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10:40 a.m. - 05/08/03
and then empty arms. )):
no, fight it, fight it; there's got to be a way to fight it. no. there isn't. aerobicism and forced smiles and chocolate only do so much. effexor and desipramine and buspar (oh, buspar) can only do so much. you could call, you know. you know you couldn't call. there's got to be a way out, when there isn't. there's got to be a way to mark the time where you stop noticing it, where you stop asking what time it is. there's got to be a means to the doctor's office that isn't an hour in the shotgun-seat of my dad's car. that doesn't incorporate that goddamned waiting room. there has to be a wait to fight what can't be fought.

he said, before you leave thursday; we'll make sure you have some magic wands to get you through the week. I have three magic wands on my shelf, leftover from when I wanted to be a fairy, before magic and weight confused themselves, and now I have so many magic wands, gifts, and none of them do much but sit there looking like magic looks to people who have never felt a miracle. sequins and ribbon and sparkling glitter. miracles are dark and stretch like fabric. they rip, they tear, they stitch themselves back together. they look like mistakes sometimes, and then they look like love. but not like Valentine's. everything's confused.

I was going to write last night and then I wasn't. I was going to write last night and then I wasn't. I was going to and then I wasn't. I was going and then I wasn't. I was and then I wasn't was and then I wasn't was and then I wasn't was. Was upstairs, in the nook of a bathroom, the place with the most light after dark, with some green paper, and a brown Crayola marker- almost the size of a chopstick, if size still matters, no, it doesn't, it doesn't, it does not matter, it can't; it does not signify. but see, I have a schedule at nighttime, and tears are slowly creeping into the spot allowed for journaling, taking their own time. writing's just a ploy now. have to find the word, hit the nerve, make the tears come. and nights like last night, I don't even expect that they're there, except that they always are. it can't just be the doctor and his sessions. there have to be tears here everyday, for him to hit on them so often. for everything to hit so hard so often.

I dreamed about Dixie last night. I dreamed that I got to run toward her and hug her and see her smile, and I dreamed that I was twisted and floating and unhealthy again. in my dreams, I seize and freeze and fly. they try to stop me, but I don't control it. and sometimes I'm scared and tell myself this can't be real. and sometimes when I wake up and it isn't real, I wish I had been wrong. when Dixie or Steph or Stacy or Brea is there, I wish I had been wrong.

the last of the crying yesterday took place without words. I threw up my hands; (that's the most we'll do these days.) I threw up my hands, and I pushed them out, and I looked at them, palms up, empty. I said, I can't change what I have, and I can't organize it into what I need. I have scraps of relationships, rags, and I can't rearrange them and make them whole again. I have this desperate need to take care of people, to help people, and I can't turn that into actual work, actual real-life, real-world, adult, existing work. I have these questions I cannot turn into answers. I need Dave to come and not bullshit me, to tell me the truth about a girl in love with a hospital - but only if it's the truth I can handle hearing. I can't go deaf again. After deaf, is mute, and I promised myself never again, again. I promise myself never again so many times.

and it's just as hard when it works. you know...it's hard work maintaining never again. it's hard work looking back on a year and one half of another "never once." it's hard.

this is the way I want it, sort of. this is the way I want it, almost. this is the way I want it, if you discount that all I really want is August-November 2001, over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over again. that's all I want. Tracy still here. me still there. all of us safe. all of us alive and together and holding on. this is what I want, if you half-listen. I want recovery, but it can't be bait-and-switch. it can't be come recover with us, now go be well on your own. be well without us. that's not what they meant, right? and when they told me they thought I would leave in that first week, they weren't attempting to explain what they wanted, right? no, they weren't, they were glad that I stayed. glad that I stayed. glad that I stayed. upset that I was so upset to leave. upset with me? not quite, but still, don't you know you're supposed to be happy about going home?

don't you know how much it hurts to leave the only home I've ever had? don't you know if I were going home instead of leaving it, we would be 180 degrees from where we are; I would be elated...?

damnit. just give me Dave. give me Dave saying, "it's ok to love us, to claim us, to need us." give me Steph saying she'll stay in touch, and Stacy and Brea living up to those words. give me that, and I can deal with the rest. I will deal with the rest. give me that, and I'll fight what can't be fought. I'll win anyway. just give me that much, first. don't make me do this without them, when they were the number one reason, the number one reason, the number one necklace I'm so attached to...in not long, it will be two years. what will I do then? with this string of o-n-e? more importantly, what will I do - will I know what to do - with me?

chord

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