4:50 p.m. - 03/08/02
sadness, sobriety, & self-indulgence. (from a semi-somnambular state.)
I've been such a non-documentating chord lately. How terribly atypical. In general, of course, I don't mind breaking my own rules, but I like keeping this little journal up-to-date, and not writing for however many days (days! plural!) it's been makes me look like a sad clown. Or maybe just a sad girl, seeing as I am noticeably lacking any rainbow hair, pasty makeup, or blatant facial expression.
Though I do kind of wear my heart on my head, so to speak. I give good nonverbal signals, and if I don't appear to give nonverbal signals the correct interpretation of the ones I *am* giving is "I have officially shut down, and you would be very kind to pat my shoulder, acknowledge this, and send me on my way..."
off on my way/ unseen, this eternal wanting
So things have happened as they have a tendency to do. My question as always is if anything is worth discussing here. In reality, I think it's all worth discussing at length, but I don't have the energy to do anything at length, so the question becomes are these things worth summarizing in little lists and quicky skippy sentences...? I suppose.
Here are the things I know today:
I need to call RED, not because I'm doing poorly but because I have a holely heart from not calling them. I need to write Silje because she is brave and deserves allies. I need to write Jenna because I am soft and deserve armor. I need to work on the flower play because Sarah is planning to direct it this summer and the script is hardly finalized. I need to work on the non-flower play (which basically spilled forward from my own fragmentation last night). I need to do some algebra, though I have basically caught myself up in that regard. I am happy about having basically caught myself up in that regard, and I am happy that yesterday I spent a good while talking with the Teacher about things we didn't need to talk about...like New York and stupid people and tears. Oh and hallways. Bad hallways.
I know that my English teacher liked the shitty paper I had to write for him on whether the Winter or Summer Olympics were superior, and that the Teacher wants to know how I write when I actually *feel* something about the subject. But she was also aware enough to acknowledge the pressure that put on me, which was kind. I know that I have a new writing assignment which is much more open and which will probably end up being my "treat the social epidemic of eating disorders with the same approach you treat the personal illness" essay. And hopefully it will be decent enough that I can use it for the analytic essay the please-god-college requests.
I know that I like my new Alanis Morisette CD, even though I feel like a sell-out admitting that, and that I admire her when she speaks because she has too much wisdom for pop music. I know that I cried really really hard with Harriet today, and it wasn't even the anniversary. I know that I saw Tracy lay her head on my lap and smile at me, and it ripped down the dam that holds back all my tears...and even though I knew I hadn't really seen her (not even sort of really) it destroyed me that I'd had this idea of her when she wasn't really there. Harriet says, "I'm glad you talk about her. It gives me the chance to know her. Thank you for that" and even though I'm glad I talk about her, too, it's upsetting because I don't like to think that I'm making her alive when she's not. She's not alive.
I never knew grief...not until her.
Harriet told me a story today about a woman (client) of hers, in her 50s, whose daughter died of cancer when the girl was only seven. I was trying to pull myself together, so I don't know how engaged I looked but the story was really genuine. Harriet said this woman had gone through a long, painful process (obviously) and what she decided was that there are certain people in the world who are "short-timers"...these short-timers do within a very limited life span what most of us struggle to achieve in a lifetime. They completely alter the world. And even though it didn't completely sit with me ("but Tracy didn't *have* to die and she could have changed the world and still been here and" etc) it was kind of nice. Because this whole time I've been tortured by the idea that it *should not* have been her, and this perspective, this sort of "only the good die young" idea (which is not to imply that only the bad grow old) was comforting. If it's about choosing the best than maybe it should have been her. I mean, could I have died and still changed the world? ...
I don't plan to find out. At least I hope I don't plan to find out. Growing older is still really scary to me. The idea of applying to, going to, graduating college appalls me. I still feel like I'm not cut out for the world and it's only a matter of time before everyone realizes this.
But that's old news.
In the more current scope of things, I ate some ice cream today and it was mostly melted and it tasted like foam. I see Tammy tomorrow and I'm terrified, even though I'm a good girl who is in recovery and doing well. (I was thinking about sobriety in alcoholism today and wondering how it's defined. Not getting drunk? Not drinking? Not thinking of drinking? I realized that as a bulimic I'm basically only fighting the "thinking of drinking" struggle and as an anorexic I'm "not getting drunk." My bulimia more under control than the restriction, but I really think both are ok. I forget that sometimes because I only compare myself to myself, but then I think about the fact that I'm alive and functioning (as much as is expected of me right now) and even hoping about this or that occasionally...which is, admittedly, pretty incredible.
I mean - I was going to ... not exist. And now I'm here. Yeay.
Oh, and I'm making a zine, I think...I've started one. So answer the poll.
chord
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