I don’t know if I’m going to clash tomorrow or not. Michelle and I stayed after school to help decorate, then went for pizza and walked around until she had to go to band. She told me Neil (Neil! Neil!) was having a New Year’s party. God, I’d give my life to go. There’s probably drinking (he said there’d be a “bit of whisky”) but I wouldn’t care. I’d smuggle apple juice in, more than likely. Oh well. Life is a cruel piece of shit.

8 November 1989

I feel like I’ve got to talk to you, or else I’ll end up killing myself sometime. Can I tell you something? I’m tired of working my ass for little pay. I’m tired of Mom and Dad making promises to me they have no intention of keeping, then getting cold when I remind them. I’m tired of the bitches at work who treat me so badly. I’m tired of my friends who either never call, or think they’re superior to me. I’m tired of being locked behind a mask of steel. I’m tired of everyone, everything, and want to gouge them away. I don’t know what’s happening to me. I don’t believe in the colours of life anymore, except that I’ve come to learn to accept the grey, and live in it. I’m just so weary and hallow; someone give me a cliff, and I’ll throw myself off it. Give me a razor, and I’ll wield its silver anger to my skin. Give me hope and I’ll show you despair. Help me to survive and you shall become my God.

“What happens to a dream deferred?”

4 December 1989

… popular people are a complete mystery to me. Half of them aren’t even pretty. But they’re all so busy trying to impress other people who are trying to impress them. It’s not the treads who always get pregnant, do drugs, drink, and be reckless. It’s the pops. And it’s usually them who get away with it because they’re jewels in every person’s eyes.

I guess I’m kind of glad I’m a loner. I don’t care if I ever fall in love, or live happily ever after. I’ve got my dreams, and ambitions, and hopes, and I know I’ll find peace of mind in England someday. Total serenity. It won’t matter what they think.

12 December 1989

I’m also pretty tired of conforming to everybody’s rules. If I venture timidly into the world of individuality, I get so many smacks I have to return! It’s bad enough that if you’re not one of the “beautiful people” in high school you can never fit in, but you try to get respect and admiration, and it doesn’t work. Jesus, is there really such a thing as salvation any more?

19 December 1989

Is there something wrong with me? Why do I feel so numb inside? Everything is so cold and achy. I blunder through every day…I wouldn’t even need vacation, I’m so robotic to my actions. Everybody has someplace to go, something to do. They all have a purpose, and me…none. Time also to doubt my morality. Why am I here, and what is my purpose? I can’t stand anyone anymore, and I’m so restless. Prowling. Looking for something that I can’t find. Do you think I’ll ever find it?

20 June 1990

Italian words rampage through my mind, my numb skull (literally). I don’t know what they mean, but I suppose Michelle Foster does. The whole world has gone crazy around me. Mum and Kris are downstairs, listening to stress-reduce records. I can hear the twisted flute music up here. On the kitchen table lie family therapy pamphlets from Philhaven for us. Kris is in counseling.

I keep hearing things. Wild birds in the back yard, footsteps on the stairs. I’m sure none of it is really there.

The night is nice outside. Oh thank God. The wild birds are really a flowing stream on the record downstairs. I hear the sound and want to laugh crazily. As for the night…no, I was just downstairs. They lie in the dark floor like corpses. I wonder if they’re dead. Outside it’s quiet. I can almost hear monsters thrashing about, and it scares me. I listen to a million stars in the cloudy stillness.

13 September 1990

I do so many strange things now. I was just searching over the entire house for my photo album, when it was actually at my feet at my starting point. My room is a mess. I never let it get this horribly messy before; now notes, books, magazines, and tapes clutter every space. Mum wants me to clean it. I don’t think I can.

Sometimes when I’m at school I get totally paranoid. Everybody I pass in the halls is whispering about me, and they laugh…I’ll get afraid to walk from class to class, and I feel so overwhelmed by the crowds around me. Plus I’ve been sick this week, which hasn’t helped matters any. I’m going through one of my memory lapses again, where nothing sticks and thoughts all die in my brain.

10 November 1990

Oh, what breaks. Life is hell. I think it might snow tonight, but I’m not sure. My hand hurts. Barb dug her goddamned claws into it and now it’s all red and torn. Now I remember why I was always angry at her.

I think I may just die tonight. I think the world may end tonight. I don’t know. It’s so dark and stormy and tumultuous. “I don’t want to die screaming like this.” Life drags on, and so. Oh Jesus. I read a letter I wrote to A. and I cried because in it I was insane and I don’t think I’m much better now. Everybody was tearing eachother apart and maybe it hurt me more than I knew. I guess you’re the only one I can talk to. I can’t call Antoinette, but I know she’s there for me, and you guys are my two best friends. I told A. not even the goddess can conquer the tigers or the Shadowman. I don’t think the goddess exists… In my “darkest hour” I only just realize this. Oh god. I don’t think I can handle this anymore, of being drowned in this. It’s all coming to a close now, this final cycle. I’m tired of being the loser in this war. It’s never going to be Christmas again. I can’t believe I came so close to doing it…on a hollow December night beneath the relinquishing glares of the light and the tiles. That time is coming up again—a year. A year and the THUNDER NEVER CEASED. I have to go scream now … so goodbye.

6 December 1990

Is this reality?

Sitting here in my desk chair, my legs spread across my bed as I sit beneath my hair dryer, I do nothing but watch my moussed-gelled-sprayed hair grow hard, and listen to The Cure. My dreams are killed beneath the dryer’s winds. I don’t know if I’m anything anymore. I don’t know if I’m alive or dead; if I’m some sick joke in a savage god’s world. There’s no one who could tell me, either. Is this all that my life is?

28 December 1990

Last night it snowed. We got at least 10 inches. I was going to go sledding with Missy today, but Mum forced me and Kris to shovel the whole bloody universe and now the sight of snow makes me ill. My finger’s bleeding.

25 February 1991

I’m so scared. It’s all because lately all I’ve been able to think about is killing myself. I know that sounds horrible, but it’s true. I haven’t seriously been this way in such a long time, and even then it was partially because of the medication I’m on. Now it’s for real, and that’s what terrifies me. Missy and I are constantly fighting, schoolwork is like a heavy period which won’t go away, and nobody can love me. I also found out today that Monica H. thinks we were spreading rumors about her at Heather’s party on Saturday, and she’ll approach me about it tomorrow in Latin. What will I say to her?! What if I don’t get good partners to work with me on my chem. term paper? What if I can’t—actually can’t—go on anymore?

Living all this is just a waste of time. I stand back and look at my existence…and I’m literally appalled by it all. I’m ready to kill everybody. If I had a hole to crawl in or a mountain to migrate to I would. I want to be all alone…

But I’m scared I will kill myself. Since I don’t have a garage, it would have to be overdose or slitting my wrists. On Sunday I thought that if this week gets too bad, I’ll do it. Just like that. I actually made a deal with myself to do it! What would happen if I would? Would people be sad? Would they shake their heads and move on? I wonder if it would even be brought up in school. My chair would be empty in every class…empty, and cold. Who would miss me? What would become of my “stuff”? What would they think when they cleaned out my room and tried to look at it all through my eyes? It’s really strange, because I don’t know how much I want to truly die. If someone told me the car I’m driving in would crash in 5 minutes, or the world will explode tomorrow, or within a year I’d be dead of terminal cancer, I’d be so scared that I’d do anything to live, but now it’s totally different, because it’s me making the decision. What kind of decision will it be? Guess I can’t regret it when I’m burning in hell. If only I knew what to do!

13 July 1991

I’m so revolting. Nothing ever goes right. …no one gives a shit about me, or the person underneath. What about me? Who am I? I’m never ever going to become a person and no one cares at all.

16 November 1991

Tonight was Terry’s schizophrenic tea party, which was really fun. Before that, I went to the plaza for a bit with Heather, Miss, Shawn, and Michelle F. We got totally lost looking for Terry’s house (even though I’ve been there before) and eventually we just parked in what we assumed to be the general area and stood in the street yelling “TERRY!!” Shawn ran up to a passer-by to ask which house was his, and it turned out to be Yvonne, who was walking her dog. This whole thing was held in his attic. He had paintings hanging on the wall rafters, candles burning, incense, the Doors on his CD, and lots of finger-type foods and different teas. We ate, danced, played with the bizarre things in his attic, and eventually left when Michelle G and Laura wanted to be alone to do a ouija for a few hours (they actually got responses).Heather and Mich F went to drive by Justin’s house, and Terry, Shawn, Missy, and I poked around his incredible basement. They other two returned and we went back down to look some more. Heather and I uncovered old albums of The Wall and Dark Side of the Moon and sang a loud chorus of “Brain Damage” to everyone, even though they didn’t want to listen. We all went out to Blockbuster (I had to stay in the car because I had no shoes on) and we rented a low-budget sex comedy, The Sex o’Clock News, which lasted till about 10:30, when we left.

20 March 1992

I feel like my life has crashed around me with a thunderous force, dream-walls and all. I’m left wandering dazedly through the debris and dust…unable to see, unable to breathe, because I’m choking. Maybe I’m even dying. I don’t know. I think I’m in shock, and that’s why I’m unable to think about anything, or make a decision on whether or not I should live or die. I haven’t taken my Inderol forever, but I’m still alive, possibly even alive with tolerance to missing my pills. It used to be that after missing 3-4 pills I would start shaking and going black, but now I’m up to over 6-7 (maybe more) and the shaking is only just starting now. My fingers are a little numb, but that’s it.

I can’t love D. anymore. How can I love him if I don’t know him? How can I feel whole anymore, if there’s no one to love? I’m so scared I’m going to force myself to continue liking him, even though I don’t want to. … I can’t control this unbearable panic anymore! There’s so much going on, so much pushing in on me from all sides, so much making my brain explode! Help me … I’m going to explode! I’m petrified, terrified, sick with fear. My wounds are bleeding and screaming; they’re going to scar but they’ll never heal. I’ve got to get out of this life—

Do you love?

Yes, and that’s why I’m going to murder life before it murders me.

15 May 1992

On Sunday I chopped up my wrist again, after I wrote to you. Mom thinks I’m nuts. I think I’m coping.

18 May 1992

Life is an ocean, and high school is a boat in which we are all safe and protected, until it comes time to get thrown overboard. We will all go our separate ways, and some will sink while others swim. Friendship is supposed to be the anchor which keeps you stead and afloat in the twisting ocean waves until it’s time to set yourself free. It scares me that I honestly feel as though I have no anchor; thus, I’m getting unbearably sea-sick because my end of the boat is very unsteady. I’m so close to getting my chance to swim, but I just want a little calm before I have to do that. My anchor is rusty and weak, and it’s never fully lodged into the sand of the ocean floor. Maybe I don’t have one at all.

… The reason my self-worth is so low is because everybody around me is treating me like a leper, as if they absolutely can’t stand to be around me. That, along with me being a human guy repellant, equals virtually no confidence. … Hell, at the rate I’m going, I’ll be the first American undesirable to win the title “Most Likely to Get Deported Just Because We Don’t Like Her.” It’s a terrible feeling to know you’re despised by everyone, who still pretend that they can stand you. If I’m just over-reacting or being paranoid, then I wish someone would attempt to lay my fears to rest, but no one has. So here I am.

27 May 1992

Well, here it is.

After four long years of sweat and toil, embarrassments, hilarious moments, somber moments, euphoria, depression, work, and times, times, times…it draws to a close.

I know after a few years I will barely remember high school. It will be nothing more than a mere vague, faceless dream haunting my memory. Even so, it saddens me just a bit to finally release the familiar essence of it all. I spent four years of my life in this shitty little school—nothing more than a tiny parasite on the distorted, rotting face of Lebanon. L.H.S. has been my cradle, though. My protection. Today I cleaned out my locker, and felt strange pangs of loss. That narrow strip of yellow metal has been mine for four years. And now, I’m cleaning it for the last time. Strange. Endings are so very strange. So, I left a little epitaph in pen on the inside of the bottom door. I’m sure the janitors will wipe it off this summer, but even so…oh, I don’t know. The class of ’92 will be forgotten in a week. Soon, the class of ’93 will be the focus of everyone’s attention. Time moves on, and eventually we’ll all change and grow and forget one another in its haze.

10 November 1992

On Saturday things just overwhelmed me, and the final straw was when my pump of styling spritz would not work. I began hitting it and bawling. I sat in Kristen’s room half-naked, weeping and sobbing…but quietly, you must understand, although nobody was around to hear me. Even when I have a breakdown, I have to be quiet about it, for chrissake. Why must everything be so quiet and modulated and under wraps for me all the time?

17 November 1992

At around 10 pm, Missy, Jenn, and Shawn arrived … but they didn’t want to go to a party anymore. We kidded around about driving to Salem instead, but then Shawn suggested that we drive to New York City as an alternative. We all just looked at him, and he said “I’m serious!” So, at 11 pm on a Friday night, we hit the road for N.Y.C., armed with blankets from Missy’s room, and plenty of tapes (Pearl Jam, Billy Joel, Tori Amos, and R.E.M., if I remember correctly). We took a really weird route through New York State though, so it took us awhile to get there. Everyone thought that I mis-directed us down this country road, but it turned out that I was perfectly right, and soon we found ourselves lost and totally disoriented in the Bronx at 3 am. We were convinced that we were going to get carjacked, since there has been a large amount of those happening lately in New York and New Jersey. We had to ask two scary-looking Puerto Rican female cops for directions to Manhattan, because we couldn’t seem to find it. At one particular point, when we were in a semi-traffic jam in some tunnel, two massive trucks from Lebanon, PA, drove by. That was odd.

Well, we eventually found Manhattan, and we were just kind of driving around, looking for a place to spend the night. When we had first arrived, we were driving along the river, and we all got into a fight over which side Manhattan was on: Shawn and I claimed that it was our side, while Missy and Jenn insisted that it was on the other side, even though there were only like 2 buildings over there. Everytime we saw a building that was even remotely tall, one of us would exclaim, “Look! It’s the Empire State Building!”, even though most of them were about 5 stories tall. We were also listening to some bizarre reggae station on the radio, and we were all jamming in the car to it, even though reggae isn’t your typical jamming music!

Every parking garage we tried to park in insisted that we leave the car and they park it, which really put a damper on our plans to sleep in the parking garage. One of the attendants we encountered spoke only Spanish, and tried to sputter out “Where is a cheap hotel,” which came out as “Where is hotel no money.” Heller and I just laughed and said “Don’t look at us—we only took French!” The Spaniard managed to direct us to a Days Inn, but it was $124 for the two hours’ sleep we’d be getting, so we just said “Screw it” and left. We ended up spending the night sleeping in the car, at the corner of 56th Street and 8th Avenue, in Greenwich Village. People gave us strange looks everytime they walked by. I realize now just how extremely dangerous that was—after all, four teenagers from out-of-state sleeping in their car on a sort of seedy New York Street is not too safe. Luckily Jenn stayed up all night (well, the 2-3 hours that we were parked), and kept guard over us. It was funny because Shawn talked in his sleep (he sat up, looked at Missy, and said “Mary Jo, have I got a quiz for you, girlfriend!”, then went back to sleep) and Missy said that she accidentally touched my foot which was kicked over her seat, and I screamed “OW! That’s my FOOT!” in my sleep.

Before we had settled down for the night, we went to a walk-up window at a McDonald’s which was across the street from our car, and that was truly the highlight of our little trip. They had these weird bullet-proof sliding doors that prevented any of us from making contact with the chick who served us, which was probably a good thing, because she was the freakiest creature I ever saw in my life. She was tall and black with dreadlocked hair, coke bottle glasses, and a very deep, throaty voice. Almost everything we tried to order got a “We don’t have that!” bellowed in response, and every time one of us would order a Coke, she’d say “Which kind—Sprite or orange?” and we’d look at eachother, baffled. She scared the shit out of us. The people around us weren’t too cool, either. There was a guy who kept shrieking in German, a bum who begged us for change and mumbled to himself, and a guy who plopped down next to the huge Ronald McDonald outside and slapped its face.

22 November 1992

I spent the night (until 1 am) in Kris and Emily’s room, watching TV, eating Zorba’s fries, and talking-talking-talking. I was woken up at 2 am (actually, I wasn’t; MBS had already woken us up with another crisis of hers) when Missy and Suki called me from the callbox downstairs. They wanted me to go to a party with them. I resisted, then finally relented. The Late Night we were aiming for was cancelled, so I ended up walking around Scranton with them at 2:30 in the morning, wearing my pajamas and retainer, with brown Clearasil streaks on my face and my hair sticking out everywhere. I got in at 3 am.

27 December 1992

Saturday night was my little x-mas party. Heather and I went out beforehand and bought mis-matched tube socks for everyone. Heather, Missy, Seabold, Jenn, Michelle, Michelle, and Terry all came over. We tried to watch horror movies, but the VCR wouldn’t work. We listened to Bert and Ernie’s Sing-Along, ate tons of pizza and breadsticks, gave Foster a gift-wrapped dead bird in a box, and burned 2 two pizza boxes out in the backyard. We tried to burn the clothesline and everything else we could get our little hands on, too, with the aid of hairspray, nail-polish remover, alcohol, matches, and a candle-starter thing.

25 years: a retrospective (part 7)

24 February 1983

Yesterday me and Barb tried to solve a mystery about Andrea’s old house. Since Barb was here mom had to say yes when I asked if I could go down to her house to play Coleco Vision. I was doomed! I didn’t know how to play, not even Pac-man!! But she taught me how to play, it was fun.

30 April 1984

Nanny’s birthday was good. I was crying all night because of our [timed test]. I’m scared. Emily got a car. I’m grounded for playing out too long. I don’t feel good. Today’s gym and art. I HATE school. Let’s give Teela a hand. Tell a lie. Trouble is an awful thing to do. Tell a lie. Sorry.

P.S. Please make me pass.

27 September 1985

Ma and I got into a fight this morning because she doesn’t have the money to give me allowance. Now I can’t get crayons and colored chalk like I wanted. Why oh why do we have to be poor? I still didn’t get my clothes from layaway!

18/19 April 1986

Today was D.’s party. Since we weren’t invited to Angela’s snobby party, D. had one. First we saw Kristy’s show, Anything Goes, it was at Lebanon Valley College. Then we went to D.’s and watched MTV, ate candy and soda (I liked the Disney cookies) and ordered pizza. Later we composed a song, worked on the computer and took pictures and slept 4 hours. We then woke up and played “hide the money.” Later I went to Nanny’s so they could babysit me.

2 January 1987

My temperature was still 104 this morning but now it dropped to 102. It’s snowing really hard and I wanna go sledding but I can’t. That’s not fair!

5 May 1988

I feel like I’m losing my mind trying to keep track of everything. My brain is an empty void which just can’t hold anything. And you know me, Miss Worry Wart of 1988. Moving along, though, today in gym Jen and I won one of the 880 races, not only because she’s fast, but because I really booked it. Everybody says they never saw me go that fast. I never even thought about it much. Maybe I’m a good sprinter!

25 March 1989

As strange as it sounds, I sometimes feel like I’m (and I quote Jennifer Saunders) teetering on the edge of mental oblivion. It’s not just that I can feel as if I’m going mad, at times, but I’m worried that all the depression I experience now will somehow build up, and make me crazy. What if I end up killing myself one day? I don’t want to; but there are times when I’m so “black” I can’t be cheered by anything. God! Is this normal? Is this just adolescence? If I was to be suffering from anything, it’s not manic depressiveness, or else I’d like never leave my room. Sometimes I feel myself cracking when I’m alone. For instance, I’ll “live out” scenes from how I pray my future will be. It’s the only way I can cope with life at times, but is it okay? Oh, yes, I want to scream and kick and cry and dance in the moonlight…as Pink Floyd says, I feel like I’m “waiting for the worms.” And why not? I mean, I have a lot to be depressed at, so why shouldn’t I build a wall to be in perfect isolation behind? But I WANT reality. I want London and writing and true love…

God, what am I talking about? I should think I was making myself insane. What I have is depression, simple as that. Or is it more? Please don’t laugh. It’s like playing a piano out of tune, all of this is. I really do need someone, because all of this didn’t just pop up now. Look at all my diaries. I’ve always been depressed. Now I need the help.

21 April 1990

I’m angry at Kris because she had fits at me for taking a shower when I could be answering the pounding door of her majesty. I hate that everybody hates me for being me and not them. I hate my whole family and my friends and Bob and Todd and I hate everyone who lies behind each other’s backs.

I should stop here, but I’m not going to, because I must tell you about yesterday. I went with Drama Club to Philly Zoo, and then the Riverfront Dinner Theatre. I had a wonderful time. I loathe most zoos, but being there on my own with Michelle, Michelle, and Missy especially, it was fun. The food was good and the show was brilliant—“Do Black Patent Leather Shoes Really Shine Up?” I guess I enjoyed it because I’m Catholic. The best part was when Michelle (F) and I twice escaped the madding crowd by walking out to the pier-like porch (it was big) that surrounded the restaurant. …we discovered the wave god and made sacrifices to his power. Mystical, magical things actually happened. We kicked our shoes off and stood in the freezing wind and stared at the night…it was a beautiful experience. The water was black and cold and a great expanse of ribbon about us. The bridge over it was lit in blue against the cloudy night sky. We walked, bonded, became one in the decimated night. Nothing better.

16 March 1991

This is a classic case of falling into a pit of black head-on with no landing gear waiting for me. Of course I don’t know if I’ll ever hit the bottom or not. I wish I would. I’m sick of falling. I just wish I’d smash against the land of nails beneath my descent. Crash. Smash. Bleed ‘n burn, baby, it’s the end.

2 March 1992

At one point, amidst the shallow comfort of the hours, I have made an indirect resolution to die. I am dying now, as I write this. Slowly, as my medication drains from my blood, furiously trying to cling to my system in order to keep me alive, I begin to fall, to feel myself approach closedown. I am ready to sleep.

Whether or not I die now is up to destiny, and God. I have stopped taking my Inderol, and I will do no more. If I die, good; if I live, then that’s how it will be. There’s no point to me hanging around here anymore, though. I really have no friends left; the silly, pointless pursuit of D. that I have is hopeless (and every chance I have to possibly just see him manages to fail); I have never felt love and will never feel love; and there’s nothing in the future to look forward to, because there’s absolutely no hope of me succeeding in anything. I think I’m just taking up an uncomfortable space in everyone’s lives, and it would be better if I just exeunt quietly. I feel nothing about anything, and oh God … I am so damn scared. I don’t even think I can attempt to fight this overwhelming, stifling, sour fear anymore, because there’s no reason to win. I don’t know what to do anymore. I’m frightened of dying, death, living. Living scares me more than absolutely everything else.

Last night I slashed up my right wrist with my razor blade. The sight of those veins sickened me; always has. I wanted to scar them to show them that I am on the verge of defeating the very life that pumps through their fingers.

Please…let this happen…

28 March 1993

Around 3am (right after I went to bed), I got another long-distance call, from some guy who mumbled that he wanted to know my bra size. I said, “No, sorry,” and hung up on him, leaving the phone off the hook the rest of the night. Yet another party prank to add to Marybeth’s and my growing list. I was really disturbed last night, since Missy told me about the ghost of a suicide that’s been haunting Madonna Hall lately. It scared me into turning on all the lights and locking my door. I was convinced that my poster of James Dean was watching me (his eyes do appear to move), and then I got the bra phone call, which sounded like James Dean’s voice. Great, I thought. James Dean’s calling me from the grave to find out my bra size.

1 April 1994

…it meant squeezing 6 people in Joel’s awesomely decrepit car. … We went to Moonshine to walk around the graves (Missy and Becky Miller were particularly disturbed by it), to a church playground off Rt. 72, to the A-C Elementary school playground, sort of cruised the loop, and went on a reign of destruction, putting construction cones on Mr. Campbell and Kristy H’s cars, stealing reflectors off the roadside, stealing “road closed” signs, etc. We were being very loud and obnoxious, yee-hawing everytime we passed the Frog Hallow Tavern, screaming at people we passed, veering all over the road and parking lots, and having odd sing-alongs.

18 February 1995

On Friday I did my college errands and then came back here to write my Moderns essay. Annida’s brother came for an overnight visit, and I hung with the two of them and Silvia in the music room before dinner. Afterwards, Annida, Panos, and I went to Surrey Quays. … We stayed in Annida’s room for awhile and decided to go to the Duke. Silvia and Jorge, back from his first official date with Lucy, joined us. Didn’t do much there. They drank orange juice and played a video game; I sat at our table and immersed myself in my mags. Panos clamored to go to Greenwich, and everyone was for it but me and Annida. They talked us into it. We went to Greenwich in the bitter cold (this was around 11:15 p.m. or so), singing songs the whole way. We got chips at our favourite place and ate them along the river, taking photos of each other. There was a drunken Scotsman playing guitar and singing near us, with some other drunk Brits, and Jorge went to talk to them, to our unease. They were really nice and invited us to join them. So we sat with them until 1 a.m., singing many different songs, with strangers drifting in and out of our little crowd. I felt so peaceful and happy, especially when they played “Wish You Were Here.” Then my feet started hurting, because my sneakers have holes in them, and I couldn’t feel them anymore, so I suggested we leave.

12 March 1996

I feel uncertain, as if I’m standing on a shaky precipice, not sure if I’m plummeting or on solid ground. I’m stuck in a weird kind of downward spiral. On one hand, I’m getting sick, and that’s starting to weigh me down. Since yesterday morning, I’ve had intermittent headaches and sore throats, and now I’m starting to feel nauseous, too. On the other hand, grey wisps of depression are starting to flutter about me, like a dirty mist. That began yesterday morning, too. Actually, it started Sunday night. Not only do I have no reason for this to hit me, but it’s also hard to endure, because my Zoloft has succeeded in keeping my depression at bay for a while now, and I’m not used to the helplessness of it. I had forgotten how frustrating it is, how evil, how draining. I was even feeling disconnected from the depression agonies of the people on my mailing lists, as if I couldn’t relate to that darkness anymore. Now I can, and this depression isn’t even that bad. It’s more of a heavy melancholy. It’s making me feel physically more ill, and I’m getting more short-tempered at my surroundings, which makes the depression worse. I’m frazzled at my workload, my noisy neighbor, whose TV is blaring right now, as always, my stifling schedule, having to eat the same food in the cafeteria, always surrounded by the same people and places. I need to get the hell out of here. Everything affects everything else, until I’m trapped in another vicious cycle of negative emotions…that downward spiral.

5 August 1997

It’s always there, a dark, menacing specter that I can’t shake. It trails me, it is my shadow. Although my head is finally above its surface, I feel as though it continues to affect everything I do, every move I make. I live by these strange, restrictive rules about how much I can do and how much I can handle before the threat of Depression becomes imminent, manifesting itself in the form of feeling overwhelmed. That’s what I Fear most of all…feeling overwhelmed by my life and tasks, because that usually leads to hopelessness and helplessness, which brings about the Depression that darkens my whole being. So I live carefully, cautiously, as if I have a sixth sense that enables me to sniff approaching Depressions.

12 March 1998

Ironically, the news of his illness is falling at the same time I’m starting to smell the crackling ozone of depression lightning. I don’t know if it will amount to a storm or not, but it worries the hell out of me. Jeff’s illness should remind me of how valuable life is, and how lucky I am, but all I can dwell on is the fine mist of gray that is starting to coat my world.

12 August 1999

Dinner was good, and from there we went into Adams Morgan where parking was of course impossible and the streets were jammed with bodies. The heat was incredibly intense. I wore my long, black, filmy skirt from England because my eczema made me look like a monster, and the skirt felt disgusting sticking to my skin. Beyond that, though, I was happy to be with everybody and wanted to go to Adams Morgan. The first place we went to was horrible. Scott said that it normally isn’t that jammed. It reminded Dave and me of a Scranton party, but worse, because people were packed in like sardines and the heat caused fat rivulets of sweat to pour from us. My entire body burned from my sweat, because apart from the horrendous flare up within a flare up on my legs, I also had patches of eczema on my arms and armpits. I felt like I couldn’t breathe in there. We had to migrate upstairs because there was absolutely no way to move or talk downstairs, and the upstairs kind of freaked me out. It was filled with long, sagging, dirty couches full of people. No torn leather seats to be found, but the gross fabric of the sofas made me uneasy. Dave and I both refused to sit down on them. He said he couldn’t breathe, either, so we downed our drinks (mine was water!) and went for a walk through a nearby ghetto. By the time we got back to the bar, everyone was waiting for us outside. Next stop was a pool hall that was deliciously air conditioned, but so crowded, we wouldn’t have been able to snare a table for over an hour. We left again (me with my skirt sticking into my underwear after I went to the bathroom—thank god I caught it in time!) and went to a coffeehouse place nearby. That, too, was jammed. We were just about to give up and call it a night when Dave and I decided to stop into Angles (he’s been sort of obsessed with it ever since we took him on New Year’s night). Surprisingly, it wasn’t crowded, and it was nice and cool. We got a table in the back and the guys played several rounds of pool. Somebody told Scott that sitting on a torn leather seat means that your family will die (I hope they didn’t attribute that to me or I’d be horrified! I may be afraid of torn leather seats, but when I told Dave kiddingly at New Year’s that his family was going to die because he sat on a torn leather seat, I swear I was only joking!) Scott pointed to a torn leather seat and said in a deadpan way, “There’s another family-killer over there.” Later he sat on it and exclaimed, “Whoops! I just killed my family again!” I think I got home around 2am on Sunday morning.

1 December 2000

Part of me wants to call Dr. Kaufman and ask her to increase my meds. But you can’t drive a barb of heartbreak out of your body by sedating it with antidepressants. And I’m already struggling with the side effects that plague me from the mere 20mg I take each day. However, I just think that if my meds are increased, my chances of descending into depression as I struggle to get over him will decrease. My ceaseless thinking about him and obsessive over-analysis of everything will decrease, too. Isn’t that a good thing?

In the end, he’s just a guy. Just [one] single guy. He has no right to determine my moods or my self-esteem. And maybe he’s not even the one I love…maybe he’s just a mask I stapled onto my desire to have somebody. Maybe I was just craving somebody so badly, and nobody came along for me to pine over and strive for, and then there was F., and I just shifted all those unresolved emotions his way, but it’s not him I want, per se…it’s just the idea of having somebody…

Right now, all I want is to have my mood stabilized. I hate this feeling of losing control. Sometimes, no matter how upset I am over him, I’m basically okay with the whole thing, like now. I just feel removed, numb. In that numbness lies strength and determination to get over him and focus on myself. Fine, great. That’s how it should be. But that’s not always how it is. Sometimes, no matter how hard I try to maintain that removed, strong nature of mine, I’m a fucking mess over him.

… no matter how much I’m telling myself today that it’s okay to want to break down and mourn him and even want to slash my wrists, I just can’t do it. I guess that’s human nature, for the most part—you fluctuate in how strong and how weak your willpower can be. But being like that is messy and unreliable and it reminds me too much of my utter lack of control over my moods and emotions during the years my depression remained untreated—another reason why upping my dosage is starting to look pretty damn good.



song heard most recently before posting:
Where Is Home?—Bloc Party

VICTORY! and 25 years: a retrospective (part 6)

It’s an historic and exciting day in the United States! Obama’s victory is a joyful occasion, and I’m equally thrilled that Prop 2 overwhelmingly passed in California. Sure, in terms of Obama’s victory, my snarky side is snarling, “What the hell took you so long, America?” Like SomeEcards said in one of their most recent cards: “We’ve now learned that a decimated economy, a clusterfucked war, and the worst-run Republican campaign in history is all it takes for America to elect a black guy.” I mean, really, why did it take so long for a black person to be nominated president? And why hasn’t a woman, Hispanic, Jew, etc, etc, gotten there yet? Ah well, I’ll focus on the positive today—and there is a lot to be positive about!

I am, however, deeply worried that white supremacist nutcases will use Obama as their target practice. I worry that people are expecting miracles and if he doesn’t deliver them right away, they’ll start saying, “See? That’s why a black person shouldn’t be president” or “I knew the Democrats were talking shit when they said they could fix things.”

Still, at my core I believe we made the right decision in nominating him, and I really believe he’s going to bring energizing change to this country. It will undoubtedly be a long haul out of the quagmire we’re stuck in, but I honestly see light finally becoming visible at the end of the tunnel.

And now back to the past...

23 February 1987

Today something extremely awful happened to me. Fluffy died. Dad took her to the vet and when I came home from school, she wasn’t there. I cried to myself all night. I can’t believe it, I mean honestly can’t believe it. I’m so lonely and sad I could die.

17 March 1999

Last night was the worst. I was in the middle of my little, private memorial service for Benny when Dad called to tell me it was all over. He had just buried Benny, under the tree in our yard, like Mom requested. At the vet’s, Benny died quickly and painlessly. He was knocked out almost immediately, and his heart stopped maybe a minute later. My dear, sweet, beloved cuddly Benny. My little blond ragamuffin. My handsome golden man. He has been in my life since I was 13 ½ , and we watched each other grow up. Dad reminisced about the day we brought Benny home, which I don’t really remember. But I have so many good memories of him…when he was a puppy and would just race through the house on hyper binges, a tan streak whirling by…when we would take him up to the hockey field at LHS and just let him run and run…when he would wrestle with the end of my sleeve, teeth latched on, growling as I whipped him aback and forth by moving my sleeve…seems so long ago. Before I left on Sunday, I frantically pawed through Mom’s box of photos, looking for a picture of Benny and me that was taken shortly after I got him. I was a little eighth grader holding him in my arms. I wanted to frame that picture, and now I can’t find it. Oh god, my sweet, adorable boy. It will be so strange to go home at Easter and not have him be there. In honor of him, I bought a wood-burning kit at Wal-Mart on Saturday and I’m going to make him a tombstone this weekend. I also threw together the funeral mix I’ve been wanting to make for ages. It was originally planned for my own funeral, but I’ve been listening to it in my car for the past two days, and I listened to it during my memorial service last night, so it honors Benny’s death as well.

Leaving on Sunday was so incredibly difficult. I managed to fight back gulping tears until Mom walked me to my car, and then I started crying. She cried too. When I was saying goodbye to him, I told him that Nanny would be waiting for him on the other side, and he wouldn’t have any trouble breathing again, and his heart would no longer hurt, and he’d be able to run and play like he was a puppy again. It broke my heart. I couldn’t even look at him or touch him one last time before I headed out the door. I had to flee, because I was afraid I’d never be able to leave him if I held him again. I have an ache in my gut when I think about this. I hope he knows how much I love him—how much I always loved him.

29 June 2001

So, as you can see, everyone has been extremely wonderful. What matters most of all to me is that people recognize that this is a big loss. A lot of folks probably think that losing a pet is no big deal and they completely undermine how gun-wrenching the situation can be. I love that so many people took the time to let me know that they truly sympathize and understand that I have a right to be hurt.

It has been horrible in so many ways. It is horrible when I think about finding his lifeless body lying in the yard, ensnared in that dreadful chain-link fence. It is horrible when I think about how lonely and scared he must have been. It is horrible when I blame myself for not nailing shut the living room window screen and not hearing him escape because I sleep like death with my fan on full-blast at the foot of my bed. It is horrible when I see Plath standing alone when I bring out the treat jar. It is horrible when the litterbox is only half-full in the morning and the food bowl is only half-empty. It is horrible when I look at the corner—now empty—where Shoah’s blanket used to be, usually with him curled on top of it. It is horrible when I look at the purple catbed where he used to lie all the time. It is horrible when I see only one face at the window as I pull into the driveway, rather than two faces. It is horrible when I ache to pet Shoah under the chin, comb him … and spank him until he drops to the ground, rolling around and purring.

Did I remember to tell him that I love him the day before he died? I know I was cooing over him as he slept on his blanket, and I remember petting him on the chin at that time, too. Just the other day he was lying in the closet and I teased him about being gay, and then reached out my arm to lightly touch his outstretched arm, and he didn’t pull his paw away. So we lay there, facing each other, hand and paw outstretched, lightly touching. Did I remember to tell him that I love him after I put him in the ground?

I feel numb and lost. I feel even more listless than usual when it comes to doing anything and thinking about anything. Sometimes I feel like there is a barb of sorrow lodged in my heart; other times it feels more like I “took a knife, edgy and dull, and cut a six-inch valley through the middle of my soul.”

I want this to be okay for both Plath and me. I want Shoah to be okay, and at peace. Oh, my sweet, beautiful, squeaky, soft, wonderful little boy!!

4 July 1988

I’m home alone now, but in a few minutes Dad is picking me up to eat at Rachel’s. I’m pissed at him and Mom. They’re enough to drive a depressed kid to suicide. They know how “sensitive” I am, and how easily I can be brought down, yet Dad goes ahead and asks me why I’m such a loner. Yes! Can you imagine? Worse yet, besides always picking on me and telling me also what a “loner” I am, Mom gives me a lecture about how rude I was Friday night for not staying in the kitchen and talking to Louise and company. She says her and Louise were discussing it on Saturday. Well, I’m so-o-o-r-r-r-y socialites, but maybe that’s how I want to live my fucking life!!! God, they get me so #!9!* MAD at them I could die.

10 June 1997

My world just keeps collapsing further and further. There is scarcely anything left to fall down upon me. I would not be exaggerating if I said that I am exhausted from the enormity of the weight of my life bearing down on me, and that I am a nervous wreck from it all. I am a tightly-packed bundle of nerves. I feel nauseous and my hands won’t stop shaking. I feel like bawling, but I can’t. I feel like a caged animal.

7 November 1993

After I got up this morning and did my morning routine, plus the dishes, I went for a long walk down the tracks, all the way to my dreaded tunnel. It’s cloudy and getting increasingly colder outside, so I bundled up and listened to Tori on my walkman. They replaced the rotting, extremely dangerous footbridge that spanned the stream alongside the tracks with a rusty, solid one. I was thankful, and sat there for a while, letting my feet dangle high over the rushing water, resting my cold face in my thick, warm gloves, and immersing myself in thought. I stood at the mouth of the tunnel with clenched fists and a furrowed brow, mesmerized by its dark deceit. It started to briefly flurry while I stood there, which I thought was an odd sort of symbolic justice. I glanced into the decrepit tunnel that is parallel to it, but I got away from it as quickly as possible, because it was even more terrifying than the original. I kept expecting a murderous bum to emerge from one of the tunnels and attack me, or a mirror image of me to appear at the opposite end of the tunnel, doing everything that I did, beckoning me to cross over to the other side, where everything is extremely right (my grades are perfect, I’m dating D., etc.) or extremely wrong, like in the beginning of Tales from the Darkside, where the scenery gets flipped to negative and everything becomes menacing, malignant.

25 February 1985

Remember when I went to the hospital to see Dr. Vanucci? Well, on March 1st I have to go again. Yucckkkk! Ma and I have to get up at 1:30 in the morning so that I fall asleep while they’re taking tests for two hours. (To see how my brain works.) Well, I WON’T fall asleep. Ma told me that I can’t go to bed early because I’ll be sleeping on the sofa bed with her, and they won’t want me to. I don’t go to school that day! Wish me luck!!!

5 October 1989

Sometimes I really do think I’m crazy. If I’m home alone, I hear movements below me, voices that don’t exist. Tonight I had an itch on my leg, so I scratched and scratched. It got all puffy and the skin got raw and peeled; I’d almost think it was diseased, ready to fall off. I can’t wait to get out of here, but I’m so frightened to. I’m going to go out there someday, conquer London, and create a vast empire of wealth for myself. Then I can come back and show them all! But first I need to learn to survive, before learning to fly.

But meanwhile…Mr. Webb liked my friendship essay! He actually said I had talent, something I had lost all faith in. I wish I could get back to the basics, to reality, to firm ground, to where things are safe…

4 May 2000

In the end, it boils down to this: I smell a depression coming. A few minutes ago I finally emailed Angela, Dave, and Mark, for the first time today, and told them I can smell those puppies coming from a mile away—I know them like the back of my hand. And it’s like when a storm is coming and the hairs on your arms might stand up and the static of expectation shivers through you. Not all menacing, encroaching storms amount to anything. Some of them are false alarms, but until the time hits, you don’t know for sure how big it will be, or how completely it will fizzle out without a trace. So right now, I see one coming…I smell it, I feel it, but I don’t know if it will amount to anything or not.

… I’ll just muddle through as always, until it gets easier or I get stronger and stop longing to disappear into a black hole that exists separately from death.

17 May 2004

Oh my god! I had a gorgeously wonderful surprise 30th birthday party thrown for me on Saturday!!!!! I haven’t had one of those since my 16th birthday! (My study abroad farewell party was supposed to be a surprise, but unfortunately, Joel let the secret slip beforehand. Bastard). I am so glad it stayed a secret. Elizabeth came really close to revealing the secret, and I’m so glad Heather stopped her!

My reflexes were so unbelievably slow yesterday! It must have been the heat and tiredness … When we walked into the restaurant, I noticed a 30 centerpiece on a table and I said, “Oh look, someone is celebrating their 30th birthday.” Then I saw Gates. I dimly thought, “Hey, there’s Gates” and for some reason it didn’t strike me as odd that Gates was sitting in a Chuck E. Cheese in Silver Spring. Then everyone yelled “Surprise!” and it was only then that I realized that I knew everybody sitting at the long table at which Gates was sitting. And yet, at the same time, I didn’t register the fact that they were there for me. Honest to god, I stared at them incomprehensively and blankly and it didn’t sink in that they were there for a surprise party for me. It must have taken me a good 5-10 seconds to realize what was happening!!! It was utterly surreal to see—for the first time—people from different areas of my life sitting all together at one table. Skevy caught the whole thing on video (via her digital camera); she said my reaction was priceless!

July 1984

Do you know what? I bought a portfolio to turn into a PRIVATE poem book. The best I ever made. And Barb thinks it’s for both of us! Yes, how I hate her! She says she’s getting a new haircut. But she won’t tell me what it’s going to be like. It’s probably gonna be a crewcut!

Why I hate Barbara slam book

person – Barbara
body – flat chested
clothes – Ugg! Out of style, way out!!!
family – grody
hair – ugly, icky, and plain
face – deranged
personality – brags, bossy, I think I’ll make a book, 101 reasons to hate Barb!

22 December 1985

Today Steve broke up with me. I’m not heartbroken or anything like that though.

22 May 1990

I hate Bob.

He says I’m a fruitloop who thinks I’m from London. He says I played with his dead…ha ha, no HEAD. I played with his head and he doesn’t know how he ever liked me. I wonder why all’s he ever does is talk constantly about people, but never to their face. I told Tami to tell him to go to hell. I wish I could dye my hair black and paint my eyes red and “dance in torn sheets in the rain.”

I wish I could go crazy and die.

1 October 1991

I wonder what it is that kills me slowly. I wonder what it is that creeps inside of me and steals my mind…

I have never felt so uncertain, so unfulfilled, so…restless before. What is missing from me? This has been going on for some time now. Is it because my position in school is so unsettled this year? I’ve always been so proud of my non-conformist ways, but now, being surrounded by scathing jocks, preppies, and cheerleaders, it has become my weakness. **I** am weak. I cannot face them anymore. This is all just too painful…this hatred of myself, this sudden doubting of my ways. Shut up Jen! I’m too scared to continue with that.

8 May 1992

In exactly one week, it will be Prom. I haven’t really thought much about it yet. I guess I’m nervous, and not real eager to go. Maybe the Grantville Holiday Inn will mysteriously explode soon. I hope.

21 June 1993

Yesterday, Gatesy, Missy, Foster, Heather, and I spent the afternoon swimming in Gatesy’s dad’s pool. It felt wonderful in the midst of this eternal, disgusting heat wave we’ve been having. Foster had a nervous breakdown when Heather kiddingly dunked her. Both Foster and Missy aren’t real water-friendly. Missy (who’s also developed an odd fear of going to bed while nobody else is awake) is terrified to go under water at all, and Foster will only go down if her nose is firmly clamped shut, because she “can’t breathe” underwater. Who can? Jeez. I love being underwater with my eyes open; it’s like a strange, distorted, intense new world. Many of my friends have such irrational fears: water, fire, sleeping, being buried alive. And what are my fears? Um, let’s see…love, sex, living, getting touched…just your typical 19-year-old fears. Yeah, right. Why do I always get things backwards?

10 February 1994

If I don’t somehow release this crushing blackness, it will kill me. Suicide hangs over me like a heavy, empty, moist grey sky. The thought of performing it consumes me.

10 January 2005

Afterwards we went secondhand shopping in Takoma Park, and since I had a Christmas gift certificate to Polly Sue’s, I spent some of it on a fabulous ’50s-style A-line tweed skirt, a bluish-silver 1960s party dress, and an atomic symbol ring. Deborah was gushing on and on to Virginia about how much she loves my sense of style. People at work are really hot for my clothing. They’ve got this idea that I’m very stylish, which seems really silly to me, because I’m like, “Did you ever see me in high school? Frump to the max.” Deborah said to Virginia, “one time she came to work in this vintage cocktail dress and silver heels and…” It made me giggle, because it sounded so ridiculous. I mean, it’s true, I did wear those things, but who in this day and age shows up to work—at a nonprofit, no less?—wearing a vintage cocktail dress and silver heels? Sometimes I wonder about myself.



song heard most recently before posting:
It’s Only Love—Heather Nova

interlude: R.I.P., Tessa

Tessa M.
? − October 23, 2008

At my office we’re lucky to have a thriving dogs-in-the-workplace policy, and my department was home to one very special resident: a Cocker spaniel mix named Tessa. I was raised with dogs—I was in my early twenties before cats strutted into my life—and although I love my cats with every cell of my body and would walk through fire for them, there’s something about a dog’s love that just can’t be replicated. I miss it. Tessa graciously filled that void with a heady mix of gentleness and gusto.

On Thursday, October 23, Tessa passed away unexpectedly. She hadn’t been feeling well on Wednesday and was far more subdued than usual. As I rubbed her ears and wished her well, I had no idea it would be the last time I’d ever see her. Work just isn’t the same without her; suddenly there’s a Tessa-shaped hole in our department.

She was the best part of each workday; I was excited to arrive at the office just to see her. Sometimes I’d find her waiting at my department’s front doggy gate; other times I’d be settled in my cubicle before I’d hear the familiar jangling of her tags as she raced into my cube to greet me (and check out my garbage can for scraps, of course!). I would take breaks multiple times during the day just to rub her silky ears and scratch her back. I loved seeing her periodically saunter by my cubicle with her sassy little walk, always on the hunt for a vigorous petting, a treat, or a discarded morsel of food.

I adored that girl. When her parents went on a weeklong vacation over the summer, Tessa stayed at a doggy daycare boarding facility that had webcams, and I found myself checking the webcams at least twice a day, hoping to catch a glimpse of that little black and tan dervish. She was a spitfire, to be sure; she figured out how to open desk drawers with her teeth, to get to the treats buried within, and she managed to unlock the doggy gate on more than one occasion, streaking off into the bowels of the office with unbridled joy. She stole food from all of us at one point or another, but oh did we love her. We just couldn’t be angry with her, no matter what her doggy transgressions may have been.

What’s remarkable, given her energy and mischievous spark, is that Tessa wasn’t even a puppy—she was believed to be 10 years old. She was adopted this past January from a rescue group, Oldies But Goodies, specializing in the placement of older and elderly Cocker spaniels. She was only with us for 10 months, but during that time she made one hell of an impression. I liken it to the northern lights: a chance encounter, a wondrous blaze of luminous beauty that’s here and gone, never to be replicated in quite the same way again.

Her parents, Angela and Zack, deserve accolades for adopting an older dog. So many people are bewitched by the fuzzy bundle of undeniable adorableness that is a puppy—the idea of adopting an older dog, much less an elderly dog, never even crosses their minds. Hell, until Tessa came along, it never crossed my mind. Others are reluctant to undertake such an adoption because of increased veterinary care expenses and a heightened fear of impending loss. There’s this idea of “Oh, I don’t want to adopt a dog only to have him die on me a few months later!” What they fail to recognize is life’s lack of guarantees. Through accident or unexpected illness, a puppy can die just as easily as an older dog. Sadly, nothing is ever certain.

There’s an AIDS memorial inscription in my quotations collection: To love something you know will die is holy. Whenever we willfully choose to assume the responsibility of loving someone, we do so with the knowledge that we could lose that person or animal. It’s not something most people choose to dwell on, although those of us with morose inclinations often keep this knowledge alive in our periphery. The truth is that a thread of mortality constantly runs through the fabric of life, and whether we ignore it or not, it’s still there. But it blends in so seamlessly, it’s almost imperceptible—except in situations where death, illness, or serious accidents cause it to flare into everyone’s line of sight.

Those who choose to bring an older animal into their hearts are at once beautiful and brave because they openly acknowledge this mortality and refuse to let it intimidate them. I’m not religious in the least, but I love that aforementioned inscription’s use of the word holy to describe the act of loving someone even in the face of impending loss.

In taking a chance on her, Tessa’s parents gave her what were undoubtedly the best 10 months of her life. The happenings of her first decade remain a mystery, but given the fact that she was a stray and two bullets were found inside of her, we can only assume those years were far from ideal. But then, in the home stretch, she found a loving family with all its accompanying pleasures: toys, treats, kisses, walks, adoration, safety. The next time I adopt an animal, you can be sure I’ll follow Angela and Zack's lead and choose one who is older—one who needs a second chance like the one given to Tessa.

Angela created a lovely memorial slideshow for Tessa; you can view it here.

Rest in peace, Tessa!



song heard most recently before posting:
The Drop—Peter Gabriel

25 years: a retrospective (part 5)

6 September 1983

Fluffy’s Birthday was GREAT! We had streamer letters and everything! Tomorrow’s school! I’m kinda anxious and scared. I’m really gonna have butterflies! But we go at 10 I think and leave at 2. The school lunches are 90¢ this year! A lot. Soon it will be a million dollars.

31 December 1983

Well, tomorrow’s Jan. I just want to say, thank you and I love you very much. Since you helped me through problems. I really want to thank you. Even though I didn’t write in you every day I still love you. You were my best friend in my whole life. When I had a problem I could only tell it to you. Even though I got another diary it won’t be the same. I’ll really miss you. Good bye! Happy new year!

31 December, last day of 1985

Tonight Nanny and Papa come over and we have to go to church. Today Andrea called and she was crying because a friend, Michelle (Kris knew her too) died today. See, her mother fell asleep with a cigarette and the house burned down killing her and her mother. It’s sad. Well, tomorrow is 1986 and then the day after we go back to school. Yuck! I plan to take lots of pictures tonight and tomorrow. Sunday was fun and Heather went too. We went to see SPIES LIKE US. I can’t wait till tonight! I made lots of noisemakers. Well, I better go now. I’m having a spasm in my hand. Happy New Year!

31 December 1989

This officially is my last entry of the decade. It seems scary in an overwhelming sense, because what remains? I’m almost sorry I didn’t pay more attention to the eighties. Suddenly they’ve slipped by, leaving me with a cold, unfamiliar stretch of ten years to endure. Will they be great? Will they be the beginning of the end? Just think…next time I exit a decade I’ll be twenty-five years old! Maybe I’ll be married and have kids. What lies ahead? It’s hard to fuse the line between beginnings and endings. In one second the transition from the end of December in the end of the 80s goes to the beginning of January in the beginning of the 90s.

Stop my speculating! Wow, do I have gas. Sorry. I conclude my darling eighties as I conclude every other year…with my family, and lots of pensive thought on what lies ahead, though I know time will fly and soon I’ll be reading over my worries and predictions in you.

God bless you … and me, in the 1990s yet to come. I love you.

16 January 1997

I need to do something creative and fulfilling soon. I really need to get off my ass this weekend and, say, take black & white pictures or begin the mosaic project that I want to make for Terry, Heather, and Annida. When I’m at work, I get all these inspiring ideas to do everything from creative projects to just cleaning my room, organizing my things, etc. I never do any of it. The second I get home, I’m tired and apathetic and lazy. I change into comfortable clothes, eat dinner, and watch TV until it’s time to go to bed. Sometimes I do a little reading. It has been getting worse lately. And now my mind is getting as lethargic and mired in mud as my body and my personality. I can’t think. I can’t concentrate or remember anything. I keep making the stupidest, most embarrassing mistakes [at work], because everything goes in one ear and out the other, with no traces remaining. I feel like I am in a constant daze or mental fog. First my body seemed to die, and I became more listless than usual. Then my creativity began to die. I can’t write anymore, or think up cool projects, or anything else like that. In other words, my voice died. Now my mental prowess is dying. I am not myself anymore…

14 March 2000

I realize that it isn’t because I long for F.—he isn’t who I’m pining for, even though it was his body I embraced in my dream and his face I kissed so passionately. He was just a mask worn over an idea, and the mask was his because he’s the one I’ve been interested in lately. But it is the idea that I am truly in love with, the idea that I long to obtain. The idea is my old, desperate longing for The One. Whether he could be considered my soulmate or not, he is the one I am meant to spend my life with. I am such a fucking romantic…I just think that love and romance and sex and relationships are divine primal unions…the closest thing to god I will ever be able to touch. … At my core, I have the utmost respect for those aforementioned things. I don’t take them lightly at all. They are gifts to be treasured and all I really want out of this life is to have a chance to celebrate them with The One, whoever he may be. F. is just the latest face I have stapled onto the intangible man of my dreams. When I feel such intense sadness at my attempts to let F. go, it isn’t him I’m sad to lose—it’s the light that flutters in my heart whenever I begin to resurrect those old dreams of finding and obtaining The One. When I let my numb heart defrost a little bit and let a new crush in, I am swamped with such wondrous, positive emotions, and of course I hesitate to let them go when it’s time to let go of the futile crush.

Oh god, my appetite for this mysterious One is almost palpable. I breathe it, I sweat it. I want nothing more than to just hold him…not even kissing him or making love with him, but just holding him. I can’t stop thinking about how warm and secure his arms will feel around me, how perfectly we will make our bodies fit into one another when we curl up in bed together. Even though I can’t smell, I think of burying my face in his skin and breathing in his warm, moist, salt-scent. I think of him loving me and accepting me completely, and not seeing all of the flaws I see in myself. Yet he wouldn’t put me on a pedestal and think of me as being infallible, because that pressure would be too much for me to bear, and it would minimize my dark attributes which I readily accept. I think of how being him won’t just be safe and secure and comforting, but how it will carry tremendous, thunderous energy, too…When we are together, the molecules around us will jar and dance and vibrate with our electricity. What I am seeking is magic, in all its subtle and not-so-subtle forms. A love so intense that I want to cry when I am not with him; yet I will not be absorbed into him, unable to function on my own. I guess what I’m seeking is an unobtainable miracle that I just can’t absolve…

11 August 2004

It’s really the longing that bothers me most of all. I don’t want to long for anybody. I want to be the pumpkin whose inner flesh and seeds are scooped out, leaving a smooth, hallow, lovely shell. I was doing so well in my quest for asexual numbness, but then I began periodically tripping over curbs of desire, falling to my knees and scraping them open. These are no smooth, hallow, lovely scrapes—they are messy, damp, raw. They sting. They take ages to heal. And even after they heal, there are scars left behind. I don’t want to long for anybody. I want my heart to belong to me alone (well…along with my family, friends, and cats, of course!). There’s not enough room in it for a mysterious Him. There’s not enough room for both of us. One of us must be blotted out, and I don’t want it to be me.

I slide back into my pessimistic view that romantic love in its purest form is nearly scientifically impossible in the end. How are we really expected to find good matches in a world this big? Sure, you can register with match.com, but what if your best matches are only registered on other personal ad sites, or aren’t registered anywhere at all? Or what if they are placing ads in San Francisco or Toronto newspapers, which you’ll never see? What if your best matches live far away? How am I supposed to meet a Perfect Match if he lives in fucking North Dakota? And what is a Perfect Match, anyway? What are the odds I’ll find a guy who is attractive to me physically and possesses all the emotional and mental traits I seek? And what are the odds that this guy would feel the same way about me? If he exists, and I somehow find him, what if he happens to be married? Or gay? Or in prison? Or a drug addict? What if he just doesn’t see me as his perfect mate? What if he’s totally perfect except for the teensy-weensy problem of abusiveness? What if we’re sexually incompatible? Or what if he’s perfect but he’s got a terminal disease? The list is endless. And so bear little hope that I will ever find a good match for me. Plus I don’t want to risk potential heartbreak. I could meet someone and fall in love, only to have him dump me three years down the line. Most people can deal with the heartbreak and move on to someone new, but I dwell on things and obsess to the point of having my head explode. It is extremely difficult for me to let things go. And men aren’t exactly lining up around the block to date me, so if I manage to luck into a good relationship and it fails, odds are, that is my last chance—or at least my last chance when I’m young. If it takes me over 30 years to find one guy, it’s safe to assume that it’d take me another 30 years to find a second guy. Or maybe it would take longer.

17 June 1985

Ma spilled a drawer of Kris’ earrings and I helped her clean them up before Kris found out and then she goes to me “stop your complaining.” Humff! That’s not fair and then she tells Kris. Geez, I know I’m just an afterthought after Kris was born. On Saturday Kelly and Scott slept over, we saw the GOONIES. Data and Mouth were (from the movie) SO cute.

21 June 1989

If only I was prettier. I have this horrible rash on my legs, so I’m running around in pants since I’m so ashamed. My face is all out of shape, and I must radiate coldness, or something. Cold and ugly, and no one likes me. God, what do you do when life hurts so much? I couldn’t kill myself, couldn’t go mad…sometimes I just don’t know what to do.

1 April 1994

Darkness continues to sizzle over me again, like the sizzling coffee that is brewing beside me. It is interrupted by momentary flashes of light; just enough to make the black more agonizing when it strikes. I am tired. I woke up at 8:15 this morning, even though I only got to bed after 2 a.m. I’m tired of being tired. I’m tired of the sleeplessness, the stomach pains, the numb spots on my head, the crying spells, the feeling that everyone hates me so very much. I feel like: “Circles and circles and circles again, the girl’s in circles and circles—got to stop spinning…” I feel like I’m spinning around in rough, rapid circles in the middle of a field, like I did when I was little. I turn faster and faster…and I grow dizzy, nauseous, exhausted, disoriented. This is the part where I’m supposed to collapse to the ground and relax as the rest of the world continues to swirl sickly above me. But I can’t stop. I can’t stop spinning and I must stop…

10 May 1996

England. Here’s the part where I go off on a selfish tangent, as if Nanny is only worthy of a paragraph prelude to my life and problems. I love her. I will never stop loving her with the force I felt on the day she died. Perhaps that’s the only thing that matters—how fiercely and deeply I anchor her inside of me, not how many times I dutifully visit her grave. Or perhaps I’m just rationalizing my shittiness again. I seem to be quite good at doing that. Anyway, my head tells me that it’s probably not a good idea to go to England. The intense financial strain, social strains, and legal strains may make it more trouble than it’s worth. I could be walking from one friendship frying pan into another, since a lot of my London pals have been somewhat distant or absent lately. My heart, however, tells me that it is the right thing to do. It has been pulling me mercilessly along towards England since I was fourteen. It has to be more to it than the fact that London is a brilliant city that I love. There has to be some reason why moving there feels like my destiny. Nothing really happened during my year abroad to satiate the curiosity I feel towards this puzzling need to live there. In fact, I spent a good portion of my time there mildly homesick, and eagerly looking forward to returning home. Maybe a great success will befall me once I’m there, like how Tori Amos only got successful once she moved to England. Maybe it will only be a calm, simple peacefulness—I’ll get my dream job, live in my dream house, get more wonderful friends, and just generally find a happiness that may’ve eluded me if I had stayed in the States, for whatever reason.

19 May 1999

Here I am, sitting in the Gate 54 waiting area at Newark Airport, listening to my Funeral Mix and trying to ignore the icy rivulets of fear trickling inside my stomach like drippings down a slimy sewer wall. My favorite song, “Gloomy Winter,” is playing. I just caught a glimpse of some girl who looks like Annida out of the corner of my eye. The landscape beyond the window in front of me is half-dead, a listless blue gray. The runway is still wet from the showers we encountered while driving here.

Two and a half years later, I have finally, finally reached this point. Had somebody told me on that dark October day in 1996 that it would take me two years and seven months to return to England, I would have curled up in a corner and died.

I was surprisingly okay until I walked into the airport. Then a dim, all-encompassing fear filled me, although I surely appear outwardly calm. I thought by now I’d be a hysterical, diarrhea-splattered mess. I can feel that large Frosty that Dad bought me en route churning in my stomach, though.

I am so afraid. I think that even if I knew that they will definitely let me into the country, I would still be afraid. What if my money doesn’t last? What if the conference is horrible? What if Annida and I don’t get along? Oh god, my feet are numb and my hands are clammy.

20 May 1999

I’m in! I’m in! I’m in! I’m in! I’m in! I’m in!!!!!

Now all I have to do is stop SHAKING!!!!

24 November 1990

Mum says Bush now forbids anyone in the army from leaving, even if their time is up. And everyone is getting drafted right and left. She said that’s a sure sign of war, this containing of troops. The president is all set for war.

I never lived during a war. At first I thought it was an exciting, if not grotesque, prospect, but now it’s scary. They have nuclear weapons, don’t they? And they’re being controlled by a madman. I know one person over there—Todd S. I wonder how it would change here, besides having a horrific gasoline ration. Suppose we all die. Oh God.

Last year at this time the world seemed to be catapulted into perfection. The Berlin Wall was down. Ceausescu was killed. Czechoslovakia, Bulgaria, and Poland were free. In Central America, terrible leaders were being thrown out. Even Russia is barely Communistic anymore. Now this. Thatcher is out of parliament in England, too; whether that’s good or bad, I don’t know. Damn the Middle East. I’m 16! I don’t want to get bombed.

14 January 1991

…so I lay in bed crying. We tremble over the basin of history, of anticipation, of war. I never thought it would come to this, whatever this is. Yes, the 15th is upon us, and no one knows what eachother is doing. I just heard on the radio speeches (excerpts) from Bush, Hussein, and Congress set to “From a Distance.” It was so sad. I’m so afraid. I don’t know what to think; I’m against war, of course, but there’s so much I don’t know about what’s going on, I’m kind of neutral. God save us from ourselves.

Yes, from a distance God is watching us…and shaking his head in sorrow at what he sees.

Can write no more.

15 January 1991 (10:58pm)

One hour until war.

“All we are saying is give peace a chance…”

16 January 1991

Oh God oh God oh God

There’s no way I can tell you how I feel now, how unreal this is. I am incapable of describing it.

We are at war. War.

At about 7 pm they started pulling tanks up to Iraq, and bombers. I heard it on the radio on my way to Boscovs. It was coming, and there’s no way to stop it. A few minutes later, on my way home, as I drove slowly through the thick fog, the DJ on WINK 104 said suddenly, “We are now officially at war.” I was so shaken. Missy and I talked on the phone about it for awhile, then since then I’ve been watching the news on all the TV stations. Bush’s address was on at 9. I even noticed on Channel 17, which was carrying a basketball game, that they calmly ran the words, “The United States is now at war with Iraq.” And they went on with the game. How can those crowds cheer when they know? This isn’t real, it can’t be. Where is the massive black cloud, stifling and filled with thunder, which is supposed to descend with war? Will life go one? I’ll get up at 7, go to school, dance at musical…and we’ll be at war.

I am now watching MTV. Even on MTV, the filth of our government exists. Kurt Loder is broadcasting from a huge protest in Times Square. Every video has to do with peace, especially the re-release of “Give Peace a Chance.” On MTV: The End of the Innocence, Pray, Give Peace a Chance, A Hard Rain’s Gonna Fall, Something to Believe In, Let Love Rule.

This scares me … more than you would ever believe. They have nuclear bombs. They have terrorists in our country now (what happens if they get a hold of TMI?). They have a leader who is determined to bring us, and his own country, down with his fall. Those nuclear bombs scare me so much I have nightmares. And we, as a nation, are bound in this together. I think of [how] even the stars in California, who exist in perfect TV worlds, are a part of this war. The government…the rich…the poor…me.

Missy’s cousin and Jenn’s uncle are both in the aerial war going on now (but the news says Iraq gives little resistance in that war) and I’m afraid of their dying.

I feel guilty at times. I feel guilty because parts of me want the excitement and horror of war to grow, and last, but then my conscience catches up and says “You are mad. What if you are nuclear bombed? This could be the end.” So I start shaking like a cold, wet leaf, and wait in fear of this.

3 September 1988

I think that if I have to hear one more fucking lecture out of my fucking mother, I’m going to fucking die. She always does it to me. Always! This time it was because she thinks I’m wasting my money on a Lost Boys tape. What else am I supposed to do with the money? Why I want the tape I can’t explain. I have to wait till this Friday to get it, though. Once again I have this “dead” feeling around me. It’s like a heavy weight that makes me feel like I have to cry. I won’t though. I won’t give them the satisfaction.

16 September 1989

I’m not sure I can honestly say I feel at least a little better. It scares me sometimes, how nothing can ever penetrate the somber cloud above my head. Look at me, I’m fifteen years old, young, alive, semi-healthy, and I hate life! I loathe it! Now, can you tell me that’s normal? Oh, I don’t know what I’m going to do about anything. I’m so afraid of everything, so afraid of living. It’s strange…sometimes I’ll be doing something, and suddenly just want to die. Let God give me cancer, or kill me. I don’t care. Oh please! Pull me away from this.

… Why am I torturing myself so? I mean, what is really wrong with me? I want to see a psychiatrist, but I’m so goddamn protective of my feelings and emotions, I’m afraid it would never work. I wish someone would tell me why I’m on one side of the mirror, and can’t break through.

20 November 1992

I can feel that it’s back again, crawling on my soul like a cancerous shadow. I can’t explain it—it’s just a stinking blackness that’s bleeding me dry. Oh, blood. Oh good Christ. Blood. Like a drug, I need to slash my wrist very badly right now. I need to feel that power, to feel as if I have some degree of control over my twisted life, my twisted thoughts.

28 August 1993

… we had the first annual stalking awards. There were three ties, but I still majorly cleaned up. I won 7 ribbons, after barely voting for myself! I guess that you could say that I’m the Queen o’ Stalking. We all (Gatesy, Heller, Foster, Laura, Terry, Shawn, Missy, and I) went to Yummy’s Chinese Restaurant in Palmyra for a very long period of time, to eat huge amounts of food and be very loud and obnoxious. I had to take almost my entire plate of “Buddha Supreme” along in the car with me, since it was only served to me about ten minutes before we left. Then I got the idea to leave it, uncovered, on Gatesy’s neighbor’s doorstep. Someone else suggested that it be left on Ben’s instead. So, Laura, Terry, Shawn, Missy, and I went to the adult bookstore along Rt. 422, and we three chicks went in, sort of embarrassed, and shamefacedly bought a cheap plastic dildo, which we stuck up out of my gooey Chinese food, leaving it on Ben and Psycho Jackie’s doorstep. Laura and I were the ones who crept stealthily through the dark and left it in there, giggling madly. Terry invited us to go swimming quietly in his neighbors’ pool, which they let him use anytime he wants. It was a beautiful night—clear, warm, with a visible moon. The pool water was just right. We were reveling in the fact that we were finally nightswimming, and in the spirit of the moment, with modesty cast alongside the pool with our clothing and bathing suits, we went skinnydipping. [We were] swirling about naked in a pool, exhilarated and wondering what would happen if Terry’s neighbors discovered five naked teenagers (four of them total strangers) swimming about in their pool at 2 a.m. … I never felt more alive in my life then I did at that very time. Alive and free. Unchained. Wicked.

6 December 2004

We were there for around three hours and the waiters and other patrons were probably so glad to see us leave. We were loud and kept screaming with laughter and we said our usual round of inappropriate things. At one point Charlie mentioned his boyfriend, and then he got this panicked look on his face, as if he expected someone to kill him on the spot for being gay. We laughed at the idea of someone whipping out a gun and shooting him in the head three seconds after he said the word “boyfriend.” So during the rest of dinner, Missy and I would periodically yell “Bang!” at Charlie and he’d slump over in his chair. And, being the dorks that we are, we all decided to trade driver’s licenses so we could laugh at one another’s photos. Charlie was like, “Ready, set, pass to your left!” I laughed so hard at Boot’s license photo, I literally couldn’t breathe. I was in pain. Bob’s photo makes it look like he’s got hydroencephalitis and is standing in front of a funhouse mirror. Danielle’s photo has the Crazy Eyes. Charlie roared with laughter when he saw that Missy’s license claims she only weighs 200 pounds. She fired back, “Well, your license says that you’re male!” and I shrieked “BURN!!!!” at him.

Ha, and at one point, Charlie asked me how old I thought Gates's fiance was, and I said, “I dunno…30?” and everyone laughed because he’s only 23. Whoops!

Oh, and I’ve gotten Missy completely obsessed with the idea of going on The Amazing Race with Charlie. So we spent a good part of dinner discussing our future audition tapes and how we’d act on TAR. Missy and Charlie are obsessed with being called “America’s Sweethearts” and having all of America fall in love with them, based on their TAR performance. Danielle and Tony are going to be another team, and Bootsy and I are going to be a third team. Missy said the tagline beneath us will say “vegan and fister.” “Hey, I’m not a vegan!” I cried. Naturally Boot didn’t follow it up with “And I’m not a fister!”…because, well, he is.

2 February 1994

The most fucked up thing ever just happened to me. I was crossing Linden St. between J-Hall and Hyland Hall to come to this class, and I had to walk through two grimy men. One stopped me and refused to let me proceed, because he was entranced by my nose ring. He asked me why I have it and his eyes rolled in different directions. He was very hard to understand. He told me secretively that he had his balls pierced. I tried to act nice and calm by saying “Oh really?” and asking him if it hurt, etc. He said “no” but that it stung a bit. I said that mine didn’t hurt either. I thought he asked me if I screamed, but he must’ve actually asked me if I creamed. I said “no.” He goes “You didn’t cream?” and grabbed me again as I tried to walk away. He asked me how many kids I had and I exclaimed “None! I have to go!” He put his arm around me and pulled me in tight and asked me if I wanted to start having them right then and there with him. I thought “Oh my god, he’s going to rape me,” even though there were students milling around. I said “No!” and broke away to class.

14 September 1995

Anyway, in the bathroom … I sobbed my eyes out and hyperventilated for a good half hour. I tried to retch into the toilet, I pinched my arm repeatedly [to try to] wake myself up, and I rolled around fetally on the floor. It really was like some nightmare. I felt utterly alone. I literally could not stop crying, and it really frightened me.

14 January 1986

I’ve got shocking news. Ma got a job! I’ll die. She will be home when I get home, and only work 4 days a week and I might get a increase in allowance but here are bad things:

we won’t go to Hershey Park
I’ll be all alone every day
I’ll have to vacuum and dust my room
we won’t go to Park City
we won’t go to pool
works summer
there’s no way now to go on vacation

or, if Fluffy dies I’ll really be all alone forever. I’ll never speak to Ma again!!!

18 February 1987

I’m starting to get irritated at Wendy. She’s always borrowing pens and pencils and never returning them. She also says that we’re best friends in school but as soon as we’re near other friends she practically ignores me. I have to run errands for her too, sometimes. I wish I’d be pretty and popular and never have to worry about these problems.



song heard most recently before posting:
Yes—Coldplay