6:45 a.m. - 01/28/02
early morning incongruence.// be brave like bobby.
the nice thing about writing early in the morning when you've gotten about three hours of sleep is that no intelligent reader could expect you to be coherent. or do silly things like use the shift key. my use of the shift key seems dependent on my mood, though I still haven't determined what the trend is. or perhaps some days I just feel lazier than others, and I'm, once again, being overanalytical about obviously simple, somewhat unimportant things.
the dr gave me a bedtime and a wake-time. who gives a sixteen year old a bed time? who gives *anyone* a wake-time when there's nothing to wake up for? wait, that sounded bad..."when there are no pressing obligations for the morning"? he's trying to help with my sleep-hygiene (that's a quote) so he wants me to start going to bed every night at 10:30 and waking up at 7. So far, I've been going to bed at ten, not falling asleep for a couple hours, waking up for two or three hours in the middle of the night, and still having nightmares. it seems to be working well. unfortunately, I'm not being very cooperative. I mean, I'm supposed to teach my body that 10:30 - 7:00 is sleep time, so it doesn't take for granted that it can sleep any time and stop sleeping when I want it to. however, I get bored lying around in bed for three hours when I'm wide-eyed, and I get tired later in the day when there's nothing to do and I haven't slept. I'll probably fall back asleep later, as I've been up for about two or three hours now...I can always be more gung-ho about this anti-insomnia action tomorrow. I'm worried that if I don't get some sleep, I'll be sick for the appt with Harriet tonight. I always feel so nauseous when I'm overtired. I was thinking about that this morning, too (again, being overanalytical) and I wondered if it has to do with the purging. If, because I used to be so exhausted after vomiting, I now feel nauseous when I'm exhausted...it gets painful, though actually. I feel like my entire body is weak with the waves.
Luckily, there's none of that happening right now, and my mom is making me hot chocolate, which, despite the fact that the chocolate part sounds suprisingly non-appetizing, will probably be *warm* and warm is good. I should be wearing socks, but I am dumb.
so I didn't write yesterday. I don't know why. I kept thinking in journal entries, but when I went to actually write, nothing came. I thought I'd work on the piece for Laura's newsletter, but thinking about Tracy long enough to write just gets to be too painful. I know that if I'm honest, it will be enough - this isn't exactly some Pulitzer-quality epic I have to write - just something honest about what I've gone through, with losing Tracy, what happened with Paul, John's attempt, my own demons, and all my friends who've struggled. That seems like a lot for one article; I might have to tone it down a bit. Sometimes I forget that there is always another piece to write, that I don't have to say i-have-an-eating-disorder-and-depression-and-anxiety-issues-and-i-can't-stand-separation-because-i've-been-abandoned-and-i-never-think-anyone-comes-back-oh-and-then-i-have-these-issues-with-shame...sometimes you just have to stick to one tiny fraction of a subject. I think it might have to do with my not-too-intense brand of OCD...how I'm always putting things together that don't necessarily go together, and how I don't ever want to leave anything else. Details are my friends.
I hope this going back and forth between the upper and lower-cases isn't bothering people. it's the type of thing that would probably be bother me. I'm really surprised that it doesn't...it starts to, but then...there are so many other things to be bothered with...
I changed my mind about the hot chocolate. The chocolate part is gooood. My mom's tea is prettier: a deep greengrayish color. It made me kind of jealous, but then, sometimes I wonder if I really like tea, or if I just want to like tea...because though I'm a somewhat abnormal teenager writer, even in abnormality there are expectations. in reality, though, tea is good. whatever the reason. but hot chocolate, even unintriguing brands like swissmiss are also tasty.
that might very well be the first time I've talked about (almost) food for a long, long time.
lately, when I'm lying down I remember things and am not really sure what I'm remembering. I don't recall them logically, but rather in my emotional state. it's odd; it's sort of like a non-traumatic body memory. I knew body memories didn't have to be from trauma, the way you can think about a restaurant and remember how a certain dish there tastes is a body memory, but I tend to use the term to refer specifically to the nervous, tense, shamed pain feelings I get when I thing about being semi-molested.
(yup...there they are.)
anyway, feeling like I'm remembering and not being sure *what* I'm remembering is oddly surreal. it's like knowing you've dreamt, being still able to feel the dream, and not having any idea what it was about. occasionally, I put something together - the warmth in the cold air now mirrors the cold in the warm air when I first went to red - but for the most part it makes the world oddly timeless. in part, it's as if this moment doesn't exist, and in part it's if it exists, has always existed, and will continue on always. just the simple moment - lying down on my side with the blanket just so, reaching for a small glass to hold the water I take with my meds...even if the memories don't feel particularly sad, there is a sadness around them I can't completely cancel through nostalgia. the sadness of lying down reading and knowing I spent days that way when I was too scared to come out of my room. the sadness of lounging on my bed for a few moments in the afternoon and feeling the sickbodied feeling of restriction mixed with purging. the rush I get with kickboxing that brings up all those hypergymnasia days when I walked my way into soreness and heat-exhaustion. there's a sadness knowing that this is my life - *still* even working on it, this is my life - I can't be up early without being afraid I'll lose control and eat the house for Christ's sake...it's so horribly *sad.*
and the fact that there are people going through this, all throughout the world there are people struggling with shame and grief and anger, it just makes me wish there was a way to (yes) *connect* us all. it makes me wish there was a way that we could be tied almost literally to each other by a thin, loose, (strong) string, somewhat like a belay system. as much as I want to be supported, that's how much I *need* to support. I want to stand at Holden's cliff's edge and catch those kids who *might* fall. it's that rye-catching urge that makes me want to be the veteran at red, to do something...sometimes I have this feeling that I'm not completely worthless, that I could *do something* for the world, if only it were possible to do it in abnormal ways. I mean, why can't a writer be a corner poet living off of people's hospitality in exchange simply for her presence - why does she have to be a jouranlist, striving to be editor of a (oh, dear, *literary*) magazine? It traps me in my sadness, to realize all shaaman must be therapists, all healers go to medschool.
I read that book Catcher in the Rye yesterday, and I completely understood Holden's dream and the devastation of it not being a reality. You can't go around asking questions about ducks in lagoons, not when you're too ashamed to deal with the looks with which people respond. I just wish - I just wish there was a way to get through it all, to be broken like an antique instead of garbage.
What's more, I'm looking into this very independent liberal arts college, and I keep thinking - that's what I've always wanted...but what will I *do* with what I learn?
dischorderly
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