2:35 p.m. - 07/09/02
(walking this sweet freedom struggle of mine)
I'm sorry. no, I am sorry, I am; I know you don't want me to be. I know it isn't healthy, still I am. I'm sorry beyond my guilt also; I'm sorry that it happened, I'm sorry that you're struggling, I'm sorry that there's nothing I can do.
You do all you need to. Just by being here. Just by being who you are. english isn't even her first language and she managed to craft sentences as beautiful as that. sincerity over schooling any day.
I'm sorry. I know I'm not supposed to be sorry, but it's so painful. I want to sweep all of you up into my hands and put you down into a dollhouse we'll call red, and everyone there will feel peaceful even in their struggling. I want to rescue you, even though I know I'm not supposed to want these things. in the face of such certain faith, I feel reduced to a dumb kid, but I still want to save you. I still want to save you from what I admit I don't even understand.
I don't want to take away the opportunity for your evolution; I just don't trust the agenda of the universe. you'll remember it occasionally makes sacrifices of girls who are not pawns.
no? god? do I have it wrong?
do you understand how it is possible for me to listen to you and know as soon as you say "relapse" that you are working, that you will continue working, that you are *going* to be well, at the same time that I am tearing out my hair going, "I have to fix this now."
I love you and I want to believe that I have to fix it because I love you, but I think the more honest version is that I need to fix it for me. in order to sleep at night, I need to page through the list of lovelles in my head, and know that everyone is well.
dear god, do you do this? do you check on us each night and each morning, and know we're always well? I think it's easier for you; I think you can look Tracy in the face and see the light inside her eyes. I think, even with the infinite knowledge that would overwhelm my little human brain, it must be easier that way. it must be easier to know she's safe when you can hold her in your arms.
you know, I didn't know her very well. we were roommates; we each had better friends. I don't feel deserving of this grief. I don't want to make what happened a bigger problem than the friendship seems to equal. she deserves to be grieved until we can no longer breathe, but I feel weak to do it. the grief is all that's left of her in this world (maybe?)- is it fair that such a big part of her be put in *my* hands, hands that so barely touched her, so rarely felt her shoulder stretch below their skin?
all my fault all my fault all my fault all my fault...
I know I shouldn't think this, but I do. I feel this, and I can't make it go away, and I don't know how to say to them, I feel this when inside there is such guilt, I don't even want to bring the words to my lips. you don't say to someone, "I think I'm poisoned" because you think you're poisoned; you don't tell them you killed a girl because you did.
it's my fault she's gone, and I have the audacity to grieve her. that's how I feel. that's how I feel. that's how I fell, that's how I fill, that's how I feel.
I was so sorry to be on the phone, stretching your bill, stretching your energy, venting to you about things you should not know. I was so sorry to do this to you, when you are struggling (that word: relapse; that word)...and at the same time, I can't seem to help myself. I think I want to help you all; the truth is I need help myself. I need someone to fix me. To rescue me.
dear god, are you up to this craziness? are you up to caring for the figments of *your* mind?...namely- me? am I more than even god can handle?
my shoulders ache with all the things I do not know and all the sparks of knowing self-igniting in my mind. . silje called today.
ch.o.rd
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