10:05 p.m. - 01/01/03
I could drink a case of you, darling. ***
I think my cheeks are chronically red these days. The shame of a few days ago has disipated into a sly self-consciousness, which leaves me anxious and overly concerned with what others think of me. I know that if I can center myself in thinking I'm good again, I won't care whether or not you like me, whether or not you like parts of me, or whether or not you're telling the truth when you say you do. Well, I know I'll care, but it won't define my ability to breathe. I've gotten so used to not needing to take my anxiety meds that I no longer feel good about doing so. I need to start taking them with me when I go out. The anxiety is getting ridiculous, and I really don't want to end up in the middle of the socks racks at Target, curled into a fetal position and whimpering inaudibly about Wisconsin and therapy. I'll learn to pocket some pills before I head out and swallow them when necessary. I need to listen to my own awareness sometimes. I don't believe in going backwards; I need to stop running away from steps that seem directed there. Not to imply I'm going to jump into my past; she and I went our separate ways for a reason.
I don't know why it's happened, why I'm so scared of myself lately. I'm scared that I'm not enough for anyone, that I'm not being a decent friend, let alone a good one. I'm scared that my writing is uninteresting, without content and certainly without style. I'm scared that my life is more than I can manage, and I will disappoint, whether or not I'm overcome. I'm scared because I can't figure out where this is coming from. Why is it, in the absence of these thoughts, I always adapt the impression that they're gone? Why do I think that just because a few days, weeks, months went by without thinking myself un-good, I can maintain that?
...Because I can. Because it's what I want, and I need to believe that what I want is not simply possible; it's definite. I'm scared, too, though. I'm scared because it's one of those rough weeks where I could be in residential again, where I could spend every minute in therapy, running at the mouth, crying and having panic attacks, simultaneously breaking down and breaking through. I could alternate tantrums with epiphanies and never miss a beat. That's how I feel this week. Like I must place my phone calls carefully because I *could use* a phone call constantly. I need a walkie-talkie connected to twenty-four hour support. I need someone to be with me right now, and no one can. And I didn't make it through that fact entirely intact today. I tried to cry and couldn't, and ended up snapping at my parents ("damn you for not being them" and other irrational themes) and bawling in my bed. I'm not sure if I fell asleep or just went numb, but I certainly didn't feel I achieved anything in the tears. I wanted to call up Dave and scream and beg. I thought of my last check-in when I begged them to stop time, and Heather came down to hold me as I wept. There's a hollowness between my ribs, an empty space inside me I can't fill.
I started to think not-good things like, "What I really want is to fill myself up, and I can't do that, but I can binge. I can binge until I'm filled to brimming and this emptiness is invisible, unreal, forced away by food. And then I can purge, and purging is almost as good as crying" (I hadn't cried yet) "and then I'll be ok. Or maybe I won't, but it has to be better than this." I'm not sure why I didn't do it. I guess it's habit now, and every now and again when I have those thoughts a memory sneaks up that reminds me, it's food and it's vomit and it has no healing power. It's the possibility of temporary relief at the price of purer peace. I guess in weeks like this, temporary seems like enough. When I lose sight of the goal, it's hard to resist the short-term solutions. I want, I want, I want.
I feel like an infant sucking at air, searching for nourishment that can't be found.
I feel like a four-year-old child trudging through the streets. Through snow and rain and sidewalks dripped on by the footprints of people I don't know. I'm knocking on doors, begging to be let in, being turned away. Smiled at, shaken heads, a cup of cocoa, a kind word or a harsh one, on my way again. And eventually, I quit knocking. Eventually, I just stand in the street, stare at the doors and cry.
I have a family-becoming; I am everything I need.
I have so many bits of knowledge; why are they such poor company? I am, I am, I am; why isn't that enough this time? Oh, I am. I am tired of curling up in blankets and wishing they were bodies. I am tired of not being enough for myself. There has to be an answer, a solution that involves only me. A solution carved and tempered, created from the miscellaneous, the unused gifts and the debris that make me who I am.
I am, I am, I will be.
chord
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