Okay, I wrotethis last night.
I put it on myspace then but now I feel the need to put iton here as well:
Whatis this tendency of mine to self-destruct? Why . . . when my life is so near perfect?
I feel like the life is being sucked out ofme. I feel like there is nothing in the space between my sternum and my spine. I just want space and time. Wow. That might bethebeginnign ofa poem.
But really, I feel the life seeping from me. I am listless. At first I thought that it was school. But, it is not school. School is where Ithrive. I love my classes. I'm passionate about them, they're stimulating and challenging. It's all of the bullshit associated with school. It's my two jobs that I'm juggling instead of sleeping or resting or getting my homework done. It's the grad school application that keeps staring atme demanding that I forfeit more sleep and maketime for it.It's the statement of purpose thatIcannot make say what I feel. It is theknowledge thatI know that I belong at a certain graduateschool coupled with the fact that I probably won'tgetin. If I could be in school to be in school, it would be different. If I could come home from a day of classes and look forward to creative writing homework and literature homework, that would be fine. But, instead, I have to put that aside to do paperwork for my job that doesn't pay enough, or my ciriculuum vitae for grad school. Then, AFTER that, I get to my homework. Which leaves me how much timetowrite? none. But, I try to write anyway - exhausted and drained. And then my words are lifeless. (see below for an example; something I wrote tonight) And then I get frustrated and scaredthat I've lost my ability. I live for writing and . . . I have no space for it. Andit's killing me.
I just . . . need something. I need something. And I try stupide things. Like cigarettes. Yes, I bought apack of cigarrettes. On my credit card. It's so hypocritcal. So hypocritical. I am so careful of not putting "toxic" things into my body, I am so health-concious, I go hiking for christ's sake, and yet I bought cigarrettes because . . . i don'tknow. I had to do something to msyelf. I am hurting. And when I am hurting. . . I takeit out on myself. And what else do I do tonight? I go out and put $30 worth of stuff on my credit card that I can't pay back as it is. And then I go out for a drive to cry and smoke and write horrendous poetry. And waste gas that's over $2 a gallon. Just from thepast two weeks I had topay my therapist $50 for copays, I owe the health center $15 for my birth control, I have a zantac prescription that I can't afford to fill, I have another appointment on Monday that'll be $25, and another one next Friday that will be $25. And yet . . . I charged stuff on my card tonight and I know that it is because I am trying to fill that nameless, devouring thing.
I know a lot of what that thing is. What theemptiness is. I miss Luke. I feel like a different person around him. I am happy and I talk about how I feel (at least, somewhat) and I feel okay, and I feel like I'm okay the way that I am, and like things are going to work out, and I don't have this vacuum in my chest.
Andeveryone tells me that I'm strong. It's what I'm known for. I'm a fighter. I've been through so much and survived. I'm always okay.
i'm not always okay.
But I act like I am. I havethis amour and this silence. And I do have some strength. Andit'show Ikeepgoingeverday. But I'm not as strong as people think.I'm so fragile.
And Luke is the only person whom I let see that. Because . . . he loves it and accepts it as part of me and he doesn't take advantage of it. And he doesn't expect me to have everything undre control all of the time. I'm not perfect. I'm not.
I'mnot.
I'mnot.
I'mjust . .. . I'm losing here. I can't keep up. All of my energy is going to making it until Friday when I can go home.
Here's my bad poetry.
Please don't tell me I'm strong.
Because again I am here,
and it is November,
and my hands smell like smoke
and my heart is missing beats,
protesting the nicotene.
And I am not sleeping again,
and I am buying things on credit
that I cannot pay back,
because all I now is that ttere is something
empty
and nameless,
and I have vowed not to starve
or bleed.
Even my words are weak.
I am in a car
in the rain
by a lake flooded with life
and I
have
nothing.
Whatis this tendency of mine to self-destruct? Why . . . when my life is so near perfect?
I feel like the life is being sucked out ofme. I feel like there is nothing in the space between my sternum and my spine. I just want space and time. Wow. That might bethebeginnign ofa poem.
But really, I feel the life seeping from me. I am listless. At first I thought that it was school. But, it is not school. School is where Ithrive. I love my classes. I'm passionate about them, they're stimulating and challenging. It's all of the bullshit associated with school. It's my two jobs that I'm juggling instead of sleeping or resting or getting my homework done. It's the grad school application that keeps staring atme demanding that I forfeit more sleep and maketime for it.It's the statement of purpose thatIcannot make say what I feel. It is theknowledge thatI know that I belong at a certain graduateschool coupled with the fact that I probably won'tgetin. If I could be in school to be in school, it would be different. If I could come home from a day of classes and look forward to creative writing homework and literature homework, that would be fine. But, instead, I have to put that aside to do paperwork for my job that doesn't pay enough, or my ciriculuum vitae for grad school. Then, AFTER that, I get to my homework. Which leaves me how much timetowrite? none. But, I try to write anyway - exhausted and drained. And then my words are lifeless. (see below for an example; something I wrote tonight) And then I get frustrated and scaredthat I've lost my ability. I live for writing and . . . I have no space for it. Andit's killing me.
I just . . . need something. I need something. And I try stupide things. Like cigarettes. Yes, I bought apack of cigarrettes. On my credit card. It's so hypocritcal. So hypocritical. I am so careful of not putting "toxic" things into my body, I am so health-concious, I go hiking for christ's sake, and yet I bought cigarrettes because . . . i don'tknow. I had to do something to msyelf. I am hurting. And when I am hurting. . . I takeit out on myself. And what else do I do tonight? I go out and put $30 worth of stuff on my credit card that I can't pay back as it is. And then I go out for a drive to cry and smoke and write horrendous poetry. And waste gas that's over $2 a gallon. Just from thepast two weeks I had topay my therapist $50 for copays, I owe the health center $15 for my birth control, I have a zantac prescription that I can't afford to fill, I have another appointment on Monday that'll be $25, and another one next Friday that will be $25. And yet . . . I charged stuff on my card tonight and I know that it is because I am trying to fill that nameless, devouring thing.
I know a lot of what that thing is. What theemptiness is. I miss Luke. I feel like a different person around him. I am happy and I talk about how I feel (at least, somewhat) and I feel okay, and I feel like I'm okay the way that I am, and like things are going to work out, and I don't have this vacuum in my chest.
Andeveryone tells me that I'm strong. It's what I'm known for. I'm a fighter. I've been through so much and survived. I'm always okay.
i'm not always okay.
But I act like I am. I havethis amour and this silence. And I do have some strength. Andit'show Ikeepgoingeverday. But I'm not as strong as people think.I'm so fragile.
And Luke is the only person whom I let see that. Because . . . he loves it and accepts it as part of me and he doesn't take advantage of it. And he doesn't expect me to have everything undre control all of the time. I'm not perfect. I'm not.
I'mnot.
I'mnot.
I'mjust . .. . I'm losing here. I can't keep up. All of my energy is going to making it until Friday when I can go home.
Here's my bad poetry.
Please don't tell me I'm strong.
Because again I am here,
and it is November,
and my hands smell like smoke
and my heart is missing beats,
protesting the nicotene.
And I am not sleeping again,
and I am buying things on credit
that I cannot pay back,
because all I now is that ttere is something
empty
and nameless,
and I have vowed not to starve
or bleed.
Even my words are weak.
I am in a car
in the rain
by a lake flooded with life
and I
have
nothing.