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10:05 p.m. - 12/09/02
this probably won't make sense to me tomorrow.
spinning and whirring, crashing and uncertaining. things are unwinding too fast; I can't tell if it's insight or depression. don't I know the difference by now? I know that I'm not in myself; I'm watching from the outside. but maybe I'll have a Jimmy Stewart sort of moment and see the point of things from this perspective. I can hope.

and meanwhile, the annual play is spilling out almost faster than I can judge it (truly faster would be miraculous) and my school has the most wonderful payoff for standardized testing I've ever heard of: high scores on both sections means a free ticket out of two exams (so long as I have a's, which I do.) I watched "Don't Say A Word" (shifting focus at the correct moment, and muttering "I'm safe" often enough to keep from full Mary-disassociation) and realized something that may be the key to everything, or may be a key to a key to a key to a key to an empty room. I guess I've learned to follow paths that interest me, even without the reassurance they'll pay off.

I'm thinking: everything happened. I'm thinking all that I feel within me is real. that I'm an empath and as a child was told too many things. that for whatever reason, experience or imagination gone awry, I was able to see and feel what I was told, or showed in art. I'm thinking that knowing about rape gave me access to something like it, not to minimize the real experience, or my actual experiences with s.abuse. Just to give example. I say things to Dr. R, like- regarding my life at Rogers and my life in D!@#$%^, "which is real?" The question befuddles him. "They're both real," he says. and maybe there's something in my question, in the way his answer baffles me. maybe there's something in the idea that those triggers which turned my head to fog and my body to a canvas for their tales were consistently "just stories" "just movies" "nothing much." they weren't real, the way the pain in my stomach when I thought I was dying was not real. I don't know, there's something liberating in that, and also something like anger. and I can't quite anchor myself, which scares me. I'm grappling with a truth, but I keep floating away before I get a clear view. and maybe it's not a truth at all, maybe it's just another line of a poem that just won't matter. it gets so hard to tell the difference when the time is like this.

where am I where am I where am I?

still fighting with everything in me against the fact that I can't be who I am without someone coming after me. still fighting with everything in me because today I e-mailed my entire family carelessly, as Mary Brave. and afterward I wanted to jump through a window and pound my palms against the glass, into the ground...if I can just hold out, it has to stop hurting. if I can just get the pain into focus, maybe there is something we can do.

fantasy's spectacular, but it's only a tool if you know how to turn it off. it's only a gift if when you're barely born, people protect you and teach you how to use it. you're only safe when you can't betray yourself.

chord

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