Aftermath
It's 11:31 AM. More than 13 hours since I last updated my livejournal. I've had a rough 17 hours.
Last night, as I slept, I had a dream, where I forgot a bag as I left a mall, went back to get it, and it was missing, but somebody noticed I had taken it. So I recruited Ludacris (it's just a strange dream, remember?), who saw the culprit, into getting it back. We drove toward a mall, and got out, and some guy tried stopping us. I don't know why. But it was imperative that I get this bag back, it apparently had a camera in it, but I don't know what was on that camera. The guy kept scuffling with us, so I broke his finger. Like, cleanly broke his finger. And then he understood just how serious we were. He followed us into a mall, located on the bottom floors of a high rise. We searched around, and caught the attention of the cops for some reason. We split up, and broke finger guy went with me as Ludacris went off in another direction. We managed to evade the police, and got into an elevator, and I hit the button to a friend's apartment up top. We got up there, and I noticed that the thief was talking to a real estate agent about buying the place, apparently trying to blend in so that it looked like he hadn't done anything. We went after him, and I called a friend to let him know where we were and what the thief was doing. The thief noticed us, pulled out a gun, and started shooting. I hit the floor behind some cover, and we waited until another friend (apparently a cop) came out of nowhere, shot him, and handed the guy with me a bullet proof vest. Of course, I was kinda pissed because he only had one and didn't give it to me. An accomplice of the man came along to try to shoot us, but received two to the chest. As he lay there wounded, I woke up.
I think this dream stems from my desperate attempts at bargaining with the situation. I find myself stuck in this stage of grief longer than any other, because I want things to be alright. Thus, I do believe I had a dream where I had total disregard for my health and safety. That turned into an attempt at heroism. I believe I dreamt these things so that I could be some sort of hero, have some sort of importance in my life, to prove to her and to myself that I am unique, important, and special. Though I'm dealing with this a little more different, perhaps in a better way than my last few breakups, I have found that the major common factor between all of them is this feeling. It just brings me back to the feelings of insecurity that I've combated for so long. I don't know what I'm worth, or how to deal with this. I feel numb, yet awful.
Last night, I couldn't eat one bite. It was 74 degrees Fahrenheit in here, and I was cold. All I wanted to do was sleep, sleep my life and these emotions away. So I went to bed around 10:30, maybe closer to 11, with a heavy mind. I woke up at around 6:45. And I had this overwhelming urge to message her about what I felt. So I did. I don't expect a response, nor do I need one. I just wished to get things off my chest. I went back to sleep for two hours, when I had the above dream. I woke up, filled up the bath tub, and sat in it for an hour. I didn't want to do a whole lot, I don't really feel like moving or doing any exercise. I still don't feel like eating, though I probably should drink some water because my throat's dry and producing some serious morning breath. I don't feel like really moving, though, at all. There's the voice in my mind, the one that motivates me, saying, "Stand up! Get going! Go for a hike, a walk, a run, anything! We can NOT let her beat us!" And that voice is very desperate.
As I sat in the tub, I opened this month's Men's Health and read the first thing I opened the magazine to. It was about a father's love for his son, stricken with a degenerative disease that causes his little boy to have little to no signals firing through his neurons and nerves from his brain to his muscles. The poor boy is just about paralyzed, save for his eyes and slight noises he makes with his vocal chords. He's six years old, and up until recently, his parents had little to no hope that they would ever be able to communicate with their beloved son. This was touching to me, that somebody loved their child with the utmost, even though their child was having a severe time, and sticking with him took so much strength. The editorial spoke of how this man had come home, almost expecting his son's respirator to have failed yet again. Rather, he was greeted with a moving surprise-- that his son had written him a note, stating how much he loved his daddy. The boy did not have the strength to grip a pen, but a speech therapist had discovered not too long before that if something gripped his wrist, his fingers would clamp down, and he would use what strength he had to move his arm to write. His son had learned, rather well, letters, and symbols, and taught himself how to produce these things without having ever lifted a pencil. Thus, the story of love touched me, when I started having so little love for myself. And I learned even more about what a loving father does for his child, and even more about the type of father I want to be one day.
I still sat in the tub after completing this article, lost in thought. After a while, I had convinced myself to stand up, drain the tub, and take a quick shower. I turned on the TV, and remembering that which happened eight years ago to this day, turned it to the History Channel. Since then, I've been trying to lose myself in the sadness of others, especially on that day which touched the lives of every single proud American. Ironically, go back 8 years. You will find one of my first entries in this journal, describing how I felt at the age of 16, sitting in AP Computer Science. We all felt pain, watching a plane crash into the second of the twin towers, at the sickening sight of an explosion that took so many lives, and would, within two hours, cost so many more. It is strange how I can find refuge from my own pain and negativity in the pain and negativity of others. At times like these, I wish I were something more, that I could do something to ease the pain and suffering of the world around me. I do not like seeing people hurt or crying, especially for things out of their control, or mine. But I feel even more useless, because most of the time, all I can offer is a mere hug. I'm almost tempted to join the military, put my life on the line with the friends who I hold so dear. But I don't know how rash that decision would be, and the last thing I ever need to do anymore is make rash decisions. Today, we still remember. We will never forget, especially those of us who wave the flag of freedom, not now, eight years later, not eighty years down the road.
Yet there is only so much I can do to ease the pain. Fighting pain with pain as a distraction is a strange concept, and no matter what I do, there is pain. These next few days will be rough, and I'm trying to find the motivation to lift myself back up.
Last night, as I slept, I had a dream, where I forgot a bag as I left a mall, went back to get it, and it was missing, but somebody noticed I had taken it. So I recruited Ludacris (it's just a strange dream, remember?), who saw the culprit, into getting it back. We drove toward a mall, and got out, and some guy tried stopping us. I don't know why. But it was imperative that I get this bag back, it apparently had a camera in it, but I don't know what was on that camera. The guy kept scuffling with us, so I broke his finger. Like, cleanly broke his finger. And then he understood just how serious we were. He followed us into a mall, located on the bottom floors of a high rise. We searched around, and caught the attention of the cops for some reason. We split up, and broke finger guy went with me as Ludacris went off in another direction. We managed to evade the police, and got into an elevator, and I hit the button to a friend's apartment up top. We got up there, and I noticed that the thief was talking to a real estate agent about buying the place, apparently trying to blend in so that it looked like he hadn't done anything. We went after him, and I called a friend to let him know where we were and what the thief was doing. The thief noticed us, pulled out a gun, and started shooting. I hit the floor behind some cover, and we waited until another friend (apparently a cop) came out of nowhere, shot him, and handed the guy with me a bullet proof vest. Of course, I was kinda pissed because he only had one and didn't give it to me. An accomplice of the man came along to try to shoot us, but received two to the chest. As he lay there wounded, I woke up.
I think this dream stems from my desperate attempts at bargaining with the situation. I find myself stuck in this stage of grief longer than any other, because I want things to be alright. Thus, I do believe I had a dream where I had total disregard for my health and safety. That turned into an attempt at heroism. I believe I dreamt these things so that I could be some sort of hero, have some sort of importance in my life, to prove to her and to myself that I am unique, important, and special. Though I'm dealing with this a little more different, perhaps in a better way than my last few breakups, I have found that the major common factor between all of them is this feeling. It just brings me back to the feelings of insecurity that I've combated for so long. I don't know what I'm worth, or how to deal with this. I feel numb, yet awful.
Last night, I couldn't eat one bite. It was 74 degrees Fahrenheit in here, and I was cold. All I wanted to do was sleep, sleep my life and these emotions away. So I went to bed around 10:30, maybe closer to 11, with a heavy mind. I woke up at around 6:45. And I had this overwhelming urge to message her about what I felt. So I did. I don't expect a response, nor do I need one. I just wished to get things off my chest. I went back to sleep for two hours, when I had the above dream. I woke up, filled up the bath tub, and sat in it for an hour. I didn't want to do a whole lot, I don't really feel like moving or doing any exercise. I still don't feel like eating, though I probably should drink some water because my throat's dry and producing some serious morning breath. I don't feel like really moving, though, at all. There's the voice in my mind, the one that motivates me, saying, "Stand up! Get going! Go for a hike, a walk, a run, anything! We can NOT let her beat us!" And that voice is very desperate.
As I sat in the tub, I opened this month's Men's Health and read the first thing I opened the magazine to. It was about a father's love for his son, stricken with a degenerative disease that causes his little boy to have little to no signals firing through his neurons and nerves from his brain to his muscles. The poor boy is just about paralyzed, save for his eyes and slight noises he makes with his vocal chords. He's six years old, and up until recently, his parents had little to no hope that they would ever be able to communicate with their beloved son. This was touching to me, that somebody loved their child with the utmost, even though their child was having a severe time, and sticking with him took so much strength. The editorial spoke of how this man had come home, almost expecting his son's respirator to have failed yet again. Rather, he was greeted with a moving surprise-- that his son had written him a note, stating how much he loved his daddy. The boy did not have the strength to grip a pen, but a speech therapist had discovered not too long before that if something gripped his wrist, his fingers would clamp down, and he would use what strength he had to move his arm to write. His son had learned, rather well, letters, and symbols, and taught himself how to produce these things without having ever lifted a pencil. Thus, the story of love touched me, when I started having so little love for myself. And I learned even more about what a loving father does for his child, and even more about the type of father I want to be one day.
I still sat in the tub after completing this article, lost in thought. After a while, I had convinced myself to stand up, drain the tub, and take a quick shower. I turned on the TV, and remembering that which happened eight years ago to this day, turned it to the History Channel. Since then, I've been trying to lose myself in the sadness of others, especially on that day which touched the lives of every single proud American. Ironically, go back 8 years. You will find one of my first entries in this journal, describing how I felt at the age of 16, sitting in AP Computer Science. We all felt pain, watching a plane crash into the second of the twin towers, at the sickening sight of an explosion that took so many lives, and would, within two hours, cost so many more. It is strange how I can find refuge from my own pain and negativity in the pain and negativity of others. At times like these, I wish I were something more, that I could do something to ease the pain and suffering of the world around me. I do not like seeing people hurt or crying, especially for things out of their control, or mine. But I feel even more useless, because most of the time, all I can offer is a mere hug. I'm almost tempted to join the military, put my life on the line with the friends who I hold so dear. But I don't know how rash that decision would be, and the last thing I ever need to do anymore is make rash decisions. Today, we still remember. We will never forget, especially those of us who wave the flag of freedom, not now, eight years later, not eighty years down the road.
Yet there is only so much I can do to ease the pain. Fighting pain with pain as a distraction is a strange concept, and no matter what I do, there is pain. These next few days will be rough, and I'm trying to find the motivation to lift myself back up.