7:55 p.m. - 01/13/02
you and your overrated transitions. me and my overrated madness.
they say chocolate is a seratonin supplement. I think they're exaggerating; mess entries are far more effective, and the longer I go without her words, the more I melt when she posts again. just tell me that one of these days the world will evolve into one in which all of the artist's are sane enough to withstand living.
sometimes when i type artists i hear it the way that anna paquin says it in fly-away-home...that lovely "ah-tists" that sounds so much more fitting that the american pirate versions. rrrrrtist.
mary chord is busying herself talking about nothings in order to keep from pushing away her barely touched copy of the scarred soul before it can be useful. chord is busying herself looking at pictures that make her drool and words that make her melt to keep from looking as ravaged as the cliffs near the house they tell her she must now claim as her own.
i may have a room with sunlight now; i may have a safe haven from the insanity, but one day i will escape altogether and people like the country doctor will curl around me in a constant way, one that does not end with a check, a receipt, and an awkward drive back into the boonies.
i've had friends my whole life but this idea of him, this idea of an advocate, someone who sits on the footstools to be near me, who hands me kleenexes and touches me so gently i miss it...it is something i could very easily become obsessed with.
nothing intrigues her more than the boys who won't be boys.
(except maybe atomfolk.)
i need to change out of this shirt; there are far too many reflective surfaces in my new room. i don't really see the point in it though...the body doesn't change, no matter how baggy the sweatshirt.
skipping topics like hopscotch squares: i think if mandy were nearby enough for it to be plausible i would become obsessed with her in a very illegal way. i think the next time i see her, my eyes will burst into such tears they will never again be dry, and my body will collapse with the weight of every night i couldn't hold her and every word that made me want to.
there are few beauties greater than knowing you have more people worth this intense brand of infatuation than you have fingers. i'm too non-romantic to be talking polyamory (and i know that if my mom even hears my fingers clicking the keys that make that word, she'll have my head - 'tis one of few societal issues we openly disagree on)...it's simply the idea that i would love *nothing* more than to be in a room where people i so avidly adore could come and cuddle and speak and leave as often as they liked. i want to be amid the angels of my atomworld.
i've been sparked to reread ...rose garden lately. it was this time last year that i read it for the first time; i remember judie saying how my reality was very different from that of deborah's - she meant in terms of my diagnosis. depression is a far cry from schizophrenia...but then...this idea of deborah's, the creation of a new reality in order to survive, it thrils me. it's the same connection that draws me to read anne heche's autobiography (call me crazy). it affirms something too often dismissed as destructive. survival skill 2014: turn your imagination into an imagiuniverse.
there are so many books to reread and the damn companies keep shelling out new ones...meanwhile the next becketts, dickinsons, and wurtzels, are sitting in torn mead notebooks somewhere the publishers will never condescend to look.
does anyone else get a migraine from the pain of that reality? or am i the only one mourning all the books i and the world will never read?
the lowercase is a nice invention. it has so few edges, such a soft feel. why is it that roundness of body terrifies me and roundness of writing brings comfort? why is it that logic never makes sense unless it's disordered and disorders are never logical unless they're healed?
today: tammy. dark glasses, hair pulled back, looked something like a tight-lipped principal in the beginning. (fear.) exit mom at my direction (why bother trying to sustain a long since broken girl?) scene: tammy and i in the little office with the fountain and the candles and the desk she feels is far away. her words- don't minimize what happened to you. tracy's lost = "horribly traumatic" = anyone in with so little recovery time relapsing some = not as much a crisis as everyone is making it out to be = what else are you supposed to do when it's impossible not to feel the pain and impossible to survive at home when feeling?
-at the same time, girl, this can't go on much longer. you will be hydrated and you will be in touch.-
she said she trusted me, and i was honest; i told her what that meant. i told her that i needed to be trusted, i needed to know that other people understand that i am not a girl who enjoys compromising her integrity, and that if i say i'm at a certain level, and i think i can get to a certain (more healthy) level, i mean it. moreso, if that becomes untrue, i am likely to let someone know. history dictates i will beg for help at the first signs of slipping.
this girl she has a fear of falling like few would understand.
at some point i need to make a list of all my school-fears so that they can feel organized if not abated, but i believe if i do it now, no book (not even one with a purple cover and a person sitting in a corner mimicking my very common ball-like posture) will keep me from digging for the relief below my skin...
i believe in miracles; & more than that you are one...
sincerechord
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