|
|
Monday, February 7th, 2005
|
12:11a
*is thinking she shouldn't have had that Red Bull at seven*
current mood: awake (1 comment |comment on this)
|
2:20a
I should be trying to sleep. I should be.
In fact, it was very nice, laying in bed on my stomach with the cat nestled between the backs of my knees.
But I think I've just realized something very important and I doubt that I could sleep until I get this written out.
I live with a woman who has not had a regular out-of-the-house job last longer than a year in the seventeen years I have been alive. This is the example I have. The women I most respect. Piper, my Aunt Kathy, all of the writers I love. They work. But they don't always have to leave home.
I can't see myself leaving the house. I can't. When I picture myself as an adult, as having to support myself, I can only visualize myself wandering through the house. I see myself staring out of windows. I see myself curled on the couch. I see looking at blank sheets of paper, wondering why I'm not writing more.
And that's why I get so afraid at night and that's part of why the Lexapro is not helping all of my anxiety. Because this is a real, grounded fear that is not going to go away because a chemical tells it to scram. For this fear to just go away would be pretend. It would be a lie and it would be harmful.
I've been avoiding everyone. Haven't been to school, obviously. But I also haven't been on AIM and the only calls I've taken have been from Kristin and Hannah. My dad called the other day and I just didn't answer.
I am honestly afraid of people right now. My mom asked me a couple of days ago why I haven't wanted to take calls. I shrugged and said I didn't want to have to explain to anyone.
I feel ridiculous. I should be stronger than this.
[ETA: Upon re-reading this, I realized I never made my point.
I have this belief somewhere, this delusion that I can stop time, that I can do nothing and still lead a productive life. I have no drive to do anything. None. I have no ambition that does not involve living the life of a house cat. Everything I've ever wanted for myself feels like a dream. And I'm not particularly sad over that.]
[ETA2: Never made my point again.
I have no motivation and I am relatively unalarmed. Feel as slacking as your stereotypical stoner. There is something that should be wrong. Something has to be wrong for this to feel so okay. It's not okay. There are things I need to do. I need to do things which I am not doing and I don't really give a fuck.]
[ETA3: There's something wrong with me.]
current mood: frustrated
current music: I'll Be That Girl -- Barenaked Ladies (9 comments |comment on this)
|
2:50a
I love -
the way my face looks in the mirror when I haven't looked in a while.
(1 comment |comment on this)
|
3:40a
Gave in and tried calling the girlfriend, but of course, this is the one night she's definitely asleep before I am.
So I'm going to read over some of our recent conversations instead.
( While Kristin is working on her archeology project. )
( A moment. )
( Discussing our visit which will happen in FIVE days. )
( On gift wrapping. )
(comment on this)
|
9:17a - What moon songs do you sing your babies?
I'm going to school tomorrow.
I've promised myself something in exchange for finishing this year. The promise makes me giddy.
I threw myself out of bed to write.
current mood: delirious
current music: Luna -- Smashing Pumpkins (1 comment |comment on this)
|
10:26a
Right now I'm laughing at people who think they need drugs to go crazy. I've been watching myself start to lose control for some time now. No, that's wrong. I don't think I really could lose control unless I gave myself permission. The human brain is too powerful. The mind controls. We can drive ourselves crazy thinking. But it's all in the brain.
I get close, every time- and then I pull back. It's almost not fair. I've read thousands of books. Books are the brain's wet dreams. Even the most idiotic ones. Books are the author's escape. Mine too. The characters have the privilege of doing things, amazing things that I can't even consider doing because people just don't do that.
I got fifteen minutes of sleep last night. Literally. I remember everything until four. Kristin and I were on the phone. She was tired, so then we weren't. I knew I was going to be awake most of the night. I yawned a lot, but my mind was racing too fast and I knew there would be no peace.
I look at my life this year and I feel like Buffy at the end of Once More, With Feeling. Spinning. Knowing she'll burst into flames. Spinning. Spinning.
Then Spike grabs her. Living, you have to go on living.
And I have to be my own Spike, but I'm waiting for something. I've been waiting for- I don't know what- until something.
I realize that I'm probably delusional if I'm comparing myself sincerely to a vampire slayer and her illicit vampire lover. But how delusional can I be if I'm aware every step of the way?
I asked myself this morning how I could get it together. What do I need to do to pull this life off? I have to graduate from high school and then I have to go to college for at least four years, realistically. But what do I need to do for myself?
This morning I had this elaborate daydream in which I had to be homeless. I had to leave behind all or most of my possessions and run away for a month. If I could make it for a month, I could live a life of which I'd be proud.
I was going to write letters. They would be cryptic. My father would receive - I love you - because I do love him and I never say so. My mom's note would simply read - I'll be back - and John's would say the same thing, but with a postscript telling him to read it with an Ah-nold voice because he makes me want to be goofy that way. I'd remind Ali to tell her ex-boyfriend that I'll kick his ass if he comes around.
I'd ask Piper to see me through, tell Hannah not to worry, remind David not to masturbate so much. Of Kristin, I would ask that she has faith in me. The handwriting would have to be perfect. I would write a hundred drafts of the one sentence for her.
You know, I've never felt secure enough to leave anyone before. I think that says something. I wonder if she knows how much I love her.
That's the promise I made myself. That I could leave for a while if I just ride this last semester out. No, not ride it out. If I finish with style. Go into school tomorrow morning and find all of my teachers and explain to them. Explain and find out how I can make up the past two weeks, make myself a schedule and a timeline and kick some fucking ass. That's right. I am amazing.
Amazing and brilliant.
Another condition of the promise is that I have to be good to myself. I already took my pill this morning and drank two glasses of water. I never drink enough. I'm not going to have any caffeine and I'm going to avoid eating comfort food.
Except the soup. I can keep eating soup. I love soup.
current mood: beautiful
current music: If You're Not Scared -- K's Choice (3 comments |comment on this)
|
11:19p
Something quick, before I go to bed.
My friend Jordan left me this comment today. Then she IMed me. (I wasn't online, but she IMed me anyway.)
Do you know what i realized? You never talk to me, you only listen to the things i have to say and then respond to them. Why? Do you not think that I am a good listener? Do you not think that i have worthy responses to your thoughts. I don't know, i was just thinking about that... and it made me kind of sad.
By the time I was around to respond, she was offline, but I wrote, It's not that I don't think you'll listen... I guess I'm just embarrassed.
The combination of messages gave me a lump in my throat. I know how to tell people the facts and I know how to tell them how I feel, but what I don't know is how they can help me. And because I don't know how or what to ask for, I don't ask because I don't want to be let down.
(People have that effect on me enough without my help. Another friend of mine wrote a very inspiring and comforting letter about me and how I've been feeling on her personal journal - and then she e-mailed me this evening. When I didn't respond right away (my e-mail has been running inconsistently), she took the letter down and told me goodnight.)
How do I let people help me? I know how to help, I don't know how to be helped. I know how to love, I don't know how to be loved. I know how to offer trust, but I don't know how to accept it.
On an entirely different note, Kristin will be here Friday afternoon. We will have been dating for 42 days. Yes, I keep track of that. What an anomaly. My beautiful girl who loves classic literature and Vanilla Ice's Ninja Rap, who is obsessive and independant, who can talk about fixing Java errors and attempting to be gangsta in the same conversation.
Me: What are you doing, baby?
Kristin: Fixing Java problems.
Kristin: Why?
Me: Java problems?
Kristin: Yeah, like everytime I try to open a website with Java on it, my browser crashes, which means my Java client is screwy. So.
Me: Oh. *adores your geekiness*
Kristin: *is glad that you adore the geekiness*
Me: *does*
Kristin: OMG, BABY, I WENT DOWN TO GET ICE CREAM LOOKING LIKE A TOTAL GANGSTA!
Kristin: Except for the glasses, of course.
Me: Did you?
Kristin: YES. My shirt was crazy huge, and it made my pants look all baggy.
Me: *huge grin*
Kristin: Yo yo, wassup?
Me: *giggles*
Kristin: I need a Snoop Dog icon.
Me: You do.
Kristin: Truth.
The result being the last two icons here. Count me as being very, very amused.
current mood: confused
current music: Terrible Lie (Acoustic) -- Tool (7 comments |comment on this)
|
|
|
|