(no subject)
vendredi 6 janvier 2006 1
I’m not going to lie to you. Right now, I’m pissed. This is completely awful. I can’t even begin to try and best put emotions into words. I love you so much sometimes that it even hurts to think about it. I don’t ever want to lose you. Or what we have. I’m in High school, I know. And it’s weird, because normally at this point, I’d be thinking about how nice a beautiful house would be with our family. You know, what I mean? No, maybe not because right now, I don’t even know why I would be thinking those things at this point. And that’s one of the greatest things about you, you don’t change me, you better me. I haven’t eaten almost at all in the last week; I haven’t slept more than about eight hours. My parents think that I’m sexually active with you, no matter how hard I’m trying to convince them otherwise. I’m trying so hard to not let things like this get to me but I just can’t help it anymore. So, here I sit, talking to you on a computer, with this letter that’s not even addressed to you. I am wearing some of the worst mascara there is, it’s spread out like veins down my cheekbones. It’s stained my pillowcase, leaving traces of what once was an emotion. I’m not crying because I’m in trouble, I’m not crying because I’ve lost trust, I’m crying because this puts limitations on us. And I’m just not entirely sure how I feel about these limitations yet. I swear, there has to be something wrong with me. Why am I so upset? It’s not like I’m bound from talking to you, or from seeing you. It’s not like any of this will matter later on in my life, but I need to know that you can stand by me in this, like I’m standing by you in your most recent decision. Maybe I’m upset because I’m feeling this sense of betrayal by someone that I thought that I could trust. And it hurts me, a lot.
I don’t even know why I am sitting on here typing this entire thing up. Maybe because it’s easier and quicker than writing it all out by hand. I don’t know. But, I do know that I’m not even planning on giving this to you so I can say exactly what I feel in this letter with the hopes that my parents aren’t going to betray MY trust and read through stuff on here.
I love you. My mind is constantly wandering back to you. I am willing and ready to support you in anything that you do. My mind isn’t skipping to what future we may or may not have together because I am so completely satisfied with today. I could gorge myself on emotions. But, of course, I won’t do that. With things like this, I think that it’s important that one keeps their wits about them.
Maybe I will make a separate file for my journals. I know that none of this will make sense later when I read through it. But I know that I will feel the emotions that are tied to the entry. My mom is very upset. As in worried about me, my dad, well, I don’t really know how he feels. Actually, I don’t really know how either of them feels. But I know that I “betrayed their trust.” Which, I don’t honestly care how that makes them feel, but that’s putting limitations on this relationship. I know that they are just being parents, and that they are looking out for my best interests when it’s in their interest, or whatever it is that they are doing. But really, I think that this is a little much, no apartment, no internet, no cell, grounded, no friends, etc… etc… I don’t care about any of that except that which involves you. Maybe that sounds bad, but it’s true. I tried to tell them how I feel about this, but this was their moment to shine as the spotlight parents that they really are. So, of course, how dare I impugn with my opinion, right? I just don’t see all of this mattering in the grand scheme of things. I am 16. I know that I’m not old enough to take care of myself, I need them there to help, and I can easily admit that at this point in my life I am co-dependent with survival things. But, I am 16, which means that I need to be able to sort some of this stuff out on my own, right? Maybe not, maybe that’s how all kids are meant to grow up. You don’t ever get a say in your own life, just other peoples. I don’t understand how any of this will matter in the grand-scheme of things. One day, one lie, I wasn’t having sex. I wasn’t drinking, smoking, or doing drugs, most of the time that I was there, I was sleeping. How does one small, insignificant thing like that make everything change so drastically, even if it is just temporary? I don’t know. At least I got a bunch of stuff on my iPod, and responded to all of my email (finally) before I got kicked off. And I called you and told you what was up. So that was pretty sweet, I guess. I just, I’m having a hard time thinking of when I will ever see you. If you aren’t there during the day, if I don’t get to be there anymore, you will have to come over here I guess. This means, no more getting to be who we are. No more lying naked in your bed, sleeping together. Which is odd, I don’t even know if they would be upset over something like that because the feeling of overwhelming relief that we aren’t having sex, and that I’m not a slut will be too much for them to handle, I think.
Then they told me that in the Bible it says to, “Honor thy mother and father”. But for the last about, four months, I’ve been thinking. Who’s to say I’m the Christian that they all say I am? I mean, for as far back as I can remember I have been in church. The same church. I’m a Christian the same way that I am a Secord. It’s not something that I had any say in. It was just a placement process, for the upper-middle class white person. A label and I hope that that makes them feel accepted. I just can’t believe that they pulled a Bible verse out on me. Like, I understand why that fits, but the way they used it, you could tell that the only reason it was used is because they were dying to quote the Holy Book in the lecture I was given somewhere. It was the most ridiculous and unnatural thing that I have ever heard in my life. I don’t know. It was dumb, if you were there, you would have been laughing. The same way God is their crutch, my love is mine.
Goddamnit, I thought that I had covered my tracks just oh so well. I guess that we can’t win ‘em all.
1/7/2006
For some reason, I feel like optimism should be pouring out of me. But it’s not. It’s a really weird sentiment, feeling like you should be experiencing something, but being completely absorbed by a different emotion. I don’t really know how to explain it. Maybe it’s the music that I’ve been listening to; old songs by “The Starting Line”, “Something Corporate”, and “The Juliana Theory” give me this really odd feeling of nostalgia. They make me miss something that I can’t even think of in the first place. Maybe I’m longing for home? That sense of home that I used to have, which in recent years has been shattered by the realization that home doesn’t actually exist for anyone. I don’t understand it. It’s almost as if would do anything to ameliorate myself of these emotions, but then again, I would rather be feeling some of the most messed up things that you can think rather than not feeling anything at all. It’s like my emotions feel the need to demur themselves against my body. It’s so weird and wonderful.
I don’t really mind when I’m in these moods though. It makes me feel very pensive. And that’s something that I do understand. I walk around in an artistic daze, entirely oblivious to anything that is taking place around me.
Lately, it’s anomalous how I’ve been forgetting things that are so natural to me. Like eating, or using the bathroom, or showering, or doing homework or turning off the stove, (that reminds me! I left the teapot on, full of boiling water! Oops!). It’s almost as if, I am continually wandering through a haze, unable to keep my life on track. Things that I am used to doing as expected completely slip my mind. Usually, it’s if I’m writing or playing music or composing a song, and then I realize, “Wow, I haven’t eaten for three days. I should probably go do that.” Yet, if I’m distracted by something, such as writing, the idea of eating makes me nauseas. Like today, I hadn’t eaten all day, and the only thing that looked mildly appetizing was an orange. Later, my mom and dad went and got a few things at the grocery store, and I realized that it’s been about 2 days since I’ve eaten and so my mom cooked lasagna for me. I ate it, and then I got sick and threw it all back up. And I’ve lost a lot of weight lately too because nothing looks appetizing to me. It worries me when stuff like this happens. I start to wonder, “What if I’m sub-consciously anorexic, or bulimic and I just don’t know it?” Even though I know that that is absurd because it’s not like I’m not eating because I think that I am fat, I just can’t eat because food makes me want to vomit.
It just strikes me at random times too. Sometimes, I don’t forget to do anything and I’m just so on top of everything. Getting my homework done, catching up on my emails, studying, cleaning my room, doing chores. But then, other days, it feels like I’ve been slapped in the face and all the sudden I realize that I haven’t showered in two days, I have to pee really bad, and I’m starved. As if I’ve just awoke from a coma. Bizarre as it may seem, it happens a lot.
Or, occasionally, I’ll come to life to realize that the whole time that I was busy being inattentive, someone was talking to me, and I’ll feel awful because I’ll just hear the end of what they were saying and have no idea what they’re talking about. It makes me feel like a bad friend, and I feel kind of ashamed then.
In Advanced American Lit, I read about all these great writers and poets, we read what they’ve written, we read short biographies, we read about their theme and writing style, and subjects. It’s really interesting stuff. Yet, what bothers me is how many of them were so insane. Or how they were sane, but they drove themselves so hard on one topic that they become mentally unstable. (It seems that with the, “Age of Romanticism” the topic seemed to be whether or not Transcendentalism was a credible philosophy.) Then you get those peculiar one-offs, such as Emily Dickinson (who my friend does not like, but I do, even if her poetry can be kind of pessimistic and redundant) and Edgar Allan Poe. They were writers/poets and their obsession, I think, drove them to insanity. If you read between the lines within their writing you can just see where it’s their personality spilling thoughts into the part of the narrator, as opposed to separating the character from their own, unique being. With Emily Dickinson, her obsession was death. Many of her poems are about isolation and death. She, herself, within the last two years of life only wrote to few friends, and she would send them short letters or fragments of poetry. She only wore white, never left her house and garden, and never allowed neighbors or strangers to see her. When her health “failed her” as the book says, she allowed a doctor to see her, but he could only check her out from a distance. And I just picture a pale, frail, weak, woman on her death bed in a white nightgown and a doctor with glasses, a black jacket, and a stethoscope around his neck, standing on the side of the room opposite the bed. And Edgar Allan Poe wrote about this kind of thing. It may be wrong that I find humor in the irony of this situation, but think of it: besides human perversity, Poe’s obsessions, or common subject matter in his writing was the emaciation of beautiful women, and the idea that isolation can drive an artist (any kind, I know that in two of his stories he uses a musician and a painter) to insanity. This, basically, was Emily Dickinson’s life. The last ten years of her life, she never left her home or garden, and she talked only to a close-knit, exclusive, diminutive group of friends, and even then only through letters and disjointed poetry. Thus, her isolation leading to her insanity: the felt need to only wear white, and even in the sickness which ultimately led to her death, the doctor was only allowed to look at her from a distance. The emaciating death that she bore. It just strikes me as slightly ironic, but that could just be me.
Anyhow, it’s almost eleven and I have church in the morning. (Unfortunately, but, hey, I’m grounded for skipping school with this boy that I’m seeing, so I don’t really have much of a say in anything that’s going on right now. And I would rather not argue and have my punishment extended any more than it has to be.) Good night.
I’m not going to lie to you. Right now, I’m pissed. This is completely awful. I can’t even begin to try and best put emotions into words. I love you so much sometimes that it even hurts to think about it. I don’t ever want to lose you. Or what we have. I’m in High school, I know. And it’s weird, because normally at this point, I’d be thinking about how nice a beautiful house would be with our family. You know, what I mean? No, maybe not because right now, I don’t even know why I would be thinking those things at this point. And that’s one of the greatest things about you, you don’t change me, you better me. I haven’t eaten almost at all in the last week; I haven’t slept more than about eight hours. My parents think that I’m sexually active with you, no matter how hard I’m trying to convince them otherwise. I’m trying so hard to not let things like this get to me but I just can’t help it anymore. So, here I sit, talking to you on a computer, with this letter that’s not even addressed to you. I am wearing some of the worst mascara there is, it’s spread out like veins down my cheekbones. It’s stained my pillowcase, leaving traces of what once was an emotion. I’m not crying because I’m in trouble, I’m not crying because I’ve lost trust, I’m crying because this puts limitations on us. And I’m just not entirely sure how I feel about these limitations yet. I swear, there has to be something wrong with me. Why am I so upset? It’s not like I’m bound from talking to you, or from seeing you. It’s not like any of this will matter later on in my life, but I need to know that you can stand by me in this, like I’m standing by you in your most recent decision. Maybe I’m upset because I’m feeling this sense of betrayal by someone that I thought that I could trust. And it hurts me, a lot.
I don’t even know why I am sitting on here typing this entire thing up. Maybe because it’s easier and quicker than writing it all out by hand. I don’t know. But, I do know that I’m not even planning on giving this to you so I can say exactly what I feel in this letter with the hopes that my parents aren’t going to betray MY trust and read through stuff on here.
I love you. My mind is constantly wandering back to you. I am willing and ready to support you in anything that you do. My mind isn’t skipping to what future we may or may not have together because I am so completely satisfied with today. I could gorge myself on emotions. But, of course, I won’t do that. With things like this, I think that it’s important that one keeps their wits about them.
Maybe I will make a separate file for my journals. I know that none of this will make sense later when I read through it. But I know that I will feel the emotions that are tied to the entry. My mom is very upset. As in worried about me, my dad, well, I don’t really know how he feels. Actually, I don’t really know how either of them feels. But I know that I “betrayed their trust.” Which, I don’t honestly care how that makes them feel, but that’s putting limitations on this relationship. I know that they are just being parents, and that they are looking out for my best interests when it’s in their interest, or whatever it is that they are doing. But really, I think that this is a little much, no apartment, no internet, no cell, grounded, no friends, etc… etc… I don’t care about any of that except that which involves you. Maybe that sounds bad, but it’s true. I tried to tell them how I feel about this, but this was their moment to shine as the spotlight parents that they really are. So, of course, how dare I impugn with my opinion, right? I just don’t see all of this mattering in the grand scheme of things. I am 16. I know that I’m not old enough to take care of myself, I need them there to help, and I can easily admit that at this point in my life I am co-dependent with survival things. But, I am 16, which means that I need to be able to sort some of this stuff out on my own, right? Maybe not, maybe that’s how all kids are meant to grow up. You don’t ever get a say in your own life, just other peoples. I don’t understand how any of this will matter in the grand-scheme of things. One day, one lie, I wasn’t having sex. I wasn’t drinking, smoking, or doing drugs, most of the time that I was there, I was sleeping. How does one small, insignificant thing like that make everything change so drastically, even if it is just temporary? I don’t know. At least I got a bunch of stuff on my iPod, and responded to all of my email (finally) before I got kicked off. And I called you and told you what was up. So that was pretty sweet, I guess. I just, I’m having a hard time thinking of when I will ever see you. If you aren’t there during the day, if I don’t get to be there anymore, you will have to come over here I guess. This means, no more getting to be who we are. No more lying naked in your bed, sleeping together. Which is odd, I don’t even know if they would be upset over something like that because the feeling of overwhelming relief that we aren’t having sex, and that I’m not a slut will be too much for them to handle, I think.
Then they told me that in the Bible it says to, “Honor thy mother and father”. But for the last about, four months, I’ve been thinking. Who’s to say I’m the Christian that they all say I am? I mean, for as far back as I can remember I have been in church. The same church. I’m a Christian the same way that I am a Secord. It’s not something that I had any say in. It was just a placement process, for the upper-middle class white person. A label and I hope that that makes them feel accepted. I just can’t believe that they pulled a Bible verse out on me. Like, I understand why that fits, but the way they used it, you could tell that the only reason it was used is because they were dying to quote the Holy Book in the lecture I was given somewhere. It was the most ridiculous and unnatural thing that I have ever heard in my life. I don’t know. It was dumb, if you were there, you would have been laughing. The same way God is their crutch, my love is mine.
Goddamnit, I thought that I had covered my tracks just oh so well. I guess that we can’t win ‘em all.
1/7/2006
For some reason, I feel like optimism should be pouring out of me. But it’s not. It’s a really weird sentiment, feeling like you should be experiencing something, but being completely absorbed by a different emotion. I don’t really know how to explain it. Maybe it’s the music that I’ve been listening to; old songs by “The Starting Line”, “Something Corporate”, and “The Juliana Theory” give me this really odd feeling of nostalgia. They make me miss something that I can’t even think of in the first place. Maybe I’m longing for home? That sense of home that I used to have, which in recent years has been shattered by the realization that home doesn’t actually exist for anyone. I don’t understand it. It’s almost as if would do anything to ameliorate myself of these emotions, but then again, I would rather be feeling some of the most messed up things that you can think rather than not feeling anything at all. It’s like my emotions feel the need to demur themselves against my body. It’s so weird and wonderful.
I don’t really mind when I’m in these moods though. It makes me feel very pensive. And that’s something that I do understand. I walk around in an artistic daze, entirely oblivious to anything that is taking place around me.
Lately, it’s anomalous how I’ve been forgetting things that are so natural to me. Like eating, or using the bathroom, or showering, or doing homework or turning off the stove, (that reminds me! I left the teapot on, full of boiling water! Oops!). It’s almost as if, I am continually wandering through a haze, unable to keep my life on track. Things that I am used to doing as expected completely slip my mind. Usually, it’s if I’m writing or playing music or composing a song, and then I realize, “Wow, I haven’t eaten for three days. I should probably go do that.” Yet, if I’m distracted by something, such as writing, the idea of eating makes me nauseas. Like today, I hadn’t eaten all day, and the only thing that looked mildly appetizing was an orange. Later, my mom and dad went and got a few things at the grocery store, and I realized that it’s been about 2 days since I’ve eaten and so my mom cooked lasagna for me. I ate it, and then I got sick and threw it all back up. And I’ve lost a lot of weight lately too because nothing looks appetizing to me. It worries me when stuff like this happens. I start to wonder, “What if I’m sub-consciously anorexic, or bulimic and I just don’t know it?” Even though I know that that is absurd because it’s not like I’m not eating because I think that I am fat, I just can’t eat because food makes me want to vomit.
It just strikes me at random times too. Sometimes, I don’t forget to do anything and I’m just so on top of everything. Getting my homework done, catching up on my emails, studying, cleaning my room, doing chores. But then, other days, it feels like I’ve been slapped in the face and all the sudden I realize that I haven’t showered in two days, I have to pee really bad, and I’m starved. As if I’ve just awoke from a coma. Bizarre as it may seem, it happens a lot.
Or, occasionally, I’ll come to life to realize that the whole time that I was busy being inattentive, someone was talking to me, and I’ll feel awful because I’ll just hear the end of what they were saying and have no idea what they’re talking about. It makes me feel like a bad friend, and I feel kind of ashamed then.
In Advanced American Lit, I read about all these great writers and poets, we read what they’ve written, we read short biographies, we read about their theme and writing style, and subjects. It’s really interesting stuff. Yet, what bothers me is how many of them were so insane. Or how they were sane, but they drove themselves so hard on one topic that they become mentally unstable. (It seems that with the, “Age of Romanticism” the topic seemed to be whether or not Transcendentalism was a credible philosophy.) Then you get those peculiar one-offs, such as Emily Dickinson (who my friend does not like, but I do, even if her poetry can be kind of pessimistic and redundant) and Edgar Allan Poe. They were writers/poets and their obsession, I think, drove them to insanity. If you read between the lines within their writing you can just see where it’s their personality spilling thoughts into the part of the narrator, as opposed to separating the character from their own, unique being. With Emily Dickinson, her obsession was death. Many of her poems are about isolation and death. She, herself, within the last two years of life only wrote to few friends, and she would send them short letters or fragments of poetry. She only wore white, never left her house and garden, and never allowed neighbors or strangers to see her. When her health “failed her” as the book says, she allowed a doctor to see her, but he could only check her out from a distance. And I just picture a pale, frail, weak, woman on her death bed in a white nightgown and a doctor with glasses, a black jacket, and a stethoscope around his neck, standing on the side of the room opposite the bed. And Edgar Allan Poe wrote about this kind of thing. It may be wrong that I find humor in the irony of this situation, but think of it: besides human perversity, Poe’s obsessions, or common subject matter in his writing was the emaciation of beautiful women, and the idea that isolation can drive an artist (any kind, I know that in two of his stories he uses a musician and a painter) to insanity. This, basically, was Emily Dickinson’s life. The last ten years of her life, she never left her home or garden, and she talked only to a close-knit, exclusive, diminutive group of friends, and even then only through letters and disjointed poetry. Thus, her isolation leading to her insanity: the felt need to only wear white, and even in the sickness which ultimately led to her death, the doctor was only allowed to look at her from a distance. The emaciating death that she bore. It just strikes me as slightly ironic, but that could just be me.
Anyhow, it’s almost eleven and I have church in the morning. (Unfortunately, but, hey, I’m grounded for skipping school with this boy that I’m seeing, so I don’t really have much of a say in anything that’s going on right now. And I would rather not argue and have my punishment extended any more than it has to be.) Good night.