A Long Time Ago, We Used to Be...

Participants in the same after school activity. Er... I don't think it has quite the same ring to it.

I like you and it makes feel odd. The last time I liked someone it was a thirteen year old boy, smile as slow as molasses as it stretched out over braces. In my own defense, I was 12.

You’re only a little older than me and I always thought I’d want a bigger age difference. Yet, you drew me to you with your poise and intensity.

I don’t know if that spark when I first saw you was recognition of a face I haven’t seen since my high school days or if it was attraction. Maybe attraction came when I saw that pale strip of skin when your shirt rode up that one time. Maybe it was the self deprecating tilt of your smile. Your hands as they spread and clenched to make your point may have played more than a part in capturing my attention.

I don’t know what to do. Your talking about NGOs shouldn’t make my heart flutter. You’re a friend of a friend; I don’t even know how I’ll see you again.

I hate playing games. I don’t do coy and flirtation. Can’t I just come up to you and tell you I like you?

In (?) WeTrust

Trust. It’s an interesting concept. Princeton’s WorldNet says it means to “have confidence or faith in” something. It doesn’t say how much confidence or if that faith is all compassing, or what it is in which we have that confidence and faith. I have faith in you. Some? A lot? Absolute? Faith that you’ll do what? I’m confident that you’ll protect me from physical harm, but that you’ll let my psyche be destroyed. I believe that you'll hurt me if you're able. I have faith that you’ll keep me from danger but only as long as you’re completely safe.

I don’t know that I trust. And yet, I have to trust. We all do. I trust my parents to love and care for me, until they see a part of me they cannot accept. I trust my friends with one of my most important secrets, one that I have not even trusted to this blog, but I don’t trust that they’ll look at me the same way if they read my past journal entries.

Is trust an absolute? Trust, you either have it or you don’t right? How about those little doubts that whisper seductively in the back of your mind, do they negate your trust? We’re human beings, we are by design imperfect fallible creatures. If I trust you implicitly does that make me stupid? Sucker, patsy, chump. There's one of me born every minute.

I waver, I doubt, I fear. My faith, it does flicker. And yet the candle for you is still lit, my vigil for you has not ended. I trust you. I struggle and fight my darker nature, my cynicism and lingering suspicions. I don’t know that I trust you, but I think I do. Try to forgive me this shortcoming, and if you prove unworthy of my trust I shall try to forgive you yours.

Good Enough For Me

But appaarantly not for Bobby McGee.


Lasts post’s poem was hint enough.

I’m so far to the left of normal I don’t remember when I left it behind. My dearest sacrifice is of course sleep. Isn’t it interesting how creative sleep disturbance can be in manifesting?

Always a new twist on an old story. A few days where time and again I refuse to wake up, avoid being awake as much as possible. Next, three days on a total of three hours of assorted dozing, trying to get away with as little shut eye as possible.

Eyes burning temper flaring, I am so on edge. Tired but I don’t want to sleep and I don’t know why. Certainly not out of affection for the way the lack of sleep makes me feel.

Angry and resentful and so fucking sad. Me, junk food, Ms. Joplin and Ms. Stone.

I’m craving a book, a good piece of fiction that will hold me hostage. For some reason people’s recommendations keep falling flat. Something that will hold my increasingly fickle attention.

As usual my concentration is shot to hell. I can’t focus and my senses are feeling the strain of my deficiencies. At this point I’m not entirely certain that I am adhering to the rules of grammar and spelling.

Even my vocabulary seems to be cracking under the pressure. It feels like I’m experiencing some kind of aphasia, words that once came easily are dancing teasingly out of reach.

My feet were too dirty so I gave them a lavender soak with the works, bath salts and bath oils, essence and cream.

I think I’m going to bed now even though part of me doesn’t want to give in to reason.

I think Tarantino is only halfway a hack but I hate the arrogance of his pronouncing the Italian cinema dead. What a prick.

I'm Just Saying

I hate that I’m 22 and still afraid of growing up. I hate that I still refer to being an adult as growing up. I hate that I have absolutely how to be an adult.

I dislike that it’s very hard for me to end things with a friend I no longer trust and with whom I have a cycle of growing and waning resentment. I dislike the fact that I feel a lot of unresolved and unspecified anxiety. I dislike that I don’t photograph well.

I like that I am probably not a stereotype. I like that I am intellectually curious. I like that I am not narrow minded. I like that I am probably not boring.

I don’t know that I love anything about myself.

Please, no pep talk, just… yeah. I don't need anything positive or supportive, just stating things.

In other news, watching Life on Mars, and enjoying it immensely. A police officer is involved in an accident, and wakes up in 1973. He has no idea what’s going on, no one else seems to think that anything is going on. I admit my favorite parts are the music and the protagonist’s emotional and psychological deterioration.

Also, can you believe that a year has passed since this post?

And the Truth Shall Set You Free

Then again, maybe not.

Non-fiction.

Tossing and turning in bed for hours until I give up sleep for a lost cause, I emerge from my room to haunt the house’s hallways, eerily empty in the dark. The house seems sad and lonely without the daytime’s buzz of activity. My family is quieter than most, but never this quiet. Parents and siblings all tucked in and sound asleep.

My days are all turned around and try as I might, I can’t seem to put things right. My body is weighed down with exhaustion but my mind refuses to give me reprieve. Hours grasping at the sandman in futility but he won’t come as long as my pulse keeps racing with unspecified anxiety. The future lurks hungrily at the edges of my vision waiting to devour me.

Attempting to escape my fate, I disassociate myself from the world around me. I’ve been stumbling around for days in a fugue state, avoiding reality. The tartness of under ripened strawberries is shocking on my tongue, and it seems to me the first real thing I’ve felt in days.

I feel trapped and vaguely panicked, like a rat suspecting that there’s no real way out of the maze. My eyes have started to linger a little too long on sharp implements so I make an effort to avoid being around anything sharper than the butter knife. The small cuts on my arms, long healed, have started to itch. Over and over I trace a crescent shaped scar on my leg. It’s faded almost to nothing. Over four years have passed since I heated a small spoon with a lighter’s flame and took it to my flesh.

Snowball's Chance in a Blizzard

Fact

Week the third of starving myself to a better me and my mind is starting to rebel. Calorie intake fluctuating between the low 800s and high 500s. My temper and concentration are starting to suffer, but fuck it. 40 kilos overweight isn’t pretty, and I’m sick of this. Part of it may be rebellion against my parents for forcing their perspective of beauty on me. Most of the time I’m fine with myself, but I’m sick of being pressured to fit into their version of what I should look like. Maybe I’ll try refusing to eat, something different than my usual MO, see how they like how fucking with my head for I don’t know how many years backfiring. Something you should know about me, most of my motivations have to do with my parents.

Sort of Fiction

I knew a girl who wore a small silver razorblade that hung from a black leather thong she wore around her neck. One day I asked her why. Her mouth tightened as she held it, blunt edges digging into thumb and forefinger. She told me it was protection against the dark. I knew of no talisman that involved razorblades. She raised an eloquent shoulder and said that sometimes the symbolism was the only thing that kept her from taking the real thing to her wrists. She pressed it fondly to her lips and let it fall back between her breasts.