In all my recent dreams, only two things have been the same. One, I have attempted/succeeded at dying and Two, for some reason, someone always brings up me being a man.
My dream last night was no exception. For some reason, I dreamed of VeVa. I was in NYC for some reason (I'm assuming) and met up with Veronica. We were talking, laughing, went for a ride in a car and talked some more. At some point in the dream, Veronica asked me if I was actually a boy. My answer was fumbled (for it usually is when I am sleeping) and I answered that "Yes, in my dreams I am, but maybe... maybe I am really both." but she started freaking out like "Crap, I kissed you. How could you lie to me like that? B will throw a fit, I can't believe I actually kissed you..." and I was aggravated, confused and a bit scared, so I ran from the car.
Really pathetic dream, eh? I think I died that time from a razor blade, but I can't remember.
What I CAN remember is that each time I attempt to die, I start getting scared, but only AFTER I made the fatal wound/ swallow the fatal pills/ etc. It's like "Crap, this is really it. I'm really going to die. No more chances. This is it - this is the end." But then afterwords, I get... calm. Like "It's over. No more problems, no more expectations, no more responsibilities. No more wondering what is wrong with me. For once... I can just be." And then I die. But I always wake up. Always.
This time, I woke up to the sound of my mother's voice, loud and obnoxious with two other people in the other room. I opened the door and called out if they could just be quiet, it would be wonderful. It was after 12 o'clock. My mom's reply was "Sure!" And I went back to bed. She didn't quiet down at all. Didn't even attempt to. So I went to the door again and got the same response. I waited ten minutes before doing it again and after that, I couldn't take it anymore. I got my clothing on (the Kiska is most comfortable nude) and walked out the door.
There she was, sitting on her couch and - I KNEW it - with a glass of wine in her hand. She and her friends looked up at me, looking mock frightened, but mostly amused, and said "I'm sorry Sarah - funny times are happening." and then I just threw it at her.
"I am trying to sleep, I asked you nicely THREE times, you have TWO young boys sleeping in the next room! Shut up, you're drunk." She looked up at me like "WOAH" and her friend (who up until this point, liked me very much) said "Sarah, she only had two glasses..." I began to tell her that she was drinking before she even arrived when my mother cut in.
"That's not the point. You have NO right to speak to me this way like you're my mother..."
"Well, nothing else seemed to work. Perhaps I should give this a try."
"Sarah, go to sleep."
"Oh, I WOULD..."
And I stomped off back to my room. She knows I hate noise when I sleep. Whenever I visit, this is usually the largest argument we have. And it's not even that she's talking on the phone or with friends, it's that she blasts the TV and her mini DVD player even when she isn't watching it. What's more, she sits RIGHT IN FRONT OF IT. The entire time, she complains that she can't hear it, but then contradicts herself saying her hearing is fine. We had finally come to a compramise. She plugs ear phones in her ears when she's watching her DVD player, which is wonderful because she sleeps with it on and when it isn't on, she complains she cant sleep.
So I get to bed and she and her friends start speaking in spanish... as if I can't understand. My mother starts.
"The little killjoy..." She says, as I hear her and her friends place their glasses on the table (Which are still right in front of me. On the table.)
Her friend (who we shall call B) continues "I understand where she's coming from, but she didn't have any right telling you to shut up. I wouldn't have allowed it." They continue talking about me, loudly until the conversation dies out and changes to something new.
If they really understood where I was coming from, they'd understand that sleep is my only solace in the world and they are gleefully taking away from me that only thing that makes me feel sane.
Now, as to why I am still here, at my mother's house when I so clearly hate it...
I came here to go with my brother to Washington DC. It was aggravating, but in the end, fun. My brother had never been there before, he's eight. It was aggravating because he has all the symptoms of having ADHD (I hope this is not true. If so, my mother doesn't believe in mental disorders and he's ALREADY doing horribly in school... ) and my mother walks about 5 times slower than me. She always complains. We always have to wait for her. I felt like the parent between two polar opposite kids.
But I took my brother to the air and space museum. He loved it. I believe that in the end, it was worth it.
I spoke to my mom after. I told her that my diagnosis sheet was written up. Because of this, she should do her part and start helping me with my college. My mother replied "No." Saying she didn't have to. In the end, she told me to apply for financial aid (Which I HAD) and if they didn't help me, then MAYBE she would.
Do you see what this is?
It's fucking blackmail. I have to keep her happy... for a maybe. But what other choice do I have?
She then said that if I do work for her on the weekends (Yes, EVERY weekend) she'd give me $10. It's not much at all. But I need it. I need every fucking dollar I can get my hands on. Yes, this is how desperate I am.
That's why I'm still here. For $10. Bloody hell.
But after last night, I do not know if I'll receive ANY money what so ever. I fucking hate her. It's the truth, no exaggeration. I hate my mother.
I hate how she stole all my father's money (I'd be a millionaire right now, if she didn't), I hate how fucking manipulative she is, I hate how she's the embodiment of the Catholic sin Sloth, I hate how she used to be a druggie drunk that abused my sister and I - even our CATS, and now that she's found God, she believes that all is forgiven, and the worst part? I hate that she's related to ME. I hate that I feel her in my BLOOD, I hate that I look in the mirror and see the shape of her face, I hate that some flaws inside of me come from HER and I HATE HATE HATE that I have to live with this. I have had dreams where I murdered her. I have had many.
My brother is the only reason I come back. He misses me, he needs me. I teach him things my mother wouldn't even dare, he is not my child but he's the closest thing I will ever have to one. I take comfort in the fact that he is more like me than he is like her.
I want to be alone. I'm sick of people. My shoulders are tired. I can no longer be not selfish. I hate that all my blogs mention suicide, but honestly, these days suicide is all I can think about.
Sometimes, I'm scared that if I don't kill myself, I'll kill everyone else.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Thursday, April 22, 2010
More Poetry Drabbles.
3. As a little girl
I fingered the knife wounds in your legs
Enchanted by fascination
You had told me the very woman who held you in her womb
Chained you to the radiator
and left you to bleed out your very life from shrieking flesh.
But not before returning to cast your brother aflame.
I thought I had it lucky.
Never questioned what was sure to be a normal life
Until stated by my Grandmother the fear imprisoned in my bones
At the mention of my mother.
I thought
"Isn't this what a mother's love is?"
Because as long as I didn't have permanent indents in my thighs
I could be forcefully locked away from kin
and do no more than lie and dream of nourishment
For up to three days.
4. Magic doesn't exist at the end of the world
And it certainly doesn't exist over the edge of a bridge.
It wasn't supposed to be this way.
You see, like any boy, he only wanted approval and good fun
Like all the other kids his age.
Fun is in the eyes of the beholder.
Almost every culture has it's own ceremony
For coming of age.
So why should a gang be any different?
And this group of cowboys only accepted men.
So the boy stood as instructed with a sack in his hand
Warmed by the heat and scurrying of fur
Weighed down by mewling, a rock
and the knowledge that this mistake would haunt him
for the rest of his life.
And as life slows so he may deflower his ears with
the sound of a splash
His eyes register an event that no six year old should even dream of.
The boy was now a murderer.
5. My Father once asked me
If I now despise you so much
Why did I ever want you?
And I took the easy way out and replied
"You know those relationships
that make you want to slap your forehead and say
'What was I thinking'?"
And we were both content with my lie.
But I wasn't thinking
I was feeling
Gracing my fingers across her lips
As if I could feel the catacombs of her soul
But I didn't know
and it never occurred to me
That NOTHING is buried in a wall aside from dead bodies
You can't coax love form a decaying corpse.
The vampyres were more romantic in your books
And so plastic
Plastic enough to glow rainbow in the fucking sunlight.
Did you read Carmilla?
Beauty her only glamour
Even which could not conceal the repugnance of her soul
Looking to be her very dusty maggot infested corpse
Decomposing behind a stone wall
And THIS
IS
YOU.
We may dress vampyres up to be pretty
Give them souls
And hearts of sappy 16 year old romantics
But this is only the modern stereotype
And the truth is what most people are never educated to know.
So when my father asks "Is she is so wicked
Why fall for her in the first place?"
I reply
"Because I was never taught to know any better."
(In the catacombs of your soul
Are the bodies you have and will bury.
And I am only one of them.)
6. There are no faeries where I live
I know this to be fact.
No slyphs riding on the back of Guinea fowl
Or hiding behind eroded stone after tugging at the whiskers of a cat.
They'll never travel form their tiny homes
If I left them milk by one of the few trees
My landlord hasn't chopped down
For the sake of profit.
In this ranch
On this farm
I feel the starkness of dead time
With no magick to propel it forward.
My cat,
the only entity to remind me of the life that has been lost.
You see, I am a spiteful spectre
As vindictive and unforgiving as father Time himself
Or at least, how I imagine Him to be.
These cushons have faded from the dazzling emerald
That lit up the room like pixie dust
when my Grandma was still alive.
She told me
That you're never too old to believe in faeries.
For who are we to say that something can not exist?
And I remember the cicada wings
she used to bring me with my morning yogurt.
how she would say a faerie shed them
for more beautiful ones
And tried with all her very soul to make me believe
Ah, but you see
There are too many words to remember when you're feet in the ground
So, years later, when Fate herself deceived me
Each time I emerged from the vacuum of my house
I didn't understand that this was just her test and my trial.
So I pulled forth all my memories of cicada wings and brick mansions
And shed them with my lack of compassion
Called upon all the magicks I hadn't visited since childhood
And told them that they
Can
Not
Exist.
And to me... I suppose they don't anymore...
Just like I'm not even a memory to them.
Solely another human that sits on its faded wrinkled throne
Wrestles fate
And murders.
I fingered the knife wounds in your legs
Enchanted by fascination
You had told me the very woman who held you in her womb
Chained you to the radiator
and left you to bleed out your very life from shrieking flesh.
But not before returning to cast your brother aflame.
I thought I had it lucky.
Never questioned what was sure to be a normal life
Until stated by my Grandmother the fear imprisoned in my bones
At the mention of my mother.
I thought
"Isn't this what a mother's love is?"
Because as long as I didn't have permanent indents in my thighs
I could be forcefully locked away from kin
and do no more than lie and dream of nourishment
For up to three days.
4. Magic doesn't exist at the end of the world
And it certainly doesn't exist over the edge of a bridge.
It wasn't supposed to be this way.
You see, like any boy, he only wanted approval and good fun
Like all the other kids his age.
Fun is in the eyes of the beholder.
Almost every culture has it's own ceremony
For coming of age.
So why should a gang be any different?
And this group of cowboys only accepted men.
So the boy stood as instructed with a sack in his hand
Warmed by the heat and scurrying of fur
Weighed down by mewling, a rock
and the knowledge that this mistake would haunt him
for the rest of his life.
And as life slows so he may deflower his ears with
the sound of a splash
His eyes register an event that no six year old should even dream of.
The boy was now a murderer.
5. My Father once asked me
If I now despise you so much
Why did I ever want you?
And I took the easy way out and replied
"You know those relationships
that make you want to slap your forehead and say
'What was I thinking'?"
And we were both content with my lie.
But I wasn't thinking
I was feeling
Gracing my fingers across her lips
As if I could feel the catacombs of her soul
But I didn't know
and it never occurred to me
That NOTHING is buried in a wall aside from dead bodies
You can't coax love form a decaying corpse.
The vampyres were more romantic in your books
And so plastic
Plastic enough to glow rainbow in the fucking sunlight.
Did you read Carmilla?
Beauty her only glamour
Even which could not conceal the repugnance of her soul
Looking to be her very dusty maggot infested corpse
Decomposing behind a stone wall
And THIS
IS
YOU.
We may dress vampyres up to be pretty
Give them souls
And hearts of sappy 16 year old romantics
But this is only the modern stereotype
And the truth is what most people are never educated to know.
So when my father asks "Is she is so wicked
Why fall for her in the first place?"
I reply
"Because I was never taught to know any better."
(In the catacombs of your soul
Are the bodies you have and will bury.
And I am only one of them.)
6. There are no faeries where I live
I know this to be fact.
No slyphs riding on the back of Guinea fowl
Or hiding behind eroded stone after tugging at the whiskers of a cat.
They'll never travel form their tiny homes
If I left them milk by one of the few trees
My landlord hasn't chopped down
For the sake of profit.
In this ranch
On this farm
I feel the starkness of dead time
With no magick to propel it forward.
My cat,
the only entity to remind me of the life that has been lost.
You see, I am a spiteful spectre
As vindictive and unforgiving as father Time himself
Or at least, how I imagine Him to be.
These cushons have faded from the dazzling emerald
That lit up the room like pixie dust
when my Grandma was still alive.
She told me
That you're never too old to believe in faeries.
For who are we to say that something can not exist?
And I remember the cicada wings
she used to bring me with my morning yogurt.
how she would say a faerie shed them
for more beautiful ones
And tried with all her very soul to make me believe
Ah, but you see
There are too many words to remember when you're feet in the ground
So, years later, when Fate herself deceived me
Each time I emerged from the vacuum of my house
I didn't understand that this was just her test and my trial.
So I pulled forth all my memories of cicada wings and brick mansions
And shed them with my lack of compassion
Called upon all the magicks I hadn't visited since childhood
And told them that they
Can
Not
Exist.
And to me... I suppose they don't anymore...
Just like I'm not even a memory to them.
Solely another human that sits on its faded wrinkled throne
Wrestles fate
And murders.
Random Poetry Scribbles
Just wrote these down. They are unedited and suck, but it's an idea of my writing. These were from random prompts I got at Loser Slam.
1. You are an exit wound
A reminder of misfortune come to pass
The awkward girl wearing shirts
long enough to hide her knee caps
but refusing to wear a dress.
The boy crying over the loss
of his cancerous Grandmother.
A black umbrella opens in my chest
If only to shield from the remembrances
What had passed
The scent of oversprayed perfume
In a closed apartment room.
The good part about living in your car?
The air tastes of pollution and dirty laundry
And I have never been here before -
for once, I don't need Lithium
And I am at ease
I don't know how old I was
when the music stopped
And I woke to static
When I tripped over morning light and stumbled down cells
Time has become meaningless
And I wonder why you allow this bum to occupy your SUV
You always woke up swinging
I wonder if you felt empathetic with me
and blamed yourself for making ready my pendulum
Darling, I was swinging before I even met you
You were just there to watch it fall.
It was supposed to be a summer of love
It was - just, not for you
15 years later and broken in a sewer
Gripping with the life I had lost
Pink pills and broken promises
Remember, remember, remember...
Monsters... don't live under the bed anymore
But in every shadow
Up every tree
In the head lights of every car that passes my way
Honey, I am numb to you
Numb to your regretful eyes that fail in relaying apologies,
Hands that untangle my knotted hair
And deadened to lips that tearfully whisper apologies
From 15 years ago.
2. She is the sand and yet unseen
You don't notice her
Her head is just another stone
Legs just two more pillars of soil
I am relieved you don't realize I dream of her
When in your bed
Feel our connection when you beat me down -
to you, her chocolate eyes are just two more shadows wandering where they don't belong
They comfort me.
Only to her will I surrender
Her skin may be the shade of Filth
But her tongue is legions more fertile than the desert in your mouth.
With her kisses
I can finally breathe.
Her fingers excite my ever nerve like a carpet filled with static,
you have only ever tried to hold me in place.
She needs me
but in a way unlike a child desperately groping for his property.
You are a wasteland
And I no longer with to see our ruins.
A reminder of misfortune come to pass
The awkward girl wearing shirts
long enough to hide her knee caps
but refusing to wear a dress.
The boy crying over the loss
of his cancerous Grandmother.
A black umbrella opens in my chest
If only to shield from the remembrances
What had passed
The scent of oversprayed perfume
In a closed apartment room.
The good part about living in your car?
The air tastes of pollution and dirty laundry
And I have never been here before -
for once, I don't need Lithium
And I am at ease
I don't know how old I was
when the music stopped
And I woke to static
When I tripped over morning light and stumbled down cells
Time has become meaningless
And I wonder why you allow this bum to occupy your SUV
You always woke up swinging
I wonder if you felt empathetic with me
and blamed yourself for making ready my pendulum
Darling, I was swinging before I even met you
You were just there to watch it fall.
It was supposed to be a summer of love
It was - just, not for you
15 years later and broken in a sewer
Gripping with the life I had lost
Pink pills and broken promises
Remember, remember, remember...
Monsters... don't live under the bed anymore
But in every shadow
Up every tree
In the head lights of every car that passes my way
Honey, I am numb to you
Numb to your regretful eyes that fail in relaying apologies,
Hands that untangle my knotted hair
And deadened to lips that tearfully whisper apologies
From 15 years ago.
2. She is the sand and yet unseen
You don't notice her
Her head is just another stone
Legs just two more pillars of soil
I am relieved you don't realize I dream of her
When in your bed
Feel our connection when you beat me down -
to you, her chocolate eyes are just two more shadows wandering where they don't belong
They comfort me.
Only to her will I surrender
Her skin may be the shade of Filth
But her tongue is legions more fertile than the desert in your mouth.
With her kisses
I can finally breathe.
Her fingers excite my ever nerve like a carpet filled with static,
you have only ever tried to hold me in place.
She needs me
but in a way unlike a child desperately groping for his property.
You are a wasteland
And I no longer with to see our ruins.
The Voices
So, early this morning, I met the Mistress of Nightmares.
I've never heard this voice before, but that is the name she gave me. She came to me when I couldn't sleep shortly after 4 AM. When I asked her why she was here, she hushed me in such a slow almost motherly way that I began blushing, even my heart beat rapidly. She was the loudest most realistic voice I ever heard. The only reason I knew she wasn't physically in the room was because she was so close to my ear and I didn't feel any breath. Though, I'm sure if I did, I would have melted into a puddle.
Anyway, she promised me sleep and it came. And what did she give me? A nightmare. I fell to sleep begging her to bring me sleep, that I didn't CARE if it was a nightmare because in my nightmares, I am strong and I can over come anything. But she sent me into the worst sort of nightmare - a realistic one. I don't mean realistic as in I could physically feel anything, I mean realistic as in it was August and I was going back to college. I can't handle that stress right now. Fuck, my only current responsibility is organizing the VKA meet and I'm getting panic attacks over that. If I can't handle a single god damn phone call to a hotel, what makes me think I can handle essays upon essays upon scheduling upon constant fucking work? Yes, I am panicking. I seriously, seriously am.
Last time I woke up like this was the morning I decided to kill myself in October. See, I didn't think it would get this bad again, now that I know what to look out for, what I have and how to monitor it. I also thought I could stop myself from falling. I guess I learned that hard way that you don't fall straight down, you hit rocks along the way of the cliff face. Sometimes, you think it'll hold your weight and you pull yourself up, but the base gives way and there you are, falling again...
I know that if no one else was in the house right now, I'd probably write a small blog and go off to just do it. All last night, I was up with insomnia, just thinking of the ways...
Pills were my first thought, but what pills would I take? I know that advil destroys your liver while you're paralyzed and alive, I wouldn't want to risk something worse with any other substance. I know my dad has prescription sleeping meds, but last time those were misused I was 12 and my stepmom stole a handful trying to end her life. My dad probably blames himself for making them so accessible. If I died from his drugs, I don't think he'd be able to handle it. And he's so messed up already.
Then I thought razor. And what would be better? All I think about when I'm alone is cutting, no, tearing away my flesh in chunks and ripping apart at the seams. As if such a barbaric act could actually give me release. I have already started ripping apart my thighs, what are two wrists more? But then, AGAIN, I chicken out saying "First off, ow. Second off, do I really want to giant slit marks on my wrists for all eternity?" Until the bugs rot me away. Until no one remembers how physically beautiful I am...
A noose, maybe? But, fuck, no rafters. And no rope. God damn.
See? This is exactly what happened that time in college.
And everything is spiraling down down down... I had so much to do yesterday and I only did ONE THING at 12 o'clock midnight.
1. I had to call this guy I'm buying a keyboard from today to let him know we're still on. In the end, I was just so shaky with the phone in my hand, that I sent him a short email.
2. My room. I can't see the floor. I feel so congested but where is the motivation to actually organize my clutter to the sides? My clothing is few only my fresh bed is safe and I stay here now. This room is my life. It's the physical showing of my life with posters on the walls of mad girls, the 1920s, Judy Garland, the Lady of Shalott, art, girls kissing, another girl kissing a girl she undoubtedly murdered... My floor is scattered clothing, stuffed animals, shoes, books, my diaries, dental damns that I have because my sex ed teacher jokingly told me I'd need them, a trophy from choir that means nothing to me, fabreeze for when I get too lazy to vacuum, boxes of memories, a garbage pail... god, I feel like a 2010 version of Anne Sexton right now. What was the poem's name... the Room of my Life or something? Hah! Here it is. http://www.americanpoems.com/poets/annesexton/634
3. My Asylum Letters. I had it so perfectly in my mind, all the things I would say to everyone. What brought me to the decision of finally writing them was that I received a letter in the mail from a wonderful friend telling me she read my blog and that it was going to be okay and that I had to fight and how this is a gift because my life is an adventure and in a way, I am meant for greatness. But as I was looking for my pretty pink victorian heart stationary that I had purchased YEARS ago, I tore apart my room. I couldn't find it. Then it hit me: The letter had said to do as EA advised and swallow swallow swallow, but to come back and haunt the mother fuckers if I actually drowned. Here's the thing though - I HAD been swallowing. I've been swallowing for YEARS and YEARS and now, NOW I am drowning. I don't know if I can swallow anymore.
4. I had to write back to my therapist about my diagnosis sheet. I didn't get the chance because I had been in MD for the day a few days ago, but for some reason, I didn't have the strength to write back yesterday. It's funny, because I realized something when reading his email that EA had said in the Asylum: "We are constantly told not to define our lives by our mental disorders." But that's just the thing, how can I NOT define my life by this? The ups, the downs, the rising and falling I live with this inside me everyday. I go to sleep terrified with how I will wake up and sometimes, I wake up like this. Prone to panic attacks - I know I'm going to swing soon ALLLLL the way up and a few minutes later, fall furrrrrther down that I am now. That is what happened last time. And that is when I picked up my roomate's old, unwashed knife before curling up on my bed in sheer agony...
I'm always scared to talk to people about this. Even in real life. When people speak to Kiska, they see energetic, controlling, extreme, confident - everything I've ever wanted to be. But then there's Sarah. Somehow, I've split into two people. I never planned for this. Sarah is realistic on the side of cynical. Sarah lays in bed up to days trying to fall back to sleep. Sarah hates that she feels this way because there are so many more people in the world under worse circumstances than she is and what right does SHE have to suffer? Like she needs to simply follow her mother's advice and just 'get over' herself. She wishes it were that easy.
Right now, I am Sarah. I once referred to 'Sarah' as my Slave Name when giving someone my address. I suppose I mean it more than it being the name that people who tried so long to suppress me gave me, I mean it as it's the name I think of myself in when I'm actually chained down to a mattress.
No one knows how to handle me when I get like this and I don't think I'd ever ask them to. Only the voices ever could. When I was young, Emily was there to make me laugh when my mom was being mean, the music was always there to serenade me to sleep and now finally, the Mistress of Nightmares is finally there because what I truly need right now is a lover... dear god. If THAT doesn't make me feel insane...
But I have to remember that insanity doesn't exist and it's just an excuse people used when they were too lazy to get to the root of the 'aflicted's' problem(s). Chemistry, dear Watson, chemistry.
A few nights ago when I was laying in bed, I couldn't sleep. When I was a new teenager, I used to fall asleep pretending someone was holding me from behind. Then I dated my second girl friend and I stopped at age 18. It took a while. But I suppose I needed to be dumped on my head for a 'wake up' call, if you'll excuse the pun. I guess it's because I can't stomach the thought of ever dating again. I dated one girl after Valerie, and she was nice, but I'm just too traumatized. I'm sure I could have made it work if I wanted to. She was the first person to ever treat me right.
But then, of course, there's the disease. She couldn't handle my downphases, nor did she WANT to handle my downphases, and I really can't blame her. God, what are people? Are we shopped for by other people and then returned for refund when they find out that we are damaged on the INSIDE and they could not see the scars when we were being purchased? Either way, I'm a spoiled item. I'm a broken doll, I'm a car who lost its axles. I'd like to thank the manufacturers.
But you know, it's because of this that I would never want to date anyone. Why would I want to force this on someone who can't handle it? And honestly, why would I want the responsibility of a lover when I feel this licking as my throat everyday? Yes - I want to be loved. But I don't want the complications and the lust. I don't like sex, I just want to be held.
So, thank you Mistress of Nightmares. You fit all my qualifications - you have a smooth voice, you're tender, you're smart and you can't rape me. Hell, I'd let you blow nightmares into my mind every night as long as you're there each time I fall asleep.
I've never heard this voice before, but that is the name she gave me. She came to me when I couldn't sleep shortly after 4 AM. When I asked her why she was here, she hushed me in such a slow almost motherly way that I began blushing, even my heart beat rapidly. She was the loudest most realistic voice I ever heard. The only reason I knew she wasn't physically in the room was because she was so close to my ear and I didn't feel any breath. Though, I'm sure if I did, I would have melted into a puddle.
Anyway, she promised me sleep and it came. And what did she give me? A nightmare. I fell to sleep begging her to bring me sleep, that I didn't CARE if it was a nightmare because in my nightmares, I am strong and I can over come anything. But she sent me into the worst sort of nightmare - a realistic one. I don't mean realistic as in I could physically feel anything, I mean realistic as in it was August and I was going back to college. I can't handle that stress right now. Fuck, my only current responsibility is organizing the VKA meet and I'm getting panic attacks over that. If I can't handle a single god damn phone call to a hotel, what makes me think I can handle essays upon essays upon scheduling upon constant fucking work? Yes, I am panicking. I seriously, seriously am.
Last time I woke up like this was the morning I decided to kill myself in October. See, I didn't think it would get this bad again, now that I know what to look out for, what I have and how to monitor it. I also thought I could stop myself from falling. I guess I learned that hard way that you don't fall straight down, you hit rocks along the way of the cliff face. Sometimes, you think it'll hold your weight and you pull yourself up, but the base gives way and there you are, falling again...
I know that if no one else was in the house right now, I'd probably write a small blog and go off to just do it. All last night, I was up with insomnia, just thinking of the ways...
Pills were my first thought, but what pills would I take? I know that advil destroys your liver while you're paralyzed and alive, I wouldn't want to risk something worse with any other substance. I know my dad has prescription sleeping meds, but last time those were misused I was 12 and my stepmom stole a handful trying to end her life. My dad probably blames himself for making them so accessible. If I died from his drugs, I don't think he'd be able to handle it. And he's so messed up already.
Then I thought razor. And what would be better? All I think about when I'm alone is cutting, no, tearing away my flesh in chunks and ripping apart at the seams. As if such a barbaric act could actually give me release. I have already started ripping apart my thighs, what are two wrists more? But then, AGAIN, I chicken out saying "First off, ow. Second off, do I really want to giant slit marks on my wrists for all eternity?" Until the bugs rot me away. Until no one remembers how physically beautiful I am...
A noose, maybe? But, fuck, no rafters. And no rope. God damn.
See? This is exactly what happened that time in college.
And everything is spiraling down down down... I had so much to do yesterday and I only did ONE THING at 12 o'clock midnight.
1. I had to call this guy I'm buying a keyboard from today to let him know we're still on. In the end, I was just so shaky with the phone in my hand, that I sent him a short email.
2. My room. I can't see the floor. I feel so congested but where is the motivation to actually organize my clutter to the sides? My clothing is few only my fresh bed is safe and I stay here now. This room is my life. It's the physical showing of my life with posters on the walls of mad girls, the 1920s, Judy Garland, the Lady of Shalott, art, girls kissing, another girl kissing a girl she undoubtedly murdered... My floor is scattered clothing, stuffed animals, shoes, books, my diaries, dental damns that I have because my sex ed teacher jokingly told me I'd need them, a trophy from choir that means nothing to me, fabreeze for when I get too lazy to vacuum, boxes of memories, a garbage pail... god, I feel like a 2010 version of Anne Sexton right now. What was the poem's name... the Room of my Life or something? Hah! Here it is. http://www.americanpoems.com/poets/annesexton/634
3. My Asylum Letters. I had it so perfectly in my mind, all the things I would say to everyone. What brought me to the decision of finally writing them was that I received a letter in the mail from a wonderful friend telling me she read my blog and that it was going to be okay and that I had to fight and how this is a gift because my life is an adventure and in a way, I am meant for greatness. But as I was looking for my pretty pink victorian heart stationary that I had purchased YEARS ago, I tore apart my room. I couldn't find it. Then it hit me: The letter had said to do as EA advised and swallow swallow swallow, but to come back and haunt the mother fuckers if I actually drowned. Here's the thing though - I HAD been swallowing. I've been swallowing for YEARS and YEARS and now, NOW I am drowning. I don't know if I can swallow anymore.
4. I had to write back to my therapist about my diagnosis sheet. I didn't get the chance because I had been in MD for the day a few days ago, but for some reason, I didn't have the strength to write back yesterday. It's funny, because I realized something when reading his email that EA had said in the Asylum: "We are constantly told not to define our lives by our mental disorders." But that's just the thing, how can I NOT define my life by this? The ups, the downs, the rising and falling I live with this inside me everyday. I go to sleep terrified with how I will wake up and sometimes, I wake up like this. Prone to panic attacks - I know I'm going to swing soon ALLLLL the way up and a few minutes later, fall furrrrrther down that I am now. That is what happened last time. And that is when I picked up my roomate's old, unwashed knife before curling up on my bed in sheer agony...
I'm always scared to talk to people about this. Even in real life. When people speak to Kiska, they see energetic, controlling, extreme, confident - everything I've ever wanted to be. But then there's Sarah. Somehow, I've split into two people. I never planned for this. Sarah is realistic on the side of cynical. Sarah lays in bed up to days trying to fall back to sleep. Sarah hates that she feels this way because there are so many more people in the world under worse circumstances than she is and what right does SHE have to suffer? Like she needs to simply follow her mother's advice and just 'get over' herself. She wishes it were that easy.
Right now, I am Sarah. I once referred to 'Sarah' as my Slave Name when giving someone my address. I suppose I mean it more than it being the name that people who tried so long to suppress me gave me, I mean it as it's the name I think of myself in when I'm actually chained down to a mattress.
No one knows how to handle me when I get like this and I don't think I'd ever ask them to. Only the voices ever could. When I was young, Emily was there to make me laugh when my mom was being mean, the music was always there to serenade me to sleep and now finally, the Mistress of Nightmares is finally there because what I truly need right now is a lover... dear god. If THAT doesn't make me feel insane...
But I have to remember that insanity doesn't exist and it's just an excuse people used when they were too lazy to get to the root of the 'aflicted's' problem(s). Chemistry, dear Watson, chemistry.
A few nights ago when I was laying in bed, I couldn't sleep. When I was a new teenager, I used to fall asleep pretending someone was holding me from behind. Then I dated my second girl friend and I stopped at age 18. It took a while. But I suppose I needed to be dumped on my head for a 'wake up' call, if you'll excuse the pun. I guess it's because I can't stomach the thought of ever dating again. I dated one girl after Valerie, and she was nice, but I'm just too traumatized. I'm sure I could have made it work if I wanted to. She was the first person to ever treat me right.
But then, of course, there's the disease. She couldn't handle my downphases, nor did she WANT to handle my downphases, and I really can't blame her. God, what are people? Are we shopped for by other people and then returned for refund when they find out that we are damaged on the INSIDE and they could not see the scars when we were being purchased? Either way, I'm a spoiled item. I'm a broken doll, I'm a car who lost its axles. I'd like to thank the manufacturers.
But you know, it's because of this that I would never want to date anyone. Why would I want to force this on someone who can't handle it? And honestly, why would I want the responsibility of a lover when I feel this licking as my throat everyday? Yes - I want to be loved. But I don't want the complications and the lust. I don't like sex, I just want to be held.
So, thank you Mistress of Nightmares. You fit all my qualifications - you have a smooth voice, you're tender, you're smart and you can't rape me. Hell, I'd let you blow nightmares into my mind every night as long as you're there each time I fall asleep.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
The Findings
Well, what to say?
I suppose I can come straight out with it and state that my diagnosis for Bipolar 2 was incorrect. I do in fact have Bipolar 1, go figure. I had been hoping it wasn't something as drastic as that, but with my luck and in my life, that just can't be possible =/
At least I can look at it this way - Emily Dickinson, Anne Sexton, even Sylvia Plath were all bipolar. Sure one of them was a shut in and two committed suicide, but still. Such creative minds - I can view my inspirations and influences as gifts. Perhaps one day, I shall be as great as them.
Today was a great day. I was in such high moods. I even forced myself to sleep after another episode of waking up in the middle of the night thinking "I'm going to die". Since then, I have been so happy. I thought "It can only get better from here. Sure, I may fall again, but at least I'm still climbing." Only, I'm not sure if I am anymore.
About 10 - 15 minutes ago, I felt... a feeling of dread, kinda like a slight tugging and I was like "Oh shit". I didn't think I would feel this so soon... maybe if I will it away, it will vanish. Perhaps if I will them all away, they will ALL vanish.
Sure.
But it feels that way. It feels so easy. Like that's ALL I need to do. Sweet Circe, if it was that easy, I'm sure no one would be turning to meds. I have to constantly tell myself over and over that I, more than others, am capable of delusions...
Something is telling me that when I wake up, I will have fallen again and I won't be able to pull myself from bed. I hope that isn't the case.
I can't wait to be put on meds. No more highs... no more lows... I can be normal and I'll be able to function...
Alas the day.
I suppose I can come straight out with it and state that my diagnosis for Bipolar 2 was incorrect. I do in fact have Bipolar 1, go figure. I had been hoping it wasn't something as drastic as that, but with my luck and in my life, that just can't be possible =/
At least I can look at it this way - Emily Dickinson, Anne Sexton, even Sylvia Plath were all bipolar. Sure one of them was a shut in and two committed suicide, but still. Such creative minds - I can view my inspirations and influences as gifts. Perhaps one day, I shall be as great as them.
Today was a great day. I was in such high moods. I even forced myself to sleep after another episode of waking up in the middle of the night thinking "I'm going to die". Since then, I have been so happy. I thought "It can only get better from here. Sure, I may fall again, but at least I'm still climbing." Only, I'm not sure if I am anymore.
About 10 - 15 minutes ago, I felt... a feeling of dread, kinda like a slight tugging and I was like "Oh shit". I didn't think I would feel this so soon... maybe if I will it away, it will vanish. Perhaps if I will them all away, they will ALL vanish.
Sure.
But it feels that way. It feels so easy. Like that's ALL I need to do. Sweet Circe, if it was that easy, I'm sure no one would be turning to meds. I have to constantly tell myself over and over that I, more than others, am capable of delusions...
Something is telling me that when I wake up, I will have fallen again and I won't be able to pull myself from bed. I hope that isn't the case.
I can't wait to be put on meds. No more highs... no more lows... I can be normal and I'll be able to function...
Alas the day.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
The List.
To sum up from yesterday to this morning -
1. If you do not want to be unjustly criticized for how you are, do not unjustly criticize others.
2. I had a dream last night that my ex hit her freshman 50s. I'm still giggling.
3. I really want to go to MMM and see Beau, fLee, Not a Love Song, Pyrate and so many other people. We could giggle about me attempting to be lady-like while I sip tea.
4. Organizing any sort of meetup sucks. I have a new level of respect for Hrafn.
5. I am returning to college for the sole purpose of living with my roomie. Smart decision? Probably not. But it's something to do. <3
1. If you do not want to be unjustly criticized for how you are, do not unjustly criticize others.
2. I had a dream last night that my ex hit her freshman 50s. I'm still giggling.
3. I really want to go to MMM and see Beau, fLee, Not a Love Song, Pyrate and so many other people. We could giggle about me attempting to be lady-like while I sip tea.
4. Organizing any sort of meetup sucks. I have a new level of respect for Hrafn.
5. I am returning to college for the sole purpose of living with my roomie. Smart decision? Probably not. But it's something to do. <3
Saturday, April 10, 2010
The House.
I used to come here to rest, now even rest is unavailable to me.
I am sitting in the dining part of a kitchen in a house ever few will ever be wealthy enough to afford, surrounded on three sides but long windows leading out to a patio, a garden and then a forest. Two of four animals lay at my feet, one Westie and one cat. For once, they aren't arguing.
The house can only be covered by the salary of two specialty doctors, it is out in the country side, but not too far from civilization and five star restaurants. I feel as though even the infamous Beverly Hills could not be so beautiful. I had been coming here once or twice a year ever since I was 12. My last trips however, were anything but pleasant.
The silence screamed at me. I no longer found peace within these walls, it was too quiet. It was the year anniversary of my first love and I had broken up with her the morning of. She too, like the house, was too quiet. I felt like the closest thing to a whore afterwords, our relationship had become a sort of abusive codependency on both ends and I felt that by breaking up I'd be able to find myself again. But I get off track. I hated my body that night, hated it with a passion, hated it as much as I hated the soul inside; I was already a vegetarian at that point in my life, but I grabbed two chops of lamb off the rack and devoured them, hoping that the meat would cause me to be sick. That was almost three years ago.
Now, it's more than silence that pulls at me, but the people in the house. They only mean the best, I know it. But allow me to explain.
Last night, we went out to a fine restaurant. They already knew I was vegan, but the disapproval was clear on their faces. "Are you taking Calcium?" They ask me. Out of all vitamins and minerals, calcium was the only one I had been forgetting. I realized as such at that instant and said "No, but I should start." My Dad butted in and said he's been telling me to do so for a long, long time. Which isn't true. The last time he told me was way back in October. They continued. Three adults, two who were doctors, bouncing off one another, not giving me a chance to defend myself, they had finally stopped. One made an off hand comment on how every fish eats minnows and that they were made to be eaten, but it was quickly brushed off.
We ate. I took comfort in the fact that my father was a vegetarian as well and he could at least help me in my defense (what am I, 10?) if I was attacked again. But my father salivated when one doctor said she was going to make lamb the next night and said he would have some. For some reason, I felt a twinge of pain.
We ate more. And then Calcium was brought up again. I told them we had already covered this topic and thank you, but no, when one doctor said "Honey, her thyroids are swollen." His wife brushed my hair back and sure enough, she agreed. I do not know what thyroids are and when I tried to ask, the three of them all started bouncing things off one another again, I only catch tidbits of what each one is saying when my dad looks me straight in the eyes and says "You need to see a doctor." I don't KNOW what the treatment for thyroids is! My first thought is 'operation' - I will NOT have ANYONE operating so close to my vocal chords! They tell me that unless I get it checked out, my high metabolism will go out the window and what a shame for someone as pretty as me.
I excuse myself from the table. I know I am beautiful. No, really, I know it. I a vain and I will admit to this. I love my beauty. I will look at pictures of myself as a child for hours and be amazed by how gorgeous I was even back then. I know that when I want to be, I can be super model beauty - I've always taken pride in the fact that I've never seen anyone on TV that looked even a little but like me. I am a unique beauty and for this, I am glad.
Almost everyone tells me that I am too thin - everyone but my family. Especially my father. My dad regulates his calories, always complains that he is too fat, always says "I cant have a bite of chocolate, I've already gone over my calories". He tells me I should watch my own as well. It's come to me asking him if I'm thin yet and he grabs my stomach and says "You have about 7 pounds to go." I'm already 5 pounds under the minimum weight.
I know. "Sarah, he NEEDS to get over himself. You're fine, he's just taking his low self esteem out on you." But when I look in the mirror, I see a pudge of stomach, I don't concave like most beautiful women do. And by concave, I mean just look at EA and her crumpets. I mean, come ON. I know they're all professional dancers, but still... I've been doing abs lately. My aunt has warned me that she used to have my body type before she became obese. I'm narcissistic. I would like to stay tiny.
With this in mind, know that right now, my body is all I have going for me. If I wasn't too prideful, I'd become bulimic in a heart beat and sell my body to the first modeling company that would take me in. Like I've said before, I know I could become famous in that field. I'm unique. I was sitting at a table with a group of adults telling me that my bones were going to crumble and my figure would eventually inflate and if THAT isn't enough to make me want to kill myself...
They're glad I'm going back to college. I wish they'd drop the topic. They keep trying to get me to change my major, suggest things I've never even thought about saying I had a natural talent for it. I tell them perhaps I'll take it up as a hobby. The way their eyes meet mine is as effective as them saying 'Sarah, your MUSIC should be a hobby. Don't try to make a career out of it...' Funny. The last person to believe in me was a random eccentric woman named Maggie that I once sat next to on an Airplane. Even I don't believe in myself anymore.
Which is what brings me here this morning. I don't know why I'm in this house, with these animals at my feet. They create their own assumptions as to why I left college two months in last October. I don't think trying to tell them that I tried to kill myself would go down too well. They'd tell my dad to get me medication. I'm already trying to get fucking medication. I wish the world would butt out.
Everyone speaks cynically about the future of health care, gas, costs...
It makes me wonder why I'm just sitting here waiting for it.
I am sitting in the dining part of a kitchen in a house ever few will ever be wealthy enough to afford, surrounded on three sides but long windows leading out to a patio, a garden and then a forest. Two of four animals lay at my feet, one Westie and one cat. For once, they aren't arguing.
The house can only be covered by the salary of two specialty doctors, it is out in the country side, but not too far from civilization and five star restaurants. I feel as though even the infamous Beverly Hills could not be so beautiful. I had been coming here once or twice a year ever since I was 12. My last trips however, were anything but pleasant.
The silence screamed at me. I no longer found peace within these walls, it was too quiet. It was the year anniversary of my first love and I had broken up with her the morning of. She too, like the house, was too quiet. I felt like the closest thing to a whore afterwords, our relationship had become a sort of abusive codependency on both ends and I felt that by breaking up I'd be able to find myself again. But I get off track. I hated my body that night, hated it with a passion, hated it as much as I hated the soul inside; I was already a vegetarian at that point in my life, but I grabbed two chops of lamb off the rack and devoured them, hoping that the meat would cause me to be sick. That was almost three years ago.
Now, it's more than silence that pulls at me, but the people in the house. They only mean the best, I know it. But allow me to explain.
Last night, we went out to a fine restaurant. They already knew I was vegan, but the disapproval was clear on their faces. "Are you taking Calcium?" They ask me. Out of all vitamins and minerals, calcium was the only one I had been forgetting. I realized as such at that instant and said "No, but I should start." My Dad butted in and said he's been telling me to do so for a long, long time. Which isn't true. The last time he told me was way back in October. They continued. Three adults, two who were doctors, bouncing off one another, not giving me a chance to defend myself, they had finally stopped. One made an off hand comment on how every fish eats minnows and that they were made to be eaten, but it was quickly brushed off.
We ate. I took comfort in the fact that my father was a vegetarian as well and he could at least help me in my defense (what am I, 10?) if I was attacked again. But my father salivated when one doctor said she was going to make lamb the next night and said he would have some. For some reason, I felt a twinge of pain.
We ate more. And then Calcium was brought up again. I told them we had already covered this topic and thank you, but no, when one doctor said "Honey, her thyroids are swollen." His wife brushed my hair back and sure enough, she agreed. I do not know what thyroids are and when I tried to ask, the three of them all started bouncing things off one another again, I only catch tidbits of what each one is saying when my dad looks me straight in the eyes and says "You need to see a doctor." I don't KNOW what the treatment for thyroids is! My first thought is 'operation' - I will NOT have ANYONE operating so close to my vocal chords! They tell me that unless I get it checked out, my high metabolism will go out the window and what a shame for someone as pretty as me.
I excuse myself from the table. I know I am beautiful. No, really, I know it. I a vain and I will admit to this. I love my beauty. I will look at pictures of myself as a child for hours and be amazed by how gorgeous I was even back then. I know that when I want to be, I can be super model beauty - I've always taken pride in the fact that I've never seen anyone on TV that looked even a little but like me. I am a unique beauty and for this, I am glad.
Almost everyone tells me that I am too thin - everyone but my family. Especially my father. My dad regulates his calories, always complains that he is too fat, always says "I cant have a bite of chocolate, I've already gone over my calories". He tells me I should watch my own as well. It's come to me asking him if I'm thin yet and he grabs my stomach and says "You have about 7 pounds to go." I'm already 5 pounds under the minimum weight.
I know. "Sarah, he NEEDS to get over himself. You're fine, he's just taking his low self esteem out on you." But when I look in the mirror, I see a pudge of stomach, I don't concave like most beautiful women do. And by concave, I mean just look at EA and her crumpets. I mean, come ON. I know they're all professional dancers, but still... I've been doing abs lately. My aunt has warned me that she used to have my body type before she became obese. I'm narcissistic. I would like to stay tiny.
With this in mind, know that right now, my body is all I have going for me. If I wasn't too prideful, I'd become bulimic in a heart beat and sell my body to the first modeling company that would take me in. Like I've said before, I know I could become famous in that field. I'm unique. I was sitting at a table with a group of adults telling me that my bones were going to crumble and my figure would eventually inflate and if THAT isn't enough to make me want to kill myself...
They're glad I'm going back to college. I wish they'd drop the topic. They keep trying to get me to change my major, suggest things I've never even thought about saying I had a natural talent for it. I tell them perhaps I'll take it up as a hobby. The way their eyes meet mine is as effective as them saying 'Sarah, your MUSIC should be a hobby. Don't try to make a career out of it...' Funny. The last person to believe in me was a random eccentric woman named Maggie that I once sat next to on an Airplane. Even I don't believe in myself anymore.
Which is what brings me here this morning. I don't know why I'm in this house, with these animals at my feet. They create their own assumptions as to why I left college two months in last October. I don't think trying to tell them that I tried to kill myself would go down too well. They'd tell my dad to get me medication. I'm already trying to get fucking medication. I wish the world would butt out.
Everyone speaks cynically about the future of health care, gas, costs...
It makes me wonder why I'm just sitting here waiting for it.
First Entry
I need to write. And I don't just say that from boredom or because I've been meaning to for Goddess knows how long, I say this because it's true. I need to write. Every thought that passes through my mind has the impact of an epiphany, I feel worthless when I forget them.
I do not write this for sympathy, I do not write for attention, I write for my own recovery and perhaps the occasional enjoyment of others.
That being said, I welcome you to my first ever blog since I was a preteen.
I don't expect feedback, though if you comment I shall reply, and if no one ever reads these words but myself, then that is just as well.
I hope that these words are words I can keep and look back on one day in the future when I have my life together. I wonder what sort of person I will become...
I do not write this for sympathy, I do not write for attention, I write for my own recovery and perhaps the occasional enjoyment of others.
That being said, I welcome you to my first ever blog since I was a preteen.
I don't expect feedback, though if you comment I shall reply, and if no one ever reads these words but myself, then that is just as well.
I hope that these words are words I can keep and look back on one day in the future when I have my life together. I wonder what sort of person I will become...
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