"Now without a reason to be afriad, [I] suddenly find myself without a reason to hope."

I'm not so afraid of the things I was last year, I suppose that's what they call progress. I'm not afraid of being ugly, of being stupid, of having purpose, of making friends, of losing family, or of not being able regain something I felt I lacked in childhood. And yea, you're right, I don't hope anymore. Life isn't about what you make of it - it's nothing more than trying to make it back to bed in one fucking piece. So what happens when your bed betrays you? You fucking run, bitch. You run like hell. I'm running now. Left, right, left, right.

I need to be away. Away from me and into an English oblivion. I'm so fucking lost. My days are spent dreaming and my nights are spent screaming. I would rather scream in terror than be conscious during the day because at night I can scream as loud as I want.

I was being eaten. The people weren't even hungry - they were just bored. At the opposite end of the beach I could see my small family group running towards me, wanting to beat the people off me, trying to save me. Sasha tackled the woman at me neck and Leslie took out a group around my torso. I just kept bleeding everywhere and it wouldn't stop. Nikki was crying at me, talking to me to try and make me feel better about what happened. She always does that and it fucking worked and I just cried because I knew it wasn't going to make this better. Leslie and Sasha were holding each other up - neither could even fucking talk. And I just lay there, like some malleable mass of nothing, angry at their concern.
I knew I was dead. It was a big room, is what I would call it. It was a transparent tiled floor and I was tightrope hanging from the thread that stretched from wall to wall. Beneath me was a whirlpool that I was scared of. I knew where I was and that I had a decision to make.
At the bottom of the whirlpool was a black hole which was my goal, for some reason. If I jumped into the whirlpool I had a chance of making it into the black hole - I had no reason why I needed to be in there, but I did. If I wasn't [....] enough then I'd be stuck in the whirlpool; twirling in constant pain forever, I'd never get into to black hole; you only got one chance. Another option was to land on the tiled floor where you could wait until you thought you were ready to jump into the whirlpool. There were so many people there; waiting; afraid; shaking.
There were so many people in the whirlpool, not making any sounds - you weren't awarded that liberty - but making horrifying, faces that were yellow with rot.
My final option was a door number three. I could monkey-bar over to the other side and come back to life through a door. As I looked at the door, the walls surrounding it turned into a video of my family group screaming at me. They were all fucking bawling. They wanted me to come back and laugh with them. They didn't want to hug a corpse and they weren't ready to have a last dance. They weren't ready to let the fuck go of me. My decision was a no brainer to them. And then I saw my mom who kicked and punched the T.V. screen until she passed out form exhaustion. People were trying to wake her up so she could see me but her body gave out and she lied limp in the sand. And I just hung.
All I did was step down onto the tile found my dark corner like everyone else. I could feel my mom's disappointment fill my dam head like oxygen in a deep breath. I could feel her heart snap in pieces all over the floor and she stopped. She just, stopped everything.

I woke up standing on my bed and screaming into the pitch black of my early morning bedroom. I was crying and I ached. I collapsed from consciousness into my covers and cried some more. My shame blacked me out until I woke up two hours late for work and with no spinal cord. I fell to my floor when I tried to get out of bed, onto the pile of mixed clean/dirty clothes and just sat. I sprawled out in a bubble of my own self-loathing and sat.

I don't know. I'm invisible ink.

My only strategy is to exhaust myself enough during the day so that I won't do this anymore. I'm tired anyway, but if I am at the brink of extinction than some survival thing has to kick in to let me sleep at some point. I want to start over. A new one. I fucked up.

"You can see it by
the way [he] gives [him]self
to the one half
sucked out in [his] hand"

I found an old syllabus from last fall; a friend needed it for proof of a writing intensive transfer credit to John's Hopkins and our professor was too busy dealing with her dead sister, or really, the dusty house her dead sister left behind, to send her a copy of it herself. I went through my old binders, found it and looked at my old itinerary.

First off, wow. A binder. That's ambitious.
Secondly, I was fucking busy. And this - just one my classes.

Thinking back to last year thinking about me this year I don't think I would recognize me. I worked so hard to get through a last semester before my life was going to be perfect for 9 whole months. If I could just get through these next two weeks my life would be smooth sailing. *FLASH* *BANG* *BOOM* ..but wait. To read books for class or to read books for me? Why not read them both?

I would read all night, go to class just to come back to my room and nap. I would sleep all day, wake up to go to the gym and then read books for myself until about 9 pm. Then I would work on a paper that was due the next day till about 12 and then read for class until about 5. That semester was exhausting, emotionally depleting and horrifying - for reasons exclusive to their respective consequences. I considered it bankable work; the more I put it now, the more fun I could have abroad. I was motivated. Get me to Wales. Get me out. Get me away.

If I were to juxtapose my mood last year to this one, I would be so disappointed in myself. I'm not looking forward to anything. What makes me the most nervous is that I'm using going back to Wales as an excuse to hate it here. I don't know if going back will hold the same promise as it did for me before I knew where the cheap bars were or before I could distinguish between Welsh, English, northern English, southern English and Oxford accents.

All I am doing is reliving every single day. I daydream about Wales. And then my head hits the pillow and I dream about Wales. I think I can remember my first 3 months daily based on what I did. Which is funny, because I'm looking at the clock and I can't tell you where the hell the last hour and a half went.

I knew I would envy my position a year ago. Not during the semester...hell no. I've only had one serious suicide bout this semester and I was able to control it. What I miss is turning my last paper in of the semester, I miss the night I moved back home. I miss spending my Winter Break reading Watchmen and I was told there'd be cake and A Christmas Carol. I miss being excited, and expecting excitement and not knowing what's going to happen. I was so clear. So focused. So energetic and fucking passionate. It makes me sick even thinking about it.

This is what it feels to have absolutely nothing going for you. My future is not exciting. I'm just fucking miserable and stuck. I want those 6 months back. Scratch that. I also want the month before I left. Those 7 months were the happiest I have been in forever. The people made it better, but it was the situation. I need that situation again. I need that excitement again. I need to be me again.

Well, at least now I can sit in front of the internet and cry, instead of staring at my ugly white-washed walls. I'm surprised I have the strength to do anything. The only place that feels like it doesn't hurt is my bed.

I'm losing almost everything; unshakable foundations are starting to fucking crack and wear - I suppose from me abusing them to the point of irreconcilability. I can't verbally articulate anything beyond tearful "nuiwlabfiw," and my head feels like it's going to explode. The things I used to use as a release mechanism for the pressure aren't really applicable anymore - either from finding the same thing just better elsewhere or me being a completely different person. I'm spinning and I'm so fucking dizzy I can't see straight. My grades are sucking, my few friends are getting angry and distant, I'm getting in fights with just about everyone.

I've made a few goals to help salvage a few things, if it's possible:
1. answer my phone, no matter how bad it fucking  hurts, even if it is just a long enough conversation to tell them to go away.
2. go to the gym with Dan (in order to get me out of bed
3. eat fruit

I don't like the person who I am so it's not fair to expect anyone to like who I am. It doesn't take much; I keep everything anyone has ever given to me, even the people that I can't stand. No matter what bad memories are recalled at least it proves that at some point in time I was special and meaningful and wasn't forgotten. I don't want to be remembered forever, just remembered while I'm alive.
                                                          ....So why is it that I take every step to make myself invisible? Is anonymity really that sheltering? I'm just not sure what to do when getting out of bed is so difficult. I don't know how you can fucking do it and still find time to give a fucking shit. I'm not that strong.

"And I will take you and leave you alone/
Watching spirals of white softly flow/
Over your eyelids and all you did/
Will wait until the point when you let go"

I heard somewhere that when you die, the brain sends some transmitters to calm you down - once you've accepted the fact that death is inevitable, that is. They say it's the most comfortable you will ever feel in your entire life.

So, in this spectrum of comfortability my best and closest friends are where? Are they the ones that interrupt my dying to bring my attention back to living, or are they the ones that quietly accept how pleasant I finally feel?







"She is good to me, and never bad to me, and this is how you must see her."

"Everything I could remember about you I informed him, because I want him to know you, and because it makes me feel that you are yet near, that you did not go away."

This includes watches, cards, flashdrives and pictures. I keep everything that people whom I care about give me, I couldn't tell you why. They make me feel better;that I was worth their time; that, somehow and for reasons beyond my understanding, they spent their time on me; I was worth it.

It's not that I'm choosing people over people. If I could get them all in one place that worked well enough for me and have them be happy, and we could have dinner, and drink together, and I would sit through stupid rugby matches and I would make them watch movies they would probably hate, and we could make brownies and cookies and be happy.

If the world wasn't so big...    Yea if the world wasn't so big, I'd be stuck here. I couldn't afford to have to choose one over the other. It would be impossible and unfair. I would save both groups of people from raging fires and shootouts and raids and stuff. I just need to find a way to bridge the Atlantic gap between these "two groups."

Halfway; I'm halfway to never again. I tried to save my life again and failed miserably.

So, this is what scenario based panic is like. Haven't had this happen, as definably situational, as I have now. This isn't anything new - just me playing catch up with the realization that I'm not gonna do shit. Or "be" shit. Or make shit. And I don't think I want to/ to be.   

It's because I'm trying not to fuck myself up, that's why. I'm spending the next, probably but hopefully not, couple of years to improve. I'm healthy enough, at least at the moment, to say that there is hope for improvement; there has to be, otherwise, well, there just has to be. Other people seem to have a foundation where they can base their "inappropriate" actions off of; a base to whittle away at; a bank of stability, whose reserves are measurable and, to an extent, expendable. I don't.

I'm trying, still, to create a strong enough platform to tolerate my whittling. As of this moment, my chippings are flesh and blood and every mistake or bad judgement takes a deeper toll than I anticipate.
   
I got a message from Sasha. The phrase, "I've never miss you more" was involved at some point. It's funny, really. I rush to read anything from him yet when I do, I read it with the same pessimistic logic that I treat everything else. There are many friends that I'm ashamed of. He isn't one of them. I'm proud of him. And I like that I find joy in his friendship. There are so fucking few friends like this.

An 88% on an exam that I read one chapter out of five, a perfect on a quiz that I had done half of the reading for and a perfect on an essay homework assignment that I did when I was drunk that apparently "people did poorly on." What?

I wish that they meant anything and, in fact, it makes me feel awful for the people who actually study and put effort towards their education. Up until today I had thought that it would be safer for me to outlaw access to things that would make me volatile or overly depressed so that I could achieve those types of grades with more ease. As it turned out, all I accomplished was losing track of time and welding days and nights into one indistinguishable, miserable mass. There is no release in that; I wasn't exhausted enough to sleep; I wasn't conscious enough to be awake; I couldn't even retain information that would be relevant to my life (or what little strips of one you could use to infer a solid, complete life).

I may not know the consequences of letting myself at these off limit things but at least there is something there; there is a rock to lean on, I guess in some reversed, unhealthy-to-be-healthy way. There usually isn't anything exactly positive from making myself so angry but there is an outlet for anger. At the moment, I'm just reflecting everything back and forth with every hit deconstructing my very lining.

So even if these things are dangerous, I need them in some addictive way - maybe I should just be glad that these things aren't necessarily punishable. At least I feel like I'm gaining something or earning this stupid, inconsequential life instead of inactively participating in anonymity. I achieve the same things that keep other people's pressure off my back whether I work myself to exhaustion or wait to be exhausted by a scarier, routined force. If one makes me more comfortable and gives me more autonomy than why the hell would I avoid it? Besides, since when has "achieving" really gotten me anywhere?                 

Today is the first day the leaves turned brown.  They are beautiful. It seems like it has been a lifetime since I've seen the leaves like this.
I just need it to be about 20 degrees colder. Then I can hide in layers of clothes, blankets, cups of tea and hot chocolate.
Excuses and the cold.
It smells like winter is coming.

I'd rather lace my head with bullet skins then melt my brain searching for scraps.

                                                      _______________________________________________

"I think that if you have panic attacks, you have serious problems. It's like the modern day tuberculosis." 9 AM

"A throbbing, hard dick is hard to ignore."  Amidst their laughter I about burst into tears.     10 AM


I ate lunch while my roommates played Wii Golf and talked about "wild nights that were hardcore." They asked if anyone had vomited in the bathroom to christen it yet. "No," was all Dan said in response.               11 AM

I met Leslie in the commons. She talked about her new endocrinologist and heart palpitations/panic attacks. She asked me if I had ever had one in public. "Yes, if you count a high school bathroom and my little brother as a witness."    "Yea, that doesn't really count. I'm talking like stuff that you have to hide."                                                                                                 12 PM

  I went to class and came back to nap.  3 PM
I ate dinner alone out of necessity. 5PM

I have no idea what happened next. Here I am, at 10 PM, and have no idea what happened to me after 5 PM. There were grease stains on my shirt and bruises on my legs. I'm too little for this. I want my days back. I want my strength again. Or some shelter. Or to even know what shelter would mean.

It's been christened. I haven't been this throw-uppy sad since I finally thought about coming back to America on my second to last day in Swansea.

                                                          ____________________________________________________

"I Am Vertical

but would rather be horizontal"

                                                                                Just get me through it. C'mon, vodka.

 

"Shut up, you make 70 cents to my dollar."

You get caught off guard, I geuss. My notes are drastically different; Notes: nothing but scribbles of fragments of sentences that people say that has nothing to do with anything that I'm studying.

"I wish the widow knowed about it. I judged she would be proud of me for helping these rapscallions, because rapscallions and dead-beats is the kind the widow and good people takes the most interest in."
..and fragments of books envelope important wholes.


A few minutes make up an entire day and a few days make up an entire year.  Where in the world did everything go and when did I start to value fragmented pieces as opposed to complete ...things.

<input ... ></input><input ... >
"But of pure love we must bestow ourselves"

This is the part I like. This is also why it doesn't work for me, among other things. This was just the most relevant one.


And, the sense of purpose is where? I can't find it this time. I think I should be looking for the thing that's keeping me going, however, if I were to find it, I'm sure I'd destroy the living shit out of it.

A bag of fucking cheetohs? A whole packaging box and I fill it with a bag of cheetohs?

I didn't spend my evening the way I wanted; everything seems to keep being splattered all over everything else. What isn't fileted on the walls is being spray painted with whatever was jsut grinded and chucked out of whereever it came from.

You watch a movie. Then you go off and do something else that keeps you from watching the movie. But while you're busying yourself with whatever you felt like you need to do you're still thinking that "you're watching a movie."   Life became alot like this along the way.

People too. There was a time where I'd look up from my bag of gummi bears and talk to people. Then I found that gummi bears are far more interesting. Now I'm fat. Which brings me back to the cheetohs. 

I do care, alot actually. I think that if they had any idea how badly I wanted to fill that box with pictures, words, entries, music. But I care enough to not waste thier time. You can only have so many chances at sending stuff to them and they'd rahter have lucky charms and cheetohs.
        suuurpriiiseeseseseseeeeeee

Normally this is the part where I feel good for a few days, not jsut an afternoon. My cycle is changing. Hmm. Interesting, I geuss.


Two syllabi. Due dates. Some I'll meet. Some I'll know before hand. I'm better at watching them come: watching them creep towards and then watching them drift away in discontent. Not really discontent. Not really anything. It's been close to a year since I've invested time into organized anything. What the fuck is wrong?   I think I know. But the longer I only fake admit to it, the longer I can go until I pull my hair out.

If only the ocean had arms. Or love legs.

These would be good for me.

Goals to put off what I think is coming:
keep a handwritten daily journal
keep a seperate, handwritten, dream journal
keep my room clean
keep my appearance clean
dress better
Tape down into permanence traveling momentos before I stop caring about them
sleep for the recommended 10 hours a night (or at least 3 times a week)
successfully masturbate
eat alot of fruit
give up soda but drink lots of milkshakes because they make me : )
be better at calling people back
never be afraid to dance and sing



                                                                                   money. God, how depressing.

Spending too much time wishing I was something else. Maybe things would have been easier if I was born as something that isn't me. Maybe a different place? Maybe give me like another 200 years so humanity could sift through this bullshit? Maybe make me poorer or richer?           (irrelevant)

Should I scream hallelujah now?

Just tell me you love me. I geuss that's what we all want.
 
Nevermind. I don't know why I asked. I wouldn't let you finish the sentence anyway. There isn't anything to love. Just. Nothing.

Just don't give up on me.


Something is happening that I don't understand, which makes sense because I'm only doing things that I'm supposed to do, not things that I understand.

Just tell me next time it will last forever. Tell me I can make this work. Tell me I'm okay and that it's okay to be scared, or that I'm not okay and it's still okay to be scared.

If you can't hang on to me I won't be able to hang on to myself.

The best way I can explain it is this:

You meet someone - someone who doesn't bore the living fuck out of you, someone that can respect the ridiculous cycles that you put yourself through, someone that will do your dishes every now and again and not complain about the food that was molded onto the plate, someone that enjoys laughing at themselves and you, someone that can connect with the people already holding positions in this special part fo you -  and you want them to be happy. You want for them, everything that they want in order for them to function to the best of thier ability.  It makes you cry watching them earn things. And every time you see them leave it breaks your heart because they can find a way to be happy, a way to adjust, a way to live and live well, without you there.

I'm sure that most mothers/fathers who aren't busy enough with thier own bullshit feel this way about thier children. This is why I'm not having any. This feeling is sickening, it's destructive, leaves you emotionally unstable and unable to recooperate. You go from high to low, good memories, jsut as quickly as they are relived, become fucking WMD to anything that is going on at the present moment.

..This is why I can't be attached to too many people either. I can't handle the amount of concern for the people I care about. Now that that number is growing and at far greater distances, I can't imagine the amount of strength it takes to care this much about people on a daily basis.

___________________________________________________________________________________________________________

I held it together well enough in the airport. We shared mozzarella sticks and chicken wings, I ended up seeing them again anyway so it wouldn't ahve mattered what I ate. There were two hugs, both of which blocked the line for plane goers to go through security. I left quickly, shuffled behind a corner and bawled.

There goes my sense of home, a piece of my sense of happiness, and yet again I'm just letting it get on a fucking plane without me. By the time I got in my car I got rocked by an immediate sense of lonliness. The hair stood up, my neck arced and I got scared that I wouldn't be able to do it again.

It's true. What I thought about being back. My instincts get on my nerves.
          Before I landed, I figured that being back would be just the same as my other trips. I would be a bitch for the first week, quiet and reflective the second week, vaguely reminiscent the third week and by the fourth week be so encompassed in my dialy patterns that I would be alright to work, play,do..etc. that I wouldn't have time to be as heartbroken. Eventually I would be fine and develope a sense o importance in what I was doing. 
           The second I stepped out into BWI's international terminal I knew this was different. I met my mom's excitement with disappointment and tears. I wasn't sure if it was too soon to tell and didn't want to set myself up to be miserable. So I let it go and didn't think about it for a while. I'd watch it and see what this feeling prouced.
            It's not going away. The second month was harder than the first month. The longer I'm away, the more rapdily I'm decaying. It wasn't perfect, no, but it was good. ..This is already 10000 mroe times better than my reaction to this awful shitfuck town. God I hope I can get through school.

I stared/ into oblivion/ and found my home

Christ, what an awful song. But I will listen to it over and over again with tears leaking down my face because I want to.

""But come morning, despite my headache and the vomit on my shirt, I knew I'd failed."
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________


I hate this sense of movement. I'm not moving forward nor backwards, merely moving: 10 steps this way, 5 steps that way. It doesn't mean much when the steps I'm taking have already been taken previously by a more enthusiastic version of myself. There is no renewal, or refreshing wave, that tastes like fall on the horizon; Just a shadow of things that have already happened, always will happen, and always have happened. 



____________________________________________________________________________________________________________

"Lude would never feel how "empty hallways long past midnight" could slice inside of you, though I'm not so sure he wasn't sliced up jsut the same."