5:38 p.m. - 09/08/03
all alone is all i am.
[previously private]
I'm scared and sad and lost and lonely, which doesn't even cover it. I saw the doctor and he asked me what sadness presented itself in tears, and I told him I didn't know. Sadness in losing my grandma who I love, sadness in thinking about being sick, sadness in thinking about Rogers. I've become disillusioned again; I've begun to believe there isn't any destination in this journey, and as the ground around it becomes more barren, there doesn't seem much point. I'm more who I want to be, but I'm that person nowhere. With no one. He gave me a two hour session today, and I want to call him up crying and say that I can't do it. I need to talk more. I need to think more. I need more healing than this; I can't face the week.
Stupid oblivious RED, I love you. And God, I have never wanted to love so deeply as to have my longing be this much. Bring me back stupidity. Bring me back ignorance and superficiality. Bring me back the fantasies built with words and nothing deeper. Take away this real love. Take away this real pain. Take away all of this that makes me need so desperately what I will never have. I DON'T BELIEVE YOU! I don't believe that I'm going to find some kingdom where all is set right and I live as I want to live, with people I choose for family. I DON'T BELIEVE it's coming. I want to doubt the certainty that it isn't. I want evidences to read otherwise, to say, "Yes, dear, this is starting to look like home."
You know what I have? Little Mary Brave with her huge, huge resilience, who keeps moving on, who never slips back, who recovers like she was born to do so, has loss. Loss and pain. How many more loves will they take away from me? How many more friends will I know only through e-mail, never to touch them, never to call them and say, "I really, really need to be held right now" - never to have that need appreciated, met. I want so much to go back to Rogers, as it was when I was there. I want to go back to the place where everyone knows my rough day, and those who aren't having one of their own, and even those who are, willingly offer me comfort. I will do the same for them. We will exchange what we need to survive. We will love. This place is still a wasteland. This place is still wasted on me, or I'm a waste on it.
And if I called him now, he'd give me days of silence to teach me I can do this on my own. If I called RED now, they wouldn't be there to give me anything. They'll be at dinner for another fifteen minutes, at check-in for another hour. I may not even know who "they" are. And I know...I could call you. But what would you say to heal this, even just a little? What would you say to me? I want to give up. How does anyone respond to that? I don't believe in myself; I don't want to hear that you believe in me. I don't want to hear that you're capable of it when I need so desperately to be, but am still giving up.
How many more years of this? How many more years? I'm looking at the journal of that girl who came before me and knowing that her pain has changed but not exactly lessened. She has changed, but is not exactly safe. Let home alone. I'm thinking of that girl who had to leave Rogers because the sickness is toxic, and her pain, her loss, and I know that it's still here. I'm wanting to ask them why and how. Why did and how could you put me on this path that would leave me so desperately alone? Why did you take yourselves away, and did you know that everything else I love would follow your example. I'm just waiting now, to lose it all.
What good am I this way? And if I can be better, truer, more - what good can I be here? And if I can go somewhere else, how can I ever believe it won't be a place of pain? What place have I had that wasn't, ultimately, pain? What place have I had that I could stay? How do you believe in home when your only experience of one ended so brutally? I'm not going to marry and play housewife; I'm not going to decorate a tidy suburban home and feel safe. And I don't want to be the crazy writer about whom biographies are written. I don't want to be famous or interesting or dramatic or diseased; I just want to be alive. Living. Home. Safe. I just want to have all the good that I had at Rogers, forever.
It wasn't painless there. It was so far from painless; there was such hard work. But I did it, didn't I? and I felt loved, almost all the time... I'm not asking for the pain to stop, although it seems extreme. I'm not asking for a means to bypass all future pains, even though I feel I've had my share (more than...) I just want to have it out with my pain in good company. I just want to know friends other than my tears.
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