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10:10 p.m. - 01/21/03
the darkness into which praying people pray.
what can I say?/ but I'm wired this way/ and you're wired to me...

I'm too tense to even believe I'll sleep tonight, which makes me think it's my fault that I won't. Lately, I've fallen into a pattern of sleeping maybe six hours, waking up just before daybreak, and then going to sleep again for another hour after I exhaust myself with morning rituals. Tomorrow, I have to leave for the doctor by ten, and I have school again after days of doing what I don't consider enough work. I'm tense, yes. But all of these things, the sleeplessness, the schooling, they seem so small in comparison to Why. I'm tense because illness I hate is inside people I love. I'm tense because I don't know what to do, no matter how many times I go over the situation. I don't know what clicked for me. I don't know why I've stayed safe this past year. I don't know why I didn't die after discharge. I don't know. There's no logic to it; there's no way to understand, and I'm not saying that to minimize my own effort, I'm saying that because it's true. I must have gotten something that my friends have not yet found, and I feel like- because of that- it's my responsability to offer it to them. I would give them all the time in the world to figure it out themselves because it means so much more that way. Except the illness isn't that generous; it doesn't make promises like those. It will kill us if we don't fight our hearts out now.

And that...kills me.

I don't know what to say. It's impossible to function feeling this. It's possible to hang on, to sleep, and by default, in the morning wake again. It isn't possible to care about which president posed which racist policy during which term. It isn't possible to summon the strength necessary for social interaction or even goddamn hygiene. There's nothing left over, no surplus spilling toward the mundane tasks. There's only me and the reality; the more I talk about this, the more I realize how little I can change.

And tonight, I talked with Sara, and after a few minutes of pain, we managed to redirect our focus to what we can do, how recovery is better, why we want to move forward. It turned into a really fabulous conversation, and it was so amazing talking to her, but I still wasn't honest when I tried to explain what happened to me last night. I told her that I was scared in general, of losing again, of the fragility in people I love. I didn't tell her that last night I bawled over her specifically. Over this girl who is closer than a sister: Sara. I couldn't tell her. It sounds too much like not having faith. It sounds too much like not trusting. I believe in her a million times over, in her ability to do this. But oh God, I believed in Tracy, too. Tracy could have done this. What is this xyz factor that's so unrecognizable? How do I see how much time we have, the specifics of her needs, what I can do? How the hell do I be friend to her when I'm so terrified she'll die at anytime? I wan't to surmount my own grief long enough to hold her in whatever time we have. I tell myself that anyone could be hit by a car tomorrow, without warning. But I know better than that. I know that this is where my fear is. Electrolytes, diet pills, purges, binges, weight. This is what I know to run from, and I can't seem to hold her hard enough to take her with me. What's left? She's made the choice, she's done the work. What miracle is in my path that I can share with hers? I won't lose her. I won't.

As for what I believe beyond us, I don't know anymore. I know that there is a force of love and goodness that balances all the shit we manage to do in this world. I don't honestly believe there's someone sitting up on a throne in the sky, but I do believe that this energy is something I can personify in order to make it easier to speak with. I know that I'm still connected to Tracy, even though sometimes my fear and my grief cloud that. Sometimes my fear and my grief secure that; it depends. But right now, I feel like things are random. I feel like our lives are not monitored, made safe, made kind. I feel like all things do not happen for a reason; we can find reason in all things, but that does not justify them. I have learned a lot from losing Tracy in the way I have; it will never be enough to balance what I've lost.

It feels random. I survive, other people don't. It doesn't feel fair; it doesn't feel safe. My God, what can I do if I can't count on the people I love to be there in the morning? What can I do? I can't stop loving them. I can't survive the pain. We have to get better. We all have to get better now. No more strokes at age eighteen. No more adolescent heart attacks. No more hospitals. No more glorifying the hospital even, because yes Rogers is the best thing that ever happened to us YET. We have to move forward. We have to keep going. We can't lose everything because we lost one place, one girl, one path. We have to keep going. We have to make it. I can't do it alone.

I want to pack her in bubble-wrap and sit her down with Dr. R. Not just her. So many people. I want you to have everything I have because what I have has worked for me. And I don't understand it. I can't find the difference that adds up to the key. I know you're fighting with everything you have. I know your fear is similar to mine. What's left? What am I missing? What can I do?

There has to be another choice. Other than going crazy. Other than losing it entirely. There has to be another way.

chord

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