(0,0) All in all is all we are.
Once again, as so often I am left, speechless; breath lacking the hum of vocal chords, mouth agape. When you least expect somebody to read something, they do...and it only goes to reassure me that they are so far from dust and ash that even my mightiest wind couldn't blow so hard and fowl the player. I never wanted to hurt my best friend. I never wanted it to end like -that-. I never wanted it to end. But I hurt inside. I put myself first and I stopped the hurt..or did I? It's so cliche.."Can't we all just, get along?".
He seems to think death is only a doorknocker away. And I wish I'd found the words to convince him of otherwise. No giving up.
I tell myself that every day anymore. I want to. I want to end it all. happiness, sadness, love, pain, embarassment, shame, guilt, mania, depression..
I let myself get this lonely. I enslave myself to my study and deny plans with my friends. I make the choice. To remain antisocial, alone, quiet, sobered, and consumed with my own one track life. To become a teacher, I tell myself. Just finish fucking college and it'll all be better. No it won't. A B.A. doesn't magically heal depression. It doesn't bring back old friends, or reach out to those who are waiting for me, standby..That's my job. I have to do that.
I'm sorry too, I'm sorry we didn't get the chance to work this all out and stay friends like we were all those years. Maybe I didn't listen close enough, maybe I wasn't as empathetic as I'd previously believed. Something baited the switch...and what that was, I will never find out.
I'm glad he heard my plea. But it makes no difference to the subconscious. You'll always be there, my friend. Like the fingerharp I don't play anymore but haunts my mind somewhere between waking and sleep.
I'm sorry if I didn't play fair when we were kids..to put it mildly..I was fucked in the head beyond my own comprehension. Sometimes I wonder if I still am.
I'd like for next time you enter my REM sleep, for us to be friends like it was 10 years ago. Just..friends, because that's all I could offer in the end. I'd like to imagine that I'll wake up and instead of a clammy sweat and heavy breathing, the physical symptoms of nightmare are replaced with a peace of mind, radical acceptance of the reality that is.
I hope you have found that, too. And I hope that you never give up on yourself, taking care of your body, and getting the medical attention you need and deserve.
Sobriety is a funny thing. To me it's leaving that cloudy fog of fabricated happiness, staring down reality face to face, and accepting what I have been given in life. Today, in this moment. Near the 4th of February, Twenty-Ten.
-------------
On a different note..perhaps an octave difference, student teaching is kicking my ass. I'm kicking it's ass too. I just want to make it through the semester, pass, keep my 3.9whatever and graduate. And I pray to whatever gods exist out there that I find a job that can sustain my working-class standard of living.
I'm not afraid of teaching in the city now, at least not on the outskirts where lunches and breakfast are free of charge (no application necessary) and nobody rides a school bus because the neighborhood youth population is so high. I feel welcome in Edmonds school, by the staff, by the students who don't see me as a white girl in a black neighborhood, just an open heart and mind ready to learn and teach simultaneously.
I'm usually asleep by now..by 7 or 8 actually. I don't know why a seven hour shift wipes me out..why I feel exausted and lethargic by the end of the day when all I've done is worked with kids. My dream, right? Right. and to write.
--------------
Scott exaplined to me that strange dreams can be typical during a change in season. That's how it was for the longest time. Now it's all the time, when I'm in one of my stages that I'm sleeping an average amount, at least.
What is a dream, or a nightmare, more than a calling of the subcoscious to voice something, take action, make ammends with the mind. No closure yet. So far from dust it's impossible.
Tara wants me in another program pending I don't gain or maintain. Motivation is at an all time low. Ice cream is my evening supplement. It's not enough, and ever so slowly my mind and body continue to waste. And I accept that, because I've all but given up on conquering this addiction. It's easy, it gets me through another day of stress and feelings. According to the DSM, I'm at the point of no return, I will live with my anorexia and extremely occassional tendencies to purge my insides. I can help it, but I can't cure it. Seems like regaining fertility or living long enough to even see my own children grown and sucessful doesn't mean enough to me at this point. I'm a fucking waste of selfishness sometimes, as is this disorder. I wish I never went there...I wish It had never crossed my mind to solve my problems with food.
Back to what Ben said. Why do anything if you have no confidence in what you are doing? Why? I don't know. Am I confident? Maybe, if I'm still doing it. Am I present in my own skin? Usually, no. I look into myself as if from a third person perspective. I am watching myself ramble on, even though I'm speechless and can't find the right words. I see my fingers move across the keyboard..my left is my right, my right is my left. I stare blankly at the mirror image of myself, and wonder what I've become this last quarter century. From newborn babe to fucked up slave. Slave to anything that will numb out my relationships, my family, the negative feelings.
I so badly want to feel again..and I am too afraid to even try. And still the man, the great and undefeatable Brian stands at my side, waiting patiently for me to step off the edge and come back into his arms.
Remember the old VHS rewinders? Let's hypthetically pretend my life is on a video tape. Wouldn't it be grand if I could just rewind 2 or 3 years? No, 4. Erase the Belmont experience, the IVs, the EKGs, the osteoperosis, the tried and tired reproductive organs. Back 4 more take me back to 16. Fresh and recovered, with a chance to defeat Ed and move forward in life without it. But it's not oil and water anymore..it's applesauce and saurkraut...just mix-mashed into a pile of low-calorie sweet and sour..
Perhaps I'll sleep tonight and wake up in the house I grew up in tomorrow. Logically..I know that's impossible.
Tomorrow I will wake up, shower, apply the leave-in conditioner which neglects to keep my hair from falling out but helps a great deal with the dry skin..I'll pull my hair out of the bathroom drain, wipe it off the sink, dress myself in something hanging over the drying rack, brew coffee, and drive to work/school.
Life goes on, just not always how we imagined it.
My tea has run out, my cigarette is snuffed, it's time for rest, to sit on this mountain of metaphor and ponder what could happen next. Cake, tea, or death? I am thankful for the comedic relief of people who are out there enjoying their careers and bringing laughter to the heavy hearts of the public. I want to do that too..so..keep on truckin'.
---------------
What else could I write?
I don't have the right.
He seems to think death is only a doorknocker away. And I wish I'd found the words to convince him of otherwise. No giving up.
I tell myself that every day anymore. I want to. I want to end it all. happiness, sadness, love, pain, embarassment, shame, guilt, mania, depression..
I let myself get this lonely. I enslave myself to my study and deny plans with my friends. I make the choice. To remain antisocial, alone, quiet, sobered, and consumed with my own one track life. To become a teacher, I tell myself. Just finish fucking college and it'll all be better. No it won't. A B.A. doesn't magically heal depression. It doesn't bring back old friends, or reach out to those who are waiting for me, standby..That's my job. I have to do that.
I'm sorry too, I'm sorry we didn't get the chance to work this all out and stay friends like we were all those years. Maybe I didn't listen close enough, maybe I wasn't as empathetic as I'd previously believed. Something baited the switch...and what that was, I will never find out.
I'm glad he heard my plea. But it makes no difference to the subconscious. You'll always be there, my friend. Like the fingerharp I don't play anymore but haunts my mind somewhere between waking and sleep.
I'm sorry if I didn't play fair when we were kids..to put it mildly..I was fucked in the head beyond my own comprehension. Sometimes I wonder if I still am.
I'd like for next time you enter my REM sleep, for us to be friends like it was 10 years ago. Just..friends, because that's all I could offer in the end. I'd like to imagine that I'll wake up and instead of a clammy sweat and heavy breathing, the physical symptoms of nightmare are replaced with a peace of mind, radical acceptance of the reality that is.
I hope you have found that, too. And I hope that you never give up on yourself, taking care of your body, and getting the medical attention you need and deserve.
Sobriety is a funny thing. To me it's leaving that cloudy fog of fabricated happiness, staring down reality face to face, and accepting what I have been given in life. Today, in this moment. Near the 4th of February, Twenty-Ten.
-------------
On a different note..perhaps an octave difference, student teaching is kicking my ass. I'm kicking it's ass too. I just want to make it through the semester, pass, keep my 3.9whatever and graduate. And I pray to whatever gods exist out there that I find a job that can sustain my working-class standard of living.
I'm not afraid of teaching in the city now, at least not on the outskirts where lunches and breakfast are free of charge (no application necessary) and nobody rides a school bus because the neighborhood youth population is so high. I feel welcome in Edmonds school, by the staff, by the students who don't see me as a white girl in a black neighborhood, just an open heart and mind ready to learn and teach simultaneously.
I'm usually asleep by now..by 7 or 8 actually. I don't know why a seven hour shift wipes me out..why I feel exausted and lethargic by the end of the day when all I've done is worked with kids. My dream, right? Right. and to write.
--------------
Scott exaplined to me that strange dreams can be typical during a change in season. That's how it was for the longest time. Now it's all the time, when I'm in one of my stages that I'm sleeping an average amount, at least.
What is a dream, or a nightmare, more than a calling of the subcoscious to voice something, take action, make ammends with the mind. No closure yet. So far from dust it's impossible.
Tara wants me in another program pending I don't gain or maintain. Motivation is at an all time low. Ice cream is my evening supplement. It's not enough, and ever so slowly my mind and body continue to waste. And I accept that, because I've all but given up on conquering this addiction. It's easy, it gets me through another day of stress and feelings. According to the DSM, I'm at the point of no return, I will live with my anorexia and extremely occassional tendencies to purge my insides. I can help it, but I can't cure it. Seems like regaining fertility or living long enough to even see my own children grown and sucessful doesn't mean enough to me at this point. I'm a fucking waste of selfishness sometimes, as is this disorder. I wish I never went there...I wish It had never crossed my mind to solve my problems with food.
Back to what Ben said. Why do anything if you have no confidence in what you are doing? Why? I don't know. Am I confident? Maybe, if I'm still doing it. Am I present in my own skin? Usually, no. I look into myself as if from a third person perspective. I am watching myself ramble on, even though I'm speechless and can't find the right words. I see my fingers move across the keyboard..my left is my right, my right is my left. I stare blankly at the mirror image of myself, and wonder what I've become this last quarter century. From newborn babe to fucked up slave. Slave to anything that will numb out my relationships, my family, the negative feelings.
I so badly want to feel again..and I am too afraid to even try. And still the man, the great and undefeatable Brian stands at my side, waiting patiently for me to step off the edge and come back into his arms.
Remember the old VHS rewinders? Let's hypthetically pretend my life is on a video tape. Wouldn't it be grand if I could just rewind 2 or 3 years? No, 4. Erase the Belmont experience, the IVs, the EKGs, the osteoperosis, the tried and tired reproductive organs. Back 4 more take me back to 16. Fresh and recovered, with a chance to defeat Ed and move forward in life without it. But it's not oil and water anymore..it's applesauce and saurkraut...just mix-mashed into a pile of low-calorie sweet and sour..
Perhaps I'll sleep tonight and wake up in the house I grew up in tomorrow. Logically..I know that's impossible.
Tomorrow I will wake up, shower, apply the leave-in conditioner which neglects to keep my hair from falling out but helps a great deal with the dry skin..I'll pull my hair out of the bathroom drain, wipe it off the sink, dress myself in something hanging over the drying rack, brew coffee, and drive to work/school.
Life goes on, just not always how we imagined it.
My tea has run out, my cigarette is snuffed, it's time for rest, to sit on this mountain of metaphor and ponder what could happen next. Cake, tea, or death? I am thankful for the comedic relief of people who are out there enjoying their careers and bringing laughter to the heavy hearts of the public. I want to do that too..so..keep on truckin'.
---------------
What else could I write?
I don't have the right.