in sickness and in health

So, how about that swine flu, huh? Its speed is almost breathtaking. Flu—whether a pandemic or not—tends to spread fairly quickly, but this is almost ridiculous. A week ago this topic didn’t even exist among the general public and now? It has supplanted the crippling recession at the top of news hours. Not too shabby, swine flu!

Being familiar with animal protection issues, I know that pig flu is a direct result of deplorable factory farming conditions. Now, I’m not trying to be a Preachy McPreacherson here; I’m just interested in stating the facts and pointing out that factory farms have implications not just for the animals who suffer, but for human populations as well.

Long story short—and I thank The Humane Society of the United States for sharing their concise and succinct overview of the matter—an H1N1 flu virus has circulated in pig populations ever since the Spanish flu pandemic of 1918 (the year my grandfather was born; holla, Papa!). In 1998 thousands of pigs fell ill with the aggressive H3N2 virus in a North Carolina factory farm. North Carolina is home to the nation’s largest pig farm and has more than twice as many corporate pig mega-factory farms than any other state. As its pig population exploded, its number of pig farms as shrunk. More pigs in less space: it’s really no surprise that the virus began there.

Anyway, researchers discovered that the virus was actually a “triple reassortment,” a heretofore unseen hybrid of three viruses: human, pig, and bird. How can a Frankenstein’s monster-esque virus like this even evolve? Well, on many factory farms pigs and poultry are raised in adjacent buildings, with the same employees tending to both of them, creating cross-contamination. And because pigs are often dragged across the U.S., from one factory farm to another for breeding, fattening, and slaughtering, the 1998 virus was able to spread to Texas, Minnesota, and Iowa.

The pig virus currently making the world break into a cold sweat is a “quadruple reassortment” containing human and bird viruses and European and North American pig viruses. Pig flu is very tightly entwined with pig density, and given the massive concentrations of farm animals in North American and European factory farms—concentrations that allow viruses to jump and reassort between species at an unprecedented rate—it’s clear why a pandemic is a distinct possibility.

Recognizing this, the European Commission’s agricultural directorate previously warned that Europe’s blossoming factory farm industries will give rise to “an increasing risk of disease epidemics.” Denmark actually listened; they lowered the number of pigs allowed on each Danish farm and in Denmark as a whole. The U.S., needless to say, hasn’t followed suit.

It isn’t just the dense concentration of animals in factory farms that set the flu wheels in motion. Pigs spending their entire lives in narrow, movement-restricting crates with bare concrete floors produce lower antibody levels, making illness more virulent. Unfortunately, factory farms try to combat potential disease risk by pumping the animals full of antibiotics—a move which creates its own brand of problems (namely, drug-resistant strains of human diseases). A better solution would be for them to prevent disease not through needless drug dispersion but through humane farming practices. Humane farms breed happy animals and happy animals have stronger immune systems. Ah, but I guess there’s no money in that. We’ve gotta have our cheap McDonald’s hamburgers, after all.

We’re potentially looking at a major turning point here, one with historical implications. This disease is a pivot on which we could swing in any number of directions; for example, a fizzling false alarm, a catastrophic pandemic leading to mass deaths, or a pandemic not leading to mass deaths (this could still be considered catastrophic in that our already shattered economy would be further weakened by masses of employees staying home sick, not to mention the fact that during a pandemic, people won’t exactly feel like stimulating the economy by going shopping, going to the movies, buying new homes, etc).

Here’s how I visualize the present situation: it’s like one of those movie/TV scenes where a character makes an all-important hoop shot during The Big Game, and as the ball arcs toward the net, everything grinds into slow motion. Hushed, rigid, open-mouthed, the crowd is immobilized, transfixed. The ball hums lazily around the net’s rim. And we wait.


song heard most recently before posting:
Make You Feel My Love—Adele

gay marriage

So I decided to come out of hibernation for a while. My blog has suffered terribly in recent months, mostly because my energy has been directed at keeping my sanity afloat and trying not to fuck up any of my jobs. I had been doing okay with juggling multiple jobs for quite an extended period of time, then something happened at work to make me glance away and temporarily lose my focus. That’s all it took for the balls to smash down on me, and my juggling hasn’t been the same since then. Given the recession, this is NO time for me to fuck up at any of my jobs and risk getting axed. In light of that, I’ve been trying to winnow down my life to its bare minimum: work, sometimes going out with friends, TV, reading, Facebook. Everything else has slipped away, from maintaining my journal to fixing up my condo.

Anyway, recently I was thrilled to hear about gay marriage becoming legal in Iowa. I was flabbergasted (I mean, Iowa? Really?) but thrilled all the same. Only, what, 46 more states to go?

Periodically I go on these rampages against the anti-gay marriage movement. Hearing people whine that “gay marriage will destroy the sanctity of marriage” never ceases to fill me with white-hot rage. My response just seems so fucking obvious: straight people (and I am saying this as a straight person) destroy the sanctity of marriage all the time! What world are these people coming from? Clearly it’s not our world, where two-minute marriages, spousal abuse, divorce, and adultery abound. How the hell are those things honoring the sanctity of marriage?

No, not every straight marriage is a train wreck and an affront to the institution of marriage. I would never dare to generalize like that. Yet it’s okay for conservatives to generalize about gay marriages! They can’t make sweeping generalizations like that! Yes, if gay marriage were legal, I’m sure plenty of gay couples would “destroy the sanctity of marriage” by cheating on each other and whatnot. But this would happen no more or no less than among straight couples. Just as not all straight couples are the same, not all gay couples are the same.

Actually, let me scratch my previous statement. If gay marriage were legal, there would probably be fewer gay couples than straight couples destroying the sanctity of marriage. Why? Because gay couples are more likely to appreciate what they’ve got. There’s that old adage that nobody in America is more patriotic than its newly minted citizens from foreign countries. Nobody appreciates freedom more than those who don’t, or didn’t, have it. Straight people have always had the ability to marry, so it’s easy to think of it as being no big deal. But gay couples, after centuries of being denied the right to marry, think it’s a very big deal. And if they’re given the chance to marry, my money’s on the bulk of them treating marriage like a precious and sacred institution. They won’t take it for granted. They know what it’s like to not have it and they know how lucky they are to have it, so they’re going to behave accordingly and treat it with the respect it deserves.

Besides, doesn’t the Bible say “Judge not lest ye be judged”? A secular variation is “People in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones.” I think of Ted Haggard, expounding ceaselessly on the sin of homosexuality and how it will bring ruin to the institution of marriage, and all the while he was cheating on his wife with a male prostitute. Nobody is perfect. No marriage is perfect. So, I’m sorry, but unless your marriage is a paragon of virtue, and you faithfully honor every single wedding vow you made and never, ever hurt or betray your spouse or treat him/her thoughtlessly, you have no right to bitch about how gays will ruin the institution of marriage. Unless you’re absolutely, divinely perfect, you have no right to judge the perceived imperfections in others.

I think many of the people who hide behind the “gay people shouldn’t marry because it’s an affront to the sanctity of marriage” are really homophobes who would rather hide behind cowardly rhetoric and Biblical passages than admit the truth: they don’t like gays. They’d rather yell their tired old war cry of “God made Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve!” than admit, “You know what? I just don’t like gays or lesbians. They make me nervous.” Everybody’s entitled to their beliefs. Go ahead—I’m not going to try to stop you. But at least have the decency to be honest about it. And, for chrissake, don’t try to shove your personal beliefs onto the legal system.

That’s another thing that really pisses me off about the anti-gay marriage movement. People equate their personal beliefs with legality. “I don’t like or trust gays, and therefore they shouldn’t be allowed to marry or adopt kids.” What the hell do your personal beliefs have to do with anything? Hey, guess what, I’m not crazy about ignorant, hateful racists, but I’m not going to try to deny them the right to marry, even though marrying will undoubtedly bring breeding, thus creating a new generation of ignorant, hateful racists. You won’t see me marching on Washington any time soon to protest KKK members being allowed to marry. If gays marry, how is it any skin off your back? Will your tax dollars be responsible for their weddings or supporting them in their married lives? No. Will you be forced to attend their weddings? No. Will they parade through your house every night, wagging their wedding bands in your face? No. So why does it matter to you whether they’re married or not?

Interracial marriage was once illegal, too, as was interreligious marriage. Denying gays the right to marry seems as outdated and ass-backwards as denying a Catholic the right to marry a Jew. Laws are supposed to evolve as society progresses...right?


song heard most recently before posting:
Mlada—Karelian Folk Music Ensemble

taking a breather

I can’t even begin to describe how intensely busy my life has been over the past few months. My main job has been busy and stressful, while freelancing has been completely out of control, mostly because I’ve taken on some additional projects that I really don’t have time to do, solely because I desperately need the money. My frantic work schedule is somewhat akin to me putting a Band-Aid on a gunshot wound. I need the money because the past few months have brought a busted computer, $700 in car repairs, a few hundred dollars in vet bills, and the news that my mortgage has shot up an additional $100/month, simply because some douchebag at my mortgage company miscalculated my escrow payments.

I’m very grateful to have jobs during this recession, but nonetheless, I don’t handle stress and excessive multitasking very well; having this many balls in the air is proving to be an enormous strain. I’m running on adrenaline in a bid to keep hanging on by my fingernails. I can’t stop for a minute or really devote much time to think about anything other than work, because if I do, I will crash. The adrenaline and hyperfocus form a kind of supportive exoskeleton around me; without it I’ll hit the ground and inertia will keep me pinned there. This is one of the reasons why I’ve been neglecting my blog (and my journal, too, for that matter). Everything extraneous is being cast by the wayside, as if I’m shedding luggage from the back of my car in order to make my paltry gas reserves last longer.

That being said...I still can’t believe it’s 2009! Ten years ago, when I rang in 1999 with friends, we marveled that we finally hit the year immortalized by Prince back in the early ’80s, and remembered how far away it seemed when we heard that song as kids. Ten years ago the world began gearing up for the new millennium and Y2K. Ten years ago I finally got my ass back to England. The millennium is almost a full decade old, for chrissake!

2008 wasn’t a horrible year for me, personally. Sure, I encountered ongoing money woes and I was dreadfully overworked, and in October I learned the wrenching news that a former coworker of mine, a really wonderful woman just a few months shy of her 30th birthday, had been murdered in her home by an unknown assailant one month earlier.

But on the whole, things weren’t bad. However, they were bad all around me, lurking at my periphery. We slipped into a recession. Gas prices rose to record highs (although they later dropped to near-record lows, I can’t easily forget what it was like to pay over $4/gallon). The news was constantly filled with one horror or another: two failing wars, high unemployment, a nosediving housing market and stock market (I don’t even want to know what kind of a hit my pension fund took), natural disasters (most notably, the cyclone in Myanmar, hurricanes in the US, and the earthquake in China). People in my life experienced many losses: pets, parents, grandparents. I feel like I’ve escaped the executioner’s noose by a hair’s width and I’m always waiting for his axe to fall on me in lieu of my being hung.

I took off the week between Christmas and the New Year, but I think I set my sights too high, because I didn’t accomplish everything I set out to do during that much-needed vacation of mine. To be fair, though, it wasn’t a total washout. I started making headway in carving out a new life for myself (the details of which can’t be mentioned here, unfortunately), I got through some freelancing, and I completed some art projects I set out to do. This included painting the bed springs I stole from Centralia in November and making a paint chip picture frame, a canvas collage, a wooden and clay hearts “love letter” to someone who shall remain nameless, and a clay and X-acto knife-tip-studded heart that serves as a wake-up call to my currently suppressed inner life.

I also made the unfortunate decision—even though my gut was warning me against it—to paint my appliances black with appliance spray paint. I thought spray paint would look much more professional than paint that goes on with brushes, because I didn’t want to see brush marks (it never even occurred to me to use a roller). In typical Jen fashion, I made an unholy mess of the situation. The dishwasher turned out okay, but I saw some bubbling and streaking with the bottom half of the stove, and it sent me into full-fledged panic mode. Like, I just suddenly doubted my ability to do the rest of the stove and, more importantly (given the fact that I spent a lot of money on it and it was brand new), doubted my ability to do my refrigerator. I also realized just how much of a mess I had made. I’d taped down paper around each appliance I was spraying, and that caught some of the wayward paint, but the entire floor had gotten covered in a thin film of paint, and it even extended to the wood floors beyond the kitchen. So I screeched to a halt and tried to do a 360. I raced to Home Depot and bought mineral spirits and spray paint remover, along with a mop and sponges, and spent a good chunk of the rest of the evening trying to clean up my mess. I failed miserably. The most I could do was remove thin streaks of paint from the stove (I didn’t even attempt to get the paint off the dishwasher). I got some of the paint off the floor, but a residue remained, making it look like my floor is covered in soot. The stove adds to this effect, because it looks like it got charred in a fucking fire. Jesus Christ, what a mess. I felt like smashing my head into a wall for being so sloppy. My new game plan is to buy some roll-on faux stainless steel appliance paint that Heather heard about on the DIY Network and get a friend to help me apply it. Another disaster in the making? Who knows. Maybe. Probably.

My social life, always tenuous at best, has been particularly flattened lately, partially because of my work schedule and partially because of my stress-induced emotional withdrawal. My friend David visited me from Chicago the weekend after Christmas, though, and we had a splendid time. And I spent New Year’s Eve with some of my wonderful pals from home. We did our white elephant gift exchange and Beck gave everyone the kick-ass framed cross-stitch pieces she had made for us, using funny sayings and quotes from my collection. We set out to make an is-it-male-or-female Maury Povich segment with Joel’s camcorder but it kind of fell apart in the end, since getting this group organized is like the proverbial herding of cats. However, we did get Brad to walk around in a corset and his underwear, wearing bright red lipstick, so that’s at least something (it helped that he was kind of drunk).

Two weeks ago I attended a high school musical reunion. Yes, way before High School Musical became a phenomenon, my geeky self partook in the various shows produced by my high school. I served on the makeup crew in 9th and 10th grades, because I was too shy or lazy to actually appear in the shows, but I became a full-fledged non-speaking cast member in 11th and 12th grades. Musical was this crazy amalgam of dorks, gays, drama queens, and social misfits, with a sprinkling of popular people thrown in for added taste. I loved and hated the experience in equal measure. I’m still good friends with several of my musical compatriots, but I lost touch with a great many more…at least until Facebook came along. Then I began reconnecting with musical folks I hadn’t seen since high school or immediately beyond. Seeing them in the flesh at our reunion was fantastic! A reunion like this was so much more beneficial than a class reunion, because it gave me a chance to see folks who graduated after me. It was nice not being restricted to members of my class. There were a couple folks there who I didn’t know, as they only started high school after I graduated, and there several people who either couldn’t show up for one reason or another or who failed to show up after promising to be there. Still, I was so pleased with the turnout and I think the mastermind behind it all, Ang, did an incredible job with organizing things. I’m hoping that this was the first of many musical reunions to come. And hopefully future reunions won’t involve two skeevy old guys at the bar constantly staring at my ass.



song heard most recently before posting:
Outsiders—Franz Ferdinand

25 years: a retrospective (part 9)

22 March 1993

I spent the night unpacking, writing, and typing my Comp. paper, and reading some of Blue Highways. My alienation grew. I just wanted to crawl into bed and sleep my life away. I don’t belong here, I kept thinking to myself. I don’t belong anywhere.

Today only heightened my sense of self-hate. I was down in the J-Hall computer lab for awhile, typing up my fake news story. It struck me that I am not good at anything. Writing? Yeah, right. That’s why I haven’t written a poem for months, and I am incapable of even writing a short story. Schoolwork? Hardly. … I don’t even like school anymore. I don’t like journalism or writing or any such goals. I want to go to England, but what would I do once I got there? I hate working, socializing, doing things on my own, thinking. The thought of getting a real job, getting married … is unthinkable. I don’t want to do anything. And how can I even expect to get friends in England, if I am incapable of making friends here ... 2 hours from home? I probably ought to kill myself, but I don’t have the energy to do the actual deed. I ought to go for long walks to clear my head, but I’m too damn tired. I ought to write my ass off, practice photography, dream…but I’m too numb. That’s what all of this is. Numbness. I can’t feel anything anymore. I’m just stumbling on through life, my GPA a falsity, my looks a mess, with no friends or social life, and no goals for the future. … I want to go into hiding, like I plan to do in my single room next year. I just want to totally live by myself, surrounded by books, tapes, notebooks, plants, candles, TV, pets, in a world where I never have to leave my hole except to buy food every once in awhile. I want to be a hermit, a recluse, a loner. I never want to have to face people, date, work, or deal with everyday life. If this is so, why don’t I just drop out of school, move to London, and live in the slums, stealing money to survive on?

Because I’m afraid.

Damnit.

4 April 1993

It just struck me that I’ve been having nightmares about the mountains.

I don’t remember them, of course. But I know they’re there. They haunt me—those blue, stifling monoliths that change with the weather. Sometimes they’re hazy and pale, sometimes sharp and black. They consume my thoughts, my poetry, my dreams. The mountains, and [this city] itself, are poison. They look like the scars on my wrist, which are chameleon-like, too. They change from glossy red to dull purple-black and everything in between. I’ve taken to stroking them unconsciously, every free moment I’ve got.

18 April 1993

You know…self-hatred is a heavy cross to bear. Maybe that’s why so many people end up crucifying themselves upon it.

5 May 1993

Tonight was a big Beverly Hills/Melrose Place night. It’s weird how extremely excited we get over those damn shows. We were “pumped.” Lisa, XT, MB, MB, and I all crashed in here, freaking over everything that happened in the shows, especially Melrose. When Melrose ended, we hit “mute” and just listened to the howls and screams from the other dorms and quads outside. It sounded like a riot. Weird.

14 May 1993

I just got back from Nay Aug Park. It’s an absolutely beautiful day, and I decided to avoid my usual thinking spot (since the park was so crowded); thus, I stumbled across a new place by a stream, bright with sunshine and a canvas of electric green leaves above me. Across the stream was a family of geese/ducks and their babies. They were so sweet looking. However, on my side there was a viciously hissing duck who followed my every movement with his suspicious eyes. I had visions of him waiting for me around the corner, ready to leap up and rip out my femoral artery, or of him flying out of the bushes in slow motion, ripping out my femoral artery, then munching hungrily on my flesh. I was honestly getting a little bit nervous there. “Oh my god,” I kept exclaiming to myself, “I’m gonna have to mace a DUCK!!!” I left the main stream, which was shrouded in shade and a peaceful kind of quiet. I sat on a rock for a long time, swishing my bare feet in the cold, clear water. Soon I grew tired of that and started to actually wade in the water, carefully feeling my feet over the smooth, slimy stones. It felt invigorating and wonderful, like I was a child again, unleashed into the perfect realms of summer.

Oh…while I was at the main stream, I made a good cut on my left wrist and smeared the blood on each page of my term paper and news story. I had some difficulty getting them to burn, but they finally did, leaving wisps of grey paper to sail off down the stream. I feel better now.

31 May 1993

If things don’t work out once I’m in England, I’ll do one of two things: commit suicide, or fake my own death. I’ll send a British telegram home, telling everyone that I burned to death in an accident, and that my belongings will be sent home, sans my body, since there will be no body. The telegram will state that in my will, I requested that the bulk of my clothes, books, tapes, etc., to be given to charity, while my photo albums, poems, scrapbooks, etc., are buried. That way, I will get to keep everything of personal value and necessity, to carry me into the depths of my new life. With this new life, I would either stay in London or move into the small seaside cottage of my dreams. I would get a minimal job that would give me enough money to stay stocked in food and pay my bills, and then I would proceed to live a solitary existence of being an eccentric, slightly mad, non-conformist writer. I wouldn’t have to worry about paying off college loans or finding a “real” job, which is good considering I have no fucking clue what I want to do with my life, anyway. Oh my God! Doesn’t this plan sound outrageous and fantastic?! What if I could actually pull it off? Hell, if I play my cards right, I might even get home in time to stop by my funeral. I always wanted to do that, to see who would cry, who would miss me. That imagined lifestyle is the one I always secretly craved, I think. Being alone and free and dark on a desolate, grey, English beach. Just me and my haunted mind, and maybe even a little bit of writing.

Yes! YES!

18 July 1993

On Friday and Saturday nights I found myself with Missy and Foster (on Friday, Kelly was along, too) at Gretna Lake, just hanging off the pier and attempting to catch minnows in cups. My, what typical teenagers are we. It was nice, anyway; very summery with the sun setting behind the dark trees which were calmly reflected on the lake’s smooth, warm surface.

19 July 1993

She asked me, after some time had passed, whether I wanted to go climb the school with her. At first I said “no,” because of being so tired, but then I changed my mind. We walked up to the school in our bare feet, surrounded by the dead silence of the dark night. She climbed onto the roof from the perch of one of the white window ledges, but I couldn’t seem to make it from that point. Instead, I took the easy way out, standing on one of the railings and scurrying up to the roof ledge which hung over the doors between the gym and aud. buildings. It was only 3 or 4 steps up the wall, but it was still a challenge for me. What an experience! To be wandering around the roof of your high school at like 2:30 in the morning, wearing your pajamas and no shoes, seems to be an unreal, almost mystical experience. I kept thinking that I was sleepwalking; that I would wake up suddenly and find myself on the roof alone, with no clue how I got there, and no clue how to get down. Anyway…Laura and I plopped down on the ledge of the back of the library building, talking for a very long time in the light rain. It was absolutely marvelous. Getting down was a little tricky at first, but somehow managed to swing it. We got back to my house at 4 a.m., after a close encounter with a cop (he was sitting in a squad car in front of the school; we were afraid that he would find us suspicious-looking since we were walking around barefoot at such an insane hour. He didn’t do anything to us, though).

2 August 1993

On Friday night, Terry, Missy, Heather, and I went to People’s in Hershey, clad in strange garb to harass Shawn, who wasn’t even working. We felt like assholes. We then went to Long John Silver’s to see Charlie, and Heather and Terry went into Wendy’s for food while Miss and I stood outside at the payphone, attempting to call Seebs. Two guys who wanted to use the phone stared at us in amazement, complimenting my Angel of Death motif. I told them that we were en route to a costume party, but then Terry came along and said that no, we weren’t on our way to a costume party…we were from Ohio.

18 September 1993

You want to know what’s so pathetic about all of this, most of all? England is really the only dream I’ve got. I mean, sure, I want literary success, but you know that that will never happen. I never even write anything! I also want true love, but with my psychological state, I can only laugh at that baby. Forget it—I’ll die a cold, virgin spinster. So where does that leave me? Just with England. Just to be there. I have no other goals or aspirations. I shouldn’t be, and don’t want to be, in college. I hate my major. I have no idea what I want to be or do. I always thought that I wanted to go into print journalism, but I despise newswriting and I dread interviewing, researching, etc. I have no talents or academic strong points. God…I’m really doomed, aren’t I? No career, no love life at all, no will to do anything. Really, the only thing I can think of doing is living a life of self-imposed isolation in a cozy cabin on some empty, grey, beach…spending my days reading and walking and vegging, maybe earning enough money to live on by doing something from the home. I don’t want to have to go out into this merciless, cruel world and fight.

25 September 1993

By 6:30, Cathy still hadn’t called, so I called her and left a message on her machine, asking if she still wanted to do something. She called me back awhile later, and we made plans to attempt Blues Street. She came by with Kris at approx. 9:30, borrowed my black turtleneck and yin-yang necklace (in an attempt to look older), and we set off, in our “mature” clothes and our air of fake confidence. I wore my black dress pants, black t-shirt, brown plaid blazer, black mocs, and big silver hoops. I put my hair up in a knot, with a curly chunk hanging down. They told me that I could pass for 25. Wow!

5 February 1994

If I commit suicide, it’ll be like this: I’ll go home for the weekend, borrow the car, drive to a secluded spot with Rowlf and a Tori Amos tape blaring on the tape deck, and stuff a rag into the exhaust pipe. While waiting to die, I’ll probably slash a wrist and write “MEA CULPA” in blood on the window.

4 March 1994

Sometimes I get scared and think “I don’t really want to die,” and then I start to ponder over a suicide attempt, something really lame like slitting my wrists or OD’ing on pills. Then I’d just be stashed away in a mental hospital. I don’t know if I could handle that. I imagine the faces and reactions of my family and friends afterwards—the disappointment, the disapproval, the uncomfortable shame. At least if I’m dead, I won’t be able to see it all. Imagine being in a mental hospital for god-knows-how-long, with no freedom and eyes watching my every move and drugs to keep me in a stupor. I’ve always said how blissful an escape insanity and asylums would be, but then I read The Loony Bin Trip and it turned me off of the peculiar world of hospitalization. Both ends, a hospital and death, terrify me so much. But I can’t just stay as I am. I can’t continue on like this, so much in pain, yet so removed from feeling.

11 April 1994

“In the clearing stands a boxer and a fighter by his trade and he carries the reminders of every glove that laid him down and cut him till he cried out, in his anger and his shame, ‘I am leaving, I am leaving,’ but the fighter still remains…”

That is me. Everything in life is cutting me, making me scream, “I am leaving! I am leaving!” but the fighter in me won’t listen, won’t give up. I’m trying to kill her, and though my hands are covered in her blood, she won’t die. “Lie down!” I shriek at her. “For Chrissake, just lie down! I’m so tired, I have to go!” She doesn’t say anything, but I can feel her staring at me from her dark corner. She watches me. I can’t leave, I can’t kill myself until she lies down and shuts up, even though she utters only silence. She is all the doubts swirling thickly in my head. She is the fighter that made me pick up a course selection book today and work out a schedule for next year, in case I don’t get to go abroad. She is the one who holds onto me tightly, despite my screams of “Let me go!” and my furious, struggling kicks. She won’t let me go, and she won’t tell me why.

18 February 1995

I was about to leave for [central] London today when Jorge popped in, on his way out to the newsagent and college. I slyly suggested that he go with me to the post office, so I didn’t have to complain about Terry’s lost letter by myself. He readily accepted. We went to the newsagent in Greenwich, to the post office where they nicely gave me a form to fill out, to a secondhand bookstore (I bought 2 books for 10p each), and then to the train station right in time to catch our train (he had decided to go with me into London). I bought my ticket home at Travel Cuts, and it was much more expensive than I realized. Sav’s gonna shit when I tell her tomorrow. Because I had to fork out dosh for a travelcard, I decided to make the most of it and go to Covent Garden, so I could buy the shoes I saw in Just Seventeen which I really liked. The shoes looked ugly up close, but Jorge and I still had a long, enjoyable stroll around Covent Garden, making it worthwhile. He actually stole 2 CDs—something that’s unheard of! I bought a cool skirt and a pair of pants for £5 each. I also got a light lunch. We finally got to see the Doc Martens department store, and one of the employees complimented the CHiPs book I was carrying around. Jorge was forced to spend £1 (roughly) on a flower some crone stuffed into my hand. We eventually walked our way to Charing Cross and immediately caught a train home. Annida cooked us pasta, and I took a 1 ½ hr nap before we were scheduled to start cooking for our Greek-cum-international night. It was brilliant! The kitchen was like the U.N., crammed with different nationalities—people from the U.S., Greece, Italy, Japan, Singapore, Norway, England, etc. There was a ton of food, including Coke, ice cream, and coffee, and afterwards a lot of us plopped in the hall outside the kitchen and sang with a guitar until a tutor came along to complain. Apparently a few people had complained about the noise. It was only 9:15 p.m., but I couldn’t blame them. We were very loud.

23 August 1995

I hate when people treat me like I’m an unbalanced little child who needs to be watched out for, protected, or chided when I’m “bad.” So many people in my life do that to me. Oh, just you wait, you fucking bastards. One day I will crack open that little black box inside of me, and I will find my Voice, and you catty, immature little shitheads will find out exactly what I’m made of. You will find that I am strong and that I can destroy you. This becomes my mantra…I am strong, I am proud, I am beautiful, I am loud. I deserve respect, and you will never, ever walk on me again, nor betray me, nor think of me as being less than you. And when I become successful and happy one day, you will eat my dust.

2 September 1995

Another cycle begins. There is the cycle of the seasons…right now, autumn is tip-toeing in, although it is still rather unremarkable. September is bleeding slowly through the trees, a coolness tinges the day beneath gleaming blue skies. I am sitting in Nay Aug Park, feeling about as peaceful as I am able to feel. I couldn’t find one of my original thinking spots, so I settled down in the vicinity of the other, about halfway down between the trail and the gurgling stream. The rocks I am sitting on are well-shaded, both from the pleasantly warm sun and from potential people wandering through the park. It is calm, still, and quiet (if I can just ignore the cars whizzing by on I-81!). The leaves are beginning to change—I saw blood red leaf carcasses in the park, while all of those around me here are butter-yellow, aged. There is a low wind that shakes them fro their perches and sends them whirling into space. I think, perhaps, that autumn is my favourite season. It never fails to drive me into pensiveness, and to build up my strength reserves for the slow approach of winter. The other cycle that churns is one in my life, as if I am coming full circle from one of the old me’s. After a year away, I am back in this park, with my journal and bookbag, as if I never left. Also, lately I have been encountering many people who were a part of my Freshman year landscape: friends, classmates, dormmates. I haven’t seen most of them since that time. It is providing me with a sense of closure—another full circle, that of my university career, is becoming complete. They are reflecting on their lives together, and all the memories they created, during these four years. I cannot do that, so I am dwelling on my own life alone, how it has changed and how I have changed since I first came here.

14 September 1995

Yesterday I was struck with the thought of circles. “Circles and circles and circles again, the girl’s in circles and circles—got to stop spinning.” When I first fell in love with those lyrics sophomore year, they held an entirely different meaning. I saw myself as being so fucked up by life, I was running around in uncontrollable circles, becoming sick, dizzy, exhausted, but unable to stop. I was going nowhere but in a slow spiral to my death. Now I’m seeing them as a more concrete vision of my life and its own cycles of alienation and fitting in. Everything (nearly) that has suffocated me and forced me to emotionally grow up a little bit more has been a circle.

In 6th grade, the thing to do was go roller skating at the Casino. I loved roller skating, but not in that context. I ended up following D. and the popular kids around, feeling left out and eager to be their friends. We skated endlessly in circles, flirting with boys, giggling about them in the toilets, trying to look cool and haughty and grown-up. I swallowed my rancid dislike of it all—the falsity, the insignificance, the awkwardness. I think I broke away once, skated in the opposite direction, and sat aside by myself. I don’t know if I ever went back to those circles, to that teeming angst of pre-adolescent rituals.

In Junior High, and even into 9th grade, I got sucked into another circle. The thing to do was go to the football games and walk around the stadium in endless circles. We were packs of vicious, calm and collected, overly-made up wolves, out to catch guys, laugh at the Jr. High underdogs, and gossip madly. We were slipping and sliding up the social ladder. Popularity was of utmost importance. I hated it. It was pointless, braving the cold like that in repetitive motions…I thought my huge, fake grin, coated with frosty pink lipstick, would forever engrave my face. This particular ritual was at its worst when I did it with D. Once more, I didn’t belong, and everyone knew it. I followed after her pack of cheerleaders like a panting dog, always on the outskirts, hating the bile of my fakeness and mock shallowness. I was an extra in a huge overly-theatrical play I knew nothing about. I stopped in the midst of that circle, too, one night. They never noticed and they proceeded on, without looking back. I don’t think I ever looked back myself.

The summer after graduation, the circle of the Loop sucked me in. I once enjoyed it, until it became too frequently done (every night for hours on end). That was the first summer of discontent with my friends. After senior week we drifted and that soured the thrill of the Loop. It became too obnoxious and fake for me. This time, I didn’t stop alone. I had Heather by my side, and we broke the circle together.

Freshman year began with an attempt to fall into the circle of party-hopping on the Hill. The neighbourhood itself formed one huge circle, but its content was the real circular trap. I loathed those parties, and I never belonged for a second. My pathetic attempts at forgetting that sad fact were yanked away from me that night everyone ran off without me when I stopped to talk to J. for a second. His sarcastic laughter at my plight slapped me in the face. He showed no mercy because he KNEW I didn’t belong with them…he knew I was better than them, and my following them was an incredible waste. That slap woke me up fast.

The pub scene in England bothered me, but it wasn’t a circle. It lost its fun factor when it became so boringly routine—the same pub every night with the same people. At least I was wanted there. It didn’t take me long to slip away and do my own thing. Does this experience count?

I’m too old and too wise now to fall into the circle of State Street, to strive exhaustedly to belong where I don’t belong. If I try to follow along and become a wild partying, beer-drinking, chain-smoking, pot-inhaling, TLC-listening member of the Strip, I’ll totally lose my sense of self. They don’t expect me to, just like the groups in the past, but I almost have to; otherwise, I’ll be the 5th wheel, the extra piece of the puzzle. I won’t connect. Therefore, I’m losing them. But I’d rather lose them than myself and my self-respect.

9 October 1995

Another appropriate quote—“…it’s taken me all this time to find out what I need.” It has taken me all this time to find out what I need…what do I need? I need to make peace with that angry stranger inside of me, and calm her rage. I need to make peace with my Voice so that she will be free, and therefore I will be free. I need to find general peace within myself, as was as find my heart. I need England. I need strength. I need to not feel inferior in my friends’ eyes. I need to reclaim myself.

2 November 1995

A return to this month of brownness. All around me are dying leaves, although a few retain their butter-coloured glare. They hang on fiercely beneath these chalky skies, and I admire them for that. The days are relatively cool, but I have been so hot lately. I realized that the heat is coming from within me. I feel it rolling in tired waves within me, breaking against my skin. It is a fever stirring restlessly…perhaps it will melt my coldness, or at least thaw it a bit. A logical explanation is that it is my Zoloft that is making me so hot … A more distinct explanation would be that I am finally starting to burst out of the cocoon I am in, and my Voice is struggling out of the little black box in which it is trapped. That is the fever, this metamorphosis. I am becoming alive, I am becoming strong. I am taking control over these friends of mine who are hurting me over and over again. I have this urge to take a walk down the railroad tracks, which I haven’t found time to do yet. With every pounding footfall I will thrust this self-hatred and alienation right out of me. I will come full circle to that terrible night in April when I ran down the tracks and banged my head beneath the bridge, weeping in utter desertion. Shall I bang my head again, slash my wrists, and cry and cry? God, how I long for that release. My mantra can be “let go” or “there is a light,” as I shake and sob beneath that high, damp bridge. As with the first time, it will be an act of re-claiming myself.

undated entry from 1996

Not knowing where to go or who to turn to when the love corrodes and I am alone on a Friday night, beneath the glaring kitchen lights with a fresh wound on my wrist. The poison leaving a guilty tang in my throat, a burning in my stomach. I am so unprepared for the darkness, when it strikes I must purge it immediately. My wrist is crying again. Sacred blood tainted by being smeared on an ordinary paper towel, then shoved in the pocket of my jacket, forgotten. Oh god, this wanting to talk to someone. No one I need is home. Cheeks blotchy, eyes the color of pink fire. A cold glass of milk to wash away the secret powder I have pulled into me to kill the monster without killing me. Despising myself because I can’t let go of what must be released, because I can’t stop blaming myself, can’t stop believing that I will be nothing without this love. All this hatred. A weakness snakes through my arms. The poison swims through me and perhaps now I am too weak to hold on to this love so stubbornly, though it is now a shell of weightlessness, and should not strain my grasp as much as it does. The burning eyes, the dull pangs of headache, the inability to choke back the sobs that grow and break like tumors, splashing the malignancy of all this hollowness into every corner of my insides. Am I dying? Foolish girl who died so long ago and refuses to understand that she is dead. Already I have died—there is no more to lose. My whole body is burning and yet I am cold. Fear is a fire, darkness is a fire, my love is a fire and it has reduced me to ashes. Kill this beast that consumes my ashes. I am nothing, jesus, I am nothing but emptiness and loneliness and fear and scars and the death that will not die. Wish I could cut more. Only a little blood escapes to avoid contamination, and it feels blessed to be saved from that. I am polluted, I am wrong, there is something so terribly wrong inside me, something crawling, something malignant. Darkness that feeds on me. Exhaustion. I want to go away.

17 March 1996

On Friday Kara was chanting, “I know somebody who wants to kiss you!” and I wrangled it out of her. Apparently a bisexual girl on my floor, Nicole, thinks I’m beautiful and interesting and deep, and she’d like something to happen between us, but she won’t try it, because we both have boyfriends. I was really surprised…I don’t know what surprised me more—finding out that she likes me, or finding out that she and Kara think I’m “beautiful.” I still can’t see myself as even moderately okay-looking. I got a chance to meet her later, when she and Kara popped around, while Terry was here. … She seems interesting herself, but I guess she does more drugs than Kara, and that prospect doesn’t thrill me. She’s not the first person to deem me deep and enigmatic without actually knowing me. How can strangers decide such a thing? Is it because of how I dress, or is there honestly some mysterious, intelligent air around me? I wish I could see it. Sometimes I feel so damn shallow and stupid.

17 June 1996

I had another breakdown this afternoon. I can’t help it…things just seem to keep slipping away from me. I’m so afraid I’m losing control of everything. It’s so tempting to grab a razor and slash my wrists to regain some of that control, but I promised myself that I wouldn’t do it for awhile. I thought about ingesting some poison, or taking Inderol, or crashing on a lot of sleeping pills, etc., tonight. So far I haven’t done anything. I thought about killing myself. Instead I’m sitting at the kitchen table, wearily listening to my Amadeus soundtrack discs and the gentle patter of the rain outside.

I was having a breakdown because I’m so depressed about my life right now, and about my increasingly bleak future. Such things could probably be handled if I had the strength of friends to guide me through, to support me and hold me and cheer me up. I don’t think I’m asking for too much when I say that. I feel so alone, so unbelievably alone. And coupled with the stress of not being able to find a job, as well as the fear that I won’t be able to find a job in England, either, I’m overwhelmed.

15 August 1996

The story of my fucking life!!! I swear to goddess, I don’t know what the hell is keeping me afloat anymore. For 8 years I drowned in a nearly-constant depression even when life was okay. So with the way things are now, I should be dead. And buried. Or at least in Philhaven, unable to hold on to sanity any longer. I can’t get a job, everything that could possibly keep me from England is happening, and I can’t keep any friends! I am a disgusting repellent thing incapable of getting any friends! I mean, the only friends I have left are those that are hundreds or thousands of miles away and don’t have to deal with me. I can’t even get Laura or Joel to return my calls! Now Jorge is joining the bandwagon. Oh Christ…I just want to feel liked. I just want to feel liked. I don’t want this loneliness anymore. I want to feel…okay. I want miracles, I guess. I want a boyfriend who isn’t disgusted by me. I want to stop writing this before I start bawling and free-falling down into that ravine again.

10 September 1996

This is it, this is permanence. This is also the official onslaught of my wretched adulthood: living on my own, juggling rent and bills, managing my life without running to Mom every time things get overwhelming, working at a “real job” without periods of rest like I have when temping, paying off college loans, etc. Studying abroad was difficult because of culture shock, not knowing anybody, and all of the firsts I experienced. Nevertheless, it was still safe.

… On top of that, a new terror lies waiting. I’m so afraid that things aren’t going to work out—either because I won’t find a job or because I won’t be able to handle things emotionally or financially. I’m afraid that I’ll just end up fighting with and falling away from all my friends there, like I did here, and I’ll wind up all alone. I so desperately want this to be a new beginning for me, one that’s positive and not negative like my last new beginning, and I’m also afraid that this move won’t save me or change me or chase away my demons for even a little bit.

I’m afraid that I’m going to fail at the one thing I have ever truly wanted. I’ve already failed as a writer and a girlfriend; how can I stand failing at this, too?

18 September 1996

Christ, no wonder I’ve been feeling such overwhelming disassociative numbness lately. I don’t feel much anymore, and I can’t even tell you the last time I cried. Why should I feel anything? I’m invisible, after all. At least that’s what they’ve been trying to tell me this past year. I don’t matter, I don’t exist. Jen has no feelings, no personality, no substance. She is a shadow on our fringe, and eventually night will come and she’ll bleed away into the other shadows and we won’t have to waste all this energy pretending she isn’t there anymore. Ignore her and she will go away. What did it take to make me go away? More than night, I can tell you that. In a few of my poems, I wrote lines about my being air, and it never seemed more true than now, when all I am anymore is air, cool emptiness, devoid of everything but still felt by others, even though I am invisible. I am so alien to myself now. Okay, so I emerged from my “season in hell” (four seasons in hell, actually, but who’s counting), and now it’s autumn again, time for the bountiful harvest, the reaping of that which my darkness has sown, and I was expecting…I don’t know, color, damnit…big orange pumpkins and dazzling foliage and…rebirth. Stupid me, I forgot that spring is the season of rebirth; autumn is the harbinger of winter’s stoic futility and barrenness. Instead of rebirth I got redeath.

3 October 1996

I’m scared that I’m making a mistake, but I know that I can’t change my mind and stay behind. I’d never forgive myself. I have to give this encompassing dream of mine a shot. If I stay here, I’ll continue to not have a life. I’ll continue to be scarred by The Group. I won’t grow, mature, let go, begin to find myself. I have to be away to do all that. Leaving the safety and comfort of home is a sacrifice I have to make to give this dream of mine a shot. No one is forcing me to go. If this isn’t truly what I want, I could just stay here, and know that home is the right choice for me after all, and be satisfied with that choice. If I go and it’s not as wonderful an experience as I hope it will be, I can always come home again. Was it Thomas Wolfe who said “You can’t go home again”? I think that you can’t go home and reclaim yourself, and your life, as it used to be. I found that out when I returned from England. On the surface, things were the same, but far below. They had changed. So I guess you can go home again, but it will never be the same home; something will be different, missing: the old self that you left behind in the dust, only half-dead and not deeply buried, but too weak to rise up and reclaim you. Your distance and separation from home have taken you too far from that self to let it resume its control of you. I’m longing for that separation, because the self that I am now is not a good self. She’s not bad, either, but she’s too worn out, too unhealthy, too mad with emotional grief to benefit me. She’ll kill me. “I should have murdered this, that murders me.” I shall murder her by leaving her behind, by seeking a new self thousands of miles away. And if she follows me, I’ll have to gently, yet forcibly, pusher her away. “Go home, you are not needed here anymore.” But, if “everything that has been shall be again,” then will she find me in the future? Will she control me again one day? Will she just haunt me, so a new self can never take root? Or will the Voice of the Furious Girl kill her once and for all, preventing her from re-assuming any of her old power? I guess we will see…

26 October 1996

Maybe I should simply blame myself for allowing them to affect me as deeply as they did. I didn’t have to let all of this ensuing pain and confusion happen. I could have ripped them off of me like a band-aid ripped off of a wound quickly. There is a quick sting of pain, and then it’s over. Instead I chose to hang onto them stubbornly, so it was like a long, slow ripping of the band-aid, which stretched the pain on and on, and left a throbbing after-ache. Fine, blame them for being shitty, immature, hurtful people, but blame myself more for letting them get to me in such an all-consuming way, rather than shoving them aside with a disgusted shake of my head and a smile of freedom.

I hope I’m not as terrible a person as I make myself out to be in this entry. Maybe before this year happened, I was sometimes self-centered, immature, and annoying (well, I know that’s true), but then after this year, all those things were heightened, plus I became neurotic, timid, confused, plus I became even more cold, conniving, and backstabbing as a reaction to their being cold, conniving, and backstabbing. I became them. Or I was so tired of being hurt, I shut off my heart, stomped out any desire to be nice, caring, and faithful. After all, being those things (even though I wasn’t ever 100% nice, caring, and faithful!) didn’t get me anywhere before; in fact, they made me feel even more humiliated …

12 November 1996

And why do I want this so much? I’ve pondered this for years. Why England? Why London? I’ve always basically said that there is no good reason for this goal of mine; it just IS. Some of the best things in life don’t make any real sense. They can’t be explained or rationalized or analyzed. Perhaps my desire to go to England falls into that category. I’ve also speculated that I want to go to England because some psychically intuitive side of my unconscious knows that I will find whatever it is that I am looking for. I will find closure to these gaps in my soul, and completion of my Self. I will find that ever-elusive inner Voice of mine.

29 April 1997

Me and my dull life. But I’m hanging on by a thread. I wasn’t lying when I told Terry, a long while ago, that I’m walking a very thin thread over a very deep, dark abyss. If I think about my employment situation and my medical insurance situation and my England situation, a profound sense of horror ensnares me—it is something I simply cannot face. So I don’t think about anything at all. I can practically picture my mind as an extremely deep trench and my thoughts as barnacles floating on its surface. I can actually feel my thoughts deliberately stopping at a shallow level, as if there is a wall between that level and the depths beyond. I mean, I can see that wall in front of me, preventing me from going any further, preventing me from thinking anything other than trivial, insipid thoughts. I’m suppressing the horror. Because if I don’t, I will plunge into a depression so endless, so ghastly… It’s been so long since I’ve been in the darkness that deep. I don’t want to go back there. I can’t go back there. I’m afraid, though, that in the process of my willful suppression, I’m losing my ability to be strong and independent. I’m so afraid of everything. I’m becoming so helpless. I feel sick at the thought of making simple phone calls to strangers, whether it is to inquire about something or to sell an ad for work. I make Mom do everything for me. Everything overwhelms me. If she asks me to do more than one task at a time, I feel the stress of it all oozing through my pores. It’s crazy—I’m as helpless as a fucking child. I can’t think about mundane aspects of daily living, possibly because I won’t let myself think about more important, deeper things, such as my terrifying problems. How do I expect to ever move away from home and get a real job if I can’t even manage my life as it is now? I think the only reason Zoloft is helping to keep me afloat these days because I enable it to do so. By not thinking about my problems, I make them, and the depression the cause, disappear (sort of) and therefore my Zoloft has a lot less work to do. I’m making it easier for my medicine to take away the shadows of my constant, years’ long depression. Oh god, I can’t even think about this here.

3 October 1997

The emptiness remains. I continue to think of cutting myself, although the thought does not consume me. It rises like a vapor, then disappears. Or hides, temporarily. I hate the grayness almost as much as I hate the black. It has been a long time since I’ve been in the black. I can almost forget its sour taste in my mouth, the ache it creates in my stomach as my muscles clench and my nerves jangle off the hook. St. Zoloft, you keep the horror at bay, but aren’t you growing weary yet? Why do you even bother to fight for me anymore? Because it is your reason for existence? Are you giving up on me now? Is that why a mist as thick as split-pea soup is swirling around my ankles? I look down into it nervously and I believe I see monsters scurrying by, like in the story “The Mist.” Monsters whose mere sight could drive me insane.

14 November 1997

My main concern these days is how I’m going to handle moving [to the DC area]. It means navigating terrifying waters while learning how to swim. My flailing dredges up unexpected monsters who live in darkness beneath the water. I need to remind myself that I’m not being forced to do this—I don’t have to do this. It’s not like when I was “forced” to repeatedly return to the scary, depressing arms of [college]. My moving is purely a choice and I can back out if I want. Yet, if I stay here, I’ll continue to wither, so there’s really not much of a choice in the end. I must go. I’m standing on a pier, facing those “terrifying waters” with the comfort of home behind me. It is familiar, it is safe, but the sun is blazing and there’s no water to drink and I know that if I turn away from the water and return to land, I’ll slowly waste away. If I dive into the water, I might drown. It seems like a no-win situation. But the water offers a better chance—I might find myself floating, not drowning; I might even find myself swimming. I won’t find myself doing anything, though, if I remain on land.

I suppose I can comfort myself by establishing small rituals and having my stuff around me, so that I feel like I’m home, and by making myself familiar with places (learning the metro, studying a map of Arlington, marking my territory). Go places. Keep busy.

I am afraid.

Yes, okay, so say those words. Say them over and over until they become your litany of sorrow, your mantra of hope. Say them until they stop making sense, until they sound like you’re babbling in a foreign tongue. I am afraid I am afraid I am afraid I am afraid. And know that it is okay to be afraid. You would, in fact, be strange if you weren’t afraid. Know that being afraid doesn’t give you a license for cowardice or failure. You’re strong enough to fight this fear, and you won’t regret doing so.

As I have in my quote book: You might be disappointed if you fail, but you’re doomed if you don’t try.” Amen

25 May 1998

During dinner I burst out, “What do normal people talk about at dinner parties?!” and no one knew! We attempted “normal” conversation for five minutes, and we failed miserably. But I love it. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

25 August 1998

I shouldn’t blame my Serzone for as much as I do. It (and its predecessor Zoloft) gave me back my life. I am a bitch for clinging to it like a lover, then turning around and stabbing it in the back. I just can’t help but wonder sometimes, at what price did it give me back my life? Are the disintegrating memory, concentration, creativity, and passion worth the absence of depression? The paradox is that it gave me back my life, but in the process stole a small part of my life—the part that gave the voice I hear in my old journal entries.

But I really am crazy if I think it is acceptable for me to stop my Serzone in order to reclaim some of the positive things it stole from me. Ironically, while it is the re-reading of old journal entries that makes me question the validity of Serzone, it is also in the re-reading of those entries that I become aware of what horror the medicine smothered for me. Reading those entries last night made me realize just how far I have come, and just how terrible that darkness was in which I drowned. If I stopped taking my meds, my decision would effect not only my life (my ability to do my job, remain independent, and get involved in another relationship, should one come my way), but it would affect my future and, more importantly, it would effect everyone around me. Kristen. My parents. My friends. Besides, what good would a renewed clarity in my thinking do if I can’t drag my thoughts out of their depressive mire? Not only that, my medicine also gives me happiness, to a certain degree. I was so miserable before I started taking it. That’s the bottom line. I can’t subject myself to that ceaseless dysthymia and those sudden, crashing black spells. I can’t forget all those times I managed to keep my head above water, only to find the steel-tipped boot of depression kicking me violently in the back, knocking the wind out of me and sending me back down. The decision makes itself. I need no part in it.

But it sucks. I’m a relatively healthy 24 year old and I know that I will have to be on medicine for the rest of my life. I know that I am at the mercy of the chemicals in my brain. Other people have normal amounts of serotonin in their brains and I can’t have what they take for granted. It makes me angry. It also makes me angry that I didn’t take medicine all those years that I suffered. I was scared to take it. But it could have changed my life drastically! When I think of all the hours I wasted crying, hating, obsessing! I can’t do anything about it now, though. All I can do is accept the fact that it happened and know that it might have happened for a reason. At the very least, there’s a lesson to be learned from my years of mental anguish. I’m more empathetic to the mentally ill. I was humbled by this force greater than myself racking my brain. I wrote some semi-decent stuff. I became stronger. I got to know myself better …

14 September 1998

At 9500 feet, the door opened and that’s when my stomach dropped and fear finally hit me. The wind was roaring outside and the landscape was swirling below and the knowledge hit me that I had to leap out into that unknown space as soon as we hit 10,000 feet. Kristen and her instructor jumped first. Then Mike (who was attached to my back so tightly, skydiving experts call the position “nuts to butts”) and I scooted over to the door and I had to step out of the plane, resting my feet on this little step outside, while Mike stayed in the plane. The wind was blowing my feet everywhere and Mike had to yell at me to keep them in place. We were warned beforehand that if your feet slip under that step, they will “snap off” (our teacher’s words exactly). I barely had time to get my feet on that step before Mike was pushing us out. I don’t know if he yelled anything as a preparation or not. I remember screaming, and I remember the sky and landscape below whipping about madly, and then we were sailing downward. The funny thing is that I totally forgot to assume the proper position when we first jumped, so I basically forced us into a wild tailspin that lasted for 2000 feet!! Mike told me that later, and I couldn’t believe it. I only remember flipping once, yet the reality is that we flipped over and over and over for 2000 feet! I think it freaked him out, because it was such a loss of control! Because of this, we lost altitude quickly, and before I knew it, it was time to pull the ripcord. That happens between 5500 and 5000 feet. Like I said before, there are several things you’re supposed to do when you first jump and when you prepare to pull the ripcord, and I forgot to do all of them. I guess the only thing that really matters, though, is that you pull the ripcord at the right altitude and don’t lose it afterward, and I did all of that right. He yelled at me to pull, and I did, and we were jerked violently as the parachute opened. The harness goes beneath your legs, so bear in mind that this was one hell of a painful jerk! It was a breathtaking, beautiful sight as we drifted downward. It was so quiet—we could talk normally to one another. He even explained to me what I had done wrong to cause us to spin as we floated down. He didn’t say anything about me leaving out all of the other little steps I missed. We were in central, rural Virginia, so below us I saw only trees, fields, country roads, a huge lake and the little airport we took off from. I think I had my legs in the wrong position as we descended, though. I had to stick my hands into two large loop things which would allow me to steer the parachute. I had trouble doing it initially (I think I wasn’t clearly understanding what he was asking me to do; I was too busy gaping at the scenery), but then things were going okay. Luckily Mike helped me steer. We even did a 360° turn, which was pretty fun. As we prepared to land, there were three steps that had to be taken, and I screwed one of them up briefly, and then sorted things out (I believe he said “arms up” and I put my legs up instead). The only problem is that my legs didn’t stay in the right position, and so instead of landing gently on our knees, we crashed to the ground, with him on top of me. Neither of us was hurt. As you can see, managing my legs was my major problem throughout this adventure! I think it’s understandable that I forgot what to do. I didn’t have a lot of training, and it was overwhelming to be flying out of a plane at 10,000 feet. The things we were supposed to do in the air had to be done quickly and efficiently, and who can remember that when plummeting to the earth at god-knows-what-speed?

6 October 1998

Right now I feel as if that old beast depression (Why didn’t I ever give it a name? Other than the Shadowman, I mean. Why didn’t I ever name it something like Walter or Mary or Charles?) and Fate (or Bad Luck) jumped into my path as I was walking down the street, minding my own business, and they are hassling me and taunting me. They laugh at me, spit on me, call me names, refuse to let me proceed. Will they tire of this and go away? Or will they descend upon me, beating the crap out of me? It’s the not knowing that burns. I can’t do much more than wait, and attempt to be calm about things.

1 May 2000

Would I want to know the truth? Again, not really. Repression is the mind’s way of protecting you, and I partially want to stay protected like that. I know myself, and I know the way my mind can dwell on things, obsessing over them until I am an exhausted, shattered wreck. Do you honestly think that I could have such terrible memories and then be able to move on with my life? Do you think my mind wouldn’t collapse in on itself after rehashing the memories over and over again? There’d be no easy escape once that door was opened. There would be no shutting off that valve once it is initially loosened from its rusty locked position. So why would I not want to stay ignorant? Isn’t ignorance bliss? Not always—that’s the problem. Ignorance isn’t bliss when you’re ignoring signs that you’re suffering from a serious disease that could be fatal. It isn’t bliss when the repressed truths start spraying through your concrete cracks like weeds, infecting you until you are only living a shadowy half-life. After all, repressed doesn’t equal non-existent. If something is repressed, it doesn’t cease to exist within you. It is lying dormant in your consciousness, but remains very much alive in your subconscious. If affects everything about you, whether you realize it or not. If I learned that something did, indeed, happen to me, it would explain all my issues … And if that’s the case, wouldn’t it be better for me to confront the subconscious disease and start battling my way through it, so all the issues will go away?

But the thing is, I’m acting as though I have a choice in the matter, and I don’t. How can I have a choice with something that is subconscious? If it wants to stay hidden, it will stay hidden no matter what I do to coax it out, and if it wants to come out, nothing on earth that I do will keep it buried, short of developing a swift addiction to drugs and alcohol, or forcing myself into some kind of disassociative breakdown. The closest thing to a choice I have is me saying, Okay, I’m ready to face the dark monster, and thus opening myself up to the potential experience. Perhaps when I’m receptive enough, that’s when the knowledge will come. Like if I made myself truly receptive to learn about my past life experiences, there’s a good chance memories and dreams will start appearing that will show me the way. But do I want to make myself receptive to the truth via dreams or flashbacks?

I don’t want to think about this right now!!

10 April 2001

Am I depressed? I know how utterly ridiculous that sounds…for the past few days, I have been saying over and over how depressed I feel and how much I feel like crying. I don’t mean now per se. It’s pretty obvious that I’m wrangling my way through some level of depression right now. I mean in general. I am becoming increasingly…I don’t know, I just seem to be increasingly overwhelmed by little things and increasingly desirous of being left alone. I put off doing everything—dishes, cleaning, grocery shopping, responding to emails. I rarely call anybody anymore just to talk. When I’m not working on weekends, I just want to stay in my apartment and not see anyone or go anywhere. But the strange thing is this: I don’t feel depressed. I mean, yes, lately I have been feeling depressed. Before this began, though, I didn’t feel particularly depressed. I joked around with my coworkers, chatting with them all day long. I sang along with CDs on my way to work, when not thinking about silly memories and grinning. I danced around my kitchen with Plath and Shoah, playing games with them, talking to them in silly voices. I looked forward to things: the shore on my birthday, the Annual Meeting in San Antonio, Massachusetts for Christmas.

Basically, it all conflicts with my experiences with depression. All those years spent fighting with it—I never doubted for a second that I was seriously depressed. Even in good times, I could see the darkness encroaching. Am I now dealing with a brand new side of depression? Am I now one of those people who experiences depression via frustratingly indirect means, such as appetite changes, sleep pattern changes, inexplicable exhaustion, faltering memory? Is it inside of me again? If so, how can I fight it when I can’t really see it? Well, it has always been inside of me. I knew all along that my meds were only tranquilizing the monster, not killing him. I knew that he would wake up at any time. But if he really is reawakening right now, why does he look and feel so differently?

Or am I just re-descending into that same old land, and because it has been a couple years since I have been there, I simply don’t recognize it anymore? ... Maybe I am back in the same suburb of Hell in which I spent so many years, but it has changed so much since I’ve been gone, I simply don’t recognize it anymore. Or maybe it hasn’t exactly changed…maybe it has just receded from my memory due to the distance between us, and that’s why I’m not recognizing it. It seems rather illogical—after all, it hasn’t been that long since I was in the trenches—but I guess it’s possible that I tried to forget as much about depression as I could, and in doing so, rendered myself unable to recognize it when it came face-to-face with me again.

At the back of my mind has always been this terror that I would slip again, and I would not only have to face the monster again, I would also have to face something worse. Basically, I have feared that I will have a full-fledged nervous breakdown in my lifetime. Either a depressive breakdown (like the one experienced by Martha Manning, whose depression—despite not being directly suicidal—was so severe, she had to be hospitalized and receive several ECT treatments) or a breakdown far more insidious. As if I’ll walk up one morning and suddenly find myself seeing or hearing things that others are not seeing/hearing…

26 January 2001

I have spent the bulk of this afternoon completely engrossed in reading the online journal of some 22-year-old girl. At first I was rolling my eyes and thinking that her entries were obnoxious, because she was saying how much she envied the Columbine killers and victims, and I thought she was some bratty Marilyn Manson-listening pseudo-angst-ridden teen. But as I read back to some of her high school and college entries, I found that we had a lot in common. Severe depression, fears of insanity, self-injury, thoughts that are way too deep and analytical for a teenager, etc. And it just stunned me because it made me realize how far I’ve come. I feel like a completely different person from who I was at 16, or 19, or 21. I know that’s par for the course…something would be seriously wrong with me if I had the same mentality at 26 as I did five or 10 years ago. But…I don’t know. I guess I only expected my maturity level to change, as well as my goals and aspirations. Not my personality. And that’s the impression I’m getting from reading this girl’s journal. I feel like I am a different person. It’s not just that I don’t write half as much as I used to and I don’t cry as much and don’t create as much. It’s more than that…more than my outlook and my mental state. It’s everything: it’s my thought processes, it’s the way my heart feels, it’s everything. And I’m not quite sure if that’s a good thing or not. I feel like I need to reclaim fragments of that Other Me. Subconsciously, I have known this for a while. That’s why I’m growing my hair out. Sometime after my last haircut, on Christmas Eve, 1999, I subconsciously made the decision to not cut it again. Over a year later, I am finally going home for a trim, but that’s all it is—a trim that will remove the split ends. I am keeping my hair long. I will continue to grow it for who knows how long. I rationalized that I am doing so because I just need a change. My hair has been fluctuating among varying degrees of shortness since…when? Spring 1997? I wanted a change. I wanted to be able to wear a ponytail and bun again. I wanted to say, “Hey, I’m officially in my late 20s, but I’m still young and cool enough to wear long hair.” Never mind that my hair is far more manageable when it is short, and far more professional and adult-looking. Somewhere along the line, I began to realize that I was growing my hair long for another reason—a desire to reconnect with my old me. Long hair reminds me of England and senior year. England, despite its shortcomings (obsessing over Terry, homesickness, not enough cash, Bitch O’Grady) is a positive connotation to make in my head. But senior year was a mess. Part of me wants to be able to grow my hair out to the length it was during senior year and immediately after, when my life sucked and emotionally I was a shattered wreck, so I can see that it is possible to have long hair and a good life. Then I will be able to associate long hair with my life as it is now, not as it was when I was 21-22. Crazy, I guess. I’m just trying to say that in a lot of ways, I’m trying to reconnect with who I used to be, so I can try to leech out of her spirit some of her dark creativity, her complexity, her desire to write, her guardedness, her desire to absorb the meaning of every little thing in life. I am in such a fog now, and she was so aware…and that makes me jealous. To paraphrase my one poem, I am covered in a protective membrane now, while she was all sharp edges and hooks. I want to feel those hooks again. Is it possible to reclaim those things without also inheriting the crushing weight of her depression? Can I have my cake and eat it, too? I pride myself on being in touch with both my dark and light sides, but let’s face it, I’m considerably more in touch with my light side than my dark side these days. And the dark side I am in touch with isn’t the same dark side I knew 5 years ago. Maybe a part of me is craving a return to that dark side. I don’t know why that would be. It’s like playing Russian roulette. I can’t have that dark side without the depression, the self-injury, the suicidal urges, the high-strung worrying/panicking/obsessing, the screeching emotions, the bawling, the helplessness, the desire to hurt people I love. Yet I am still licking my chops and craving that old dark side, even at the risk of regaining all those terrible things.

13 July 2004

On Saturday I actually engaged in a social activity. Because I’m an old lady (and a hermit to boot), I prepared for an actual night on the town by sleeping 11 hours the night before, drinking a huge mug of coffee when I woke up, and then taking a four-hour nap in the afternoon. All that—just so I’d be able to stay awake at the Black Cat! Andrea … and I met at 10pm and at first it seemed like everybody there was a 22-year-old hipster. I felt really out of place and really unstylish, despite my platform sandals and hipster glasses. I don’t think I look old, but I still hoped that nobody would call me Granny. But then the place got jammed and I did see people who looked older than me, and non-hipsters showed up, making me feel better. From 10:30 until 2 we danced nonstop, minus a quick jaunt to the bathroom and a quick run to the bar for ice water. It was Britpop night, but their definition of Britpop is pretty screwed up, because they played REM, Blondie, and loads of bands I didn’t recognize, but who didn’t sound British at all. However, they did play some songs from The Cure and The Smiths, so I was satisfied.

27 September 2004

This duck tour ruled. I mean, it’s a cool experience to begin with, but upping the ante is the fact that our driver was this awesome queen named Captain Jim, who wore a personalized hat and a belt covered in macaws and toucans. Since Missy and I were on this tour, you know some cool shit happened. Like, when we were sitting in the duck outside Union Station, waiting for the tour to begin, a bunch of preppy jocks walked by us (they looked like the ordinary and bland Abercrombie & Fitch-clad folks you’d see on [my previous college] campus) and all of a sudden one of them yelled, “WHAT WILL YOU DO ON JUDGEMENT DAY?!” We cracked up. Oh, and when he was beginning the tour, Captain Jim exclaimed, “It’s a beautiful day to die!” Other highlights:

• when we passed a copy on a beautiful gray horse, Captain Jim called out, “Prance, horse, PRANCE!”
• when we passed the Christopher Columbus statue in front of Union Station, Capt. Jim said something like, “He came to America with three boats: the Nina, the Pinta, and the ‘Thatsa my boata!’” He did this in an exaggerated Italian accent.
• Missy and I (who were sitting together) heard a strange noise as we were approaching the WWII memorial. “What was that?” she gasped. “I think someone just threw a beverage at us!” I cried. We couldn’t stop laughing, which was unfortunate, because veterans were standing at the memorial and it was all very somber, and we didn’t want them to think we were laughing at them.
• the middle-aged people sitting behind us were talking dirty the whole time. I didn’t hear anything, but Charlie (who was sitting behind me) heard everything. He said they were talking about “wet boxes” and other sleazy euphemisms.
• when Captain Jim talked about the British burning down DC during the War of 1812, one of those middle-agers hissed, “Bastards!” Later, when Capt. Jim was asking us if we knew all the US territories, one of the middle-agers muttered “Iraq,” which was pretty funny.
• when we were out on the Potomac, right by National Airport, Capt. Jim was obsessed with the airplanes landing right by us and kept yelling, “Big duck! Here’s another big duck! He’s got his lights on for us!” I was so confused at first, because I thought he was talking about the other DC Duck boats, and yet I couldn’t see anything. We had to sit there on the water, watching endless planes go by.
• when our tour went by the Capitol, Charlie asked if it was the White House. I was like, “Even Richard knew that this is the Capitol, and he’s British!”

24 January 2005

Things were cool for a while but then a bunch of angry chicks began hitting and rattling the fence and demanding to be let through to the parade route. This—and the flag-burning—was rather appalling, because we just wanted it to be a peaceful protest, and zealots were making us look like a pack of crazy, rabid animals. They were giving the rest of us a bad name. Eventually some people managed to break down a section of the fence. Missy and I looked at each other, yelled “SHIT!!”, and immediately started rushing away from the fence. We didn’t want to be crushed (in case a mob formed and tried to rush the fence), and we didn’t want to be arrested or shot by snipers. We weren’t there to cause trouble or break any laws, after all. We stood against the front of the Willard, several feet away from the craziness at the fence. We didn’t want to flee too far, because we wanted to watch the action, but we also wanted to keep a safe distance between us and the mob. Soon the riot police appeared and, as they attempted to rehook the fallen section of the fence, they began spraying something at the crowd. It looked like water coming from a hose. “Is that water?” I asked Missy and Kelley. Since they could smell it, they exclaimed, “Oh god, no, it’s tear gas!” We hurriedly whipped around so we were facing the Willard, and we pulled up our scarves and covered our faces. Lots of people really got nailed and their friends had to pour bottled water into their burning eyes. They were coughing and one guy was lying motionless on the ground. Two really nice guys from Boston—who, like us, had been complaining about the barbarity of some of the protestors—stood between us and the police and shielded us as best they could from the tear gas. We were coughing a lot and my throat was burning and I felt nauseous.

Another section of the fence a bit farther down the street was knocked over and some of the protestors were hurling things (ice, maybe?) at the riot police. So more tear-gassing ensued, and even though they weren’t really close to it, we got hit by it. Thankfully our eyes weren’t hit or anything; we just had more throat-burning and coughing. At this point some of the anarchist protestors were burning the coffins that were carried during our march. The air was filled with ashes (it honestly looked like snow!) and acrid smoke, on top of the tear gas and pepper spray coming again and again from the cops. At this point we met a cool guy from Montana who chatted with us, and we just kind of hung out with our scarves over our faces, watching the chaos.

15 February 2005

I’m not quite sure what I want. Part of me wants to maintain my life of celibacy and solitude, because the alternative (dating, love, romance) is way too complicated and it really terrifies me. Like, to a pathological degree. But another part of me wants to break out of that self-cloistered life. I see healthy, thriving relationships, and I think, “Wow, I’d love to experience that. I’m cool with being on my own when that’s the way things have to be, but ultimately, I want a partnership.” I’d never want to surrender all my solitude, because it’s way too important to me, but there are times when I’m game for a life containing both solitude and companionship. Yet I’m paralyzed with fear whenever I think about taking steps in that direction—like going out on dates and responding to personal ads. I just wonder why this has to be so difficult for me. Normal people start dating in their teens and they never stop. Maybe serial dating/marrying isn’t the healthiest ting in the world, but I still watch them in wonder. How do they do it? How do they get that many people to want them? How do they go from relationship to relationship without fear or damage? It’s inconceivable to me. Even people who only occasionally date seem comfortable with the process of getting to know someone and surviving heartbreak. Why is it such an issue for me? Why is there such terror and trepidation involved?

But I’m still young, and if I do manage to achieve and sustain a relationship, I’d like it to happen now. I lament my squandered twenties. Those years were fulfilling in their own way, I guess, but I really should’ve spent them sowing wild oats and dating people casually, because that’s what you’re supposed to do when you’re in your twenties, right? And I look at some of the qualities I dig in guys—the dark, witty, snarky, pop-culturey things; the geek-chic glasses; the indie vibe—and I have trouble seeing those qualities in older people, so I fear that if I don’t date someone like that now, I’ll lose my chance, because the older I get, the lower my chances of snaring someone with those qualities. It’s stupid! What, all guys toss their Converse and geeky glasses in a big bonfire when they hit 40? They suddenly stop laughing at The Onion and start watching Diagnosis Murder reruns? I doubt it. And I must remind myself that the truly important qualities in a man—gentleness, romanticism, loyalty, kindness—don’t fade when he gets older.

19 June 2005

I’ve seen a lot of extraordinary things on this trip, and I’ve enjoyed myself immensely many, many times, but I can honestly say that today was—hands down—the best day of the trip.
I am so in love with Iceland’s countryside!!! Well, no surprises there, really. I knew I’d swoon over the place. I just didn’t know I’d swoon this hard. The little corner of the countryside that I saw today was the most beautiful landscape I’ve ever seen. And I say that as someone who has been to the top of Mt. Pilatus in the Swiss Alps and the heart of the achingly gorgeous Scottish Highlands. The Golden Circle’s beauty was so sharp, so luminous, it broke my heart. It was painfully beautiful.

20 June 2005

I’m going home. I’m really honest-to-christ going home (although the plane hasn’t even taken off yet). On one hand, this vacation flew by, as all vacations do. On the other hand, a lifetime has passed since I last sat in Beltway gridlock, hunkered down for 7 hours in my cubicle, paid bills, did laundry, petted my cats. It’s so hard to comprehend the fact that all those things will rush toward me again, full throttle, in less than 24 hours.

It stings to know that I probably won’t darken Europe’s doorstep again for at least two years, if not longer. And I may never see Finland, Estonia, Russia, and Iceland again, no matter how badly I’d like to. But I’m also glad to be going home. Not glad to resume house-hunting, freelancing, laundry, commuting, and bill-paying, but glad to see my cats, family, and friends again. Glad to sleep in my own luscious bed again. Glad to sort through my souvenirs. Glad to no longer have to recycle grimy, sweaty clothes pulled from a wrinkled heap in a suitcase. And glad to eat my favorite cereals again!

12 August 2005

I’ve been in a bit of a funk again. I’m once again in that mindset of fearing that I’m becoming depressed again, but in a way that is different from how depression felt in the past (courtesy of my meds). Maybe it’s just poor nutrition, though. I just have very little energy. I mean, my physical energy levels are the same as ever, but mentally I don’t have the energy to do much. Everything feels like a chore. In light of that, attempting to buy a house suddenly seems insurmountable and terrifying, and I feel paralyzed. … I don’t feel like I’m in a fog, but I do feel like I’m mired in stasis. I can’t move forward (buying a house) or backward (unpacking all my boxes and resolving myself to staying in my apartment indefinitely). It’s such a strange, exhausting state of mind.

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.