Strange Melancholia
It's one of those days isn't it? Where the strange dreariness of days and dreams past catches up on me and smiles, sweetly, reminding me of a time when I could be held, when the cloak of love's regrets closed around me and rocked me to sleep.
It's one of those days, that has me sitting in a cafe, thinking, thinking. Wishing for someone to share the hours and the music and the infinite tenderness of a cup of peppermint tea.
It's one of those days when I wish to say everything and anything, when I keep going back to the early dawn of my infancy and gathering from a tangle of memories those special stories, those special treats, all that makes me myself and that I wish to show the world.
It's one of those days when I want to write a thousand meaningful things, when I want to reach out and create a garden of stars and people it with my own personal dieties.
Do I bow to them?
Yes, sometimes, but mostly it's conversing with them in quiet tones of equality.
Tickets to Mexico in the bag and the Australia hope shattered by material concerns. It's some 17 thousand american dollars to Australia. How much to Greece? How much to Paris?
Oh yes world, I'm running away to Paris.
You just wait for me.
Tuesday, November 04, 2003
The meaning of the word scream
Quiet the storm, needle inserted, the image of all humanity. Woman, eyes closed, face distorted. Not a word but the vacuum of silence swallowing all and the contortions of flesh as an acrobat on the high rope.
Or whatever it's called.
There's a power in the sight of a girl falling to her knees with something between laughter and utter despair coming from her lips. There's tyhe power to frighten and to disturb and there's no word worth the depiction.
Calm returns with the unfolding of each new day and the realization that there are more, urgent, present matters to attend. There is a realization of the effort we are both putting into forgetting, storing this ugly incident in the back of memory and never bringing it up again.
Though there is no conclusion there is continuance, there is a thread to weave, there is the insistant pull of life that goes against all inertia. Maybe there are no conclusions in life, maybe I need to start learnig to live with that fact. That the time has come to ignore all truth and meaning and simply go on.
My dad insists upon medication.
It brings an ugly vulnerable feeling that he thinks this.
I'm not crazy. I don't have a chemical disorder that goes farther than a slight aneamia.
But he said it was ok if I wanted to live with him. I don't, but I'll do it anyway, because mom does deserve a rest and dad does deserve to see me cry and break down now and again. It's just fair isn't it?
It's been bloody freezing back here in north California and I'm tired of being sick. Thinking of getting a pair of gloves and a new sweater. Thinking of going to San Francisco in a long weekend. Thinking quite suddenly of the boy who said I'd traveled a lot. I have.
I think that the decision to live with my father is the right one, even if it'll be pure hell I think it'll make me stronger. There's an edge of vindictiveness in the promise of such a life, there is the slight expectation... what will mom do without me? Will she miss me? Will she wish I hadn't gone?
No inspiration, homework and the small desire to build something, draw something maybe, but mostly just exhaustion, aimlessness, the feeling that you are a storm swept leave that stands very still, unable to forget the roar of wind and the pressure of water against a broken soul.
Quiet the storm, needle inserted, the image of all humanity. Woman, eyes closed, face distorted. Not a word but the vacuum of silence swallowing all and the contortions of flesh as an acrobat on the high rope.
Or whatever it's called.
There's a power in the sight of a girl falling to her knees with something between laughter and utter despair coming from her lips. There's tyhe power to frighten and to disturb and there's no word worth the depiction.
Calm returns with the unfolding of each new day and the realization that there are more, urgent, present matters to attend. There is a realization of the effort we are both putting into forgetting, storing this ugly incident in the back of memory and never bringing it up again.
Though there is no conclusion there is continuance, there is a thread to weave, there is the insistant pull of life that goes against all inertia. Maybe there are no conclusions in life, maybe I need to start learnig to live with that fact. That the time has come to ignore all truth and meaning and simply go on.
My dad insists upon medication.
It brings an ugly vulnerable feeling that he thinks this.
I'm not crazy. I don't have a chemical disorder that goes farther than a slight aneamia.
But he said it was ok if I wanted to live with him. I don't, but I'll do it anyway, because mom does deserve a rest and dad does deserve to see me cry and break down now and again. It's just fair isn't it?
It's been bloody freezing back here in north California and I'm tired of being sick. Thinking of getting a pair of gloves and a new sweater. Thinking of going to San Francisco in a long weekend. Thinking quite suddenly of the boy who said I'd traveled a lot. I have.
I think that the decision to live with my father is the right one, even if it'll be pure hell I think it'll make me stronger. There's an edge of vindictiveness in the promise of such a life, there is the slight expectation... what will mom do without me? Will she miss me? Will she wish I hadn't gone?
No inspiration, homework and the small desire to build something, draw something maybe, but mostly just exhaustion, aimlessness, the feeling that you are a storm swept leave that stands very still, unable to forget the roar of wind and the pressure of water against a broken soul.
My say
I don't write this blog for other people. I write it for myself. I write it so that I can complain. I don't want it to appear as a plea for help everytime someone reads it. As far as I am concerned I'm saying anything and everything that comes to mind, everything I want to put inot words and can will be in this blog. It's not definite, it's not a scripture of who I am. It is a growing living entity that is moving with and beyond me.
If I am suicidal one day it doesn't mean that such a state defines me. Things happen, things pass.
I don't want compassion or tears and I don't want to go crying to other people's shoulders. When and if I do is because I want to at the moment and because I managed to say what's on my mind.
It's not a cry for help, that's why there is no tagboard on it.
I don't write this to distress or to make myself the victim. I write this because I need it and I find that through the web I feel more encouraged to keep writing than through a simple notebook.
There is no brandishment and there is no meaning, this is my life and it's not a statement.
This is the place where all changes and begins anew.
I don't write this blog for other people. I write it for myself. I write it so that I can complain. I don't want it to appear as a plea for help everytime someone reads it. As far as I am concerned I'm saying anything and everything that comes to mind, everything I want to put inot words and can will be in this blog. It's not definite, it's not a scripture of who I am. It is a growing living entity that is moving with and beyond me.
If I am suicidal one day it doesn't mean that such a state defines me. Things happen, things pass.
I don't want compassion or tears and I don't want to go crying to other people's shoulders. When and if I do is because I want to at the moment and because I managed to say what's on my mind.
It's not a cry for help, that's why there is no tagboard on it.
I don't write this to distress or to make myself the victim. I write this because I need it and I find that through the web I feel more encouraged to keep writing than through a simple notebook.
There is no brandishment and there is no meaning, this is my life and it's not a statement.
This is the place where all changes and begins anew.
Monday, November 03, 2003
11/02/2003: Wish
I wish to die.
I wish to put an end to all illusion and all strife. I wish to end all suffering and think no more. I wish to runaway because I am a coward. I wish to escape the fact that I’ll never grow up and that I’ll never do anything. I wish to stop crying and to put an end to the imprisonment.
My house has been a microcosmos all this weekend. There was no world and no people outside the walls of this house. There was no other soul but my mother. My mother who is strong, my mother who is disappointed with me. My mother who won’t trust me, my mother who has made absolutely clear that I am still the spoiled brat I have always been. How many times do I have to repeat myself that people don’t change, that we are doomed to be what we have always been, that I will never go beyond a glorious expectation, that I will always be on the brink of something beautiful.
I’ll never get anywhere, life is as hopeless as ever, all my plans and all my decisions are for naught because I do not have the strength of will to see them through.
I have nothing and no one and I cannot die.
Because my mother is most right when she is honest and she is most honest when she is furious at me. No matter how long I repeat myself that this is a phase that it’s just a lapse, that an incident does not make a liftime I’ll know that I will keep doing it all my life, that I’ll never finish anything worthwhile. That I am an imbecile and a child and that all I can ever hope to get is a mediocre job with some relation that feels pity for me. That I’ll never be able to take care of myself and that I will always be my mother’s ungrateful daughter.
I have no one in this whole town but my mother. I feel homesick and miserable and I hate making my mother angry. I hate making her worry. I hate reminding myself what I am.
Because I hate making mistakes.
There is no hope and there is no salvation and there is nothing I can do about it
I feel so alone and I want to go home.
For a second I had thought I could picture the scene. Tomorrow, not going to school, calling Millie with a few quarters. Telling her how sorry I am and how much I love her and to tell all the others I love them too. Then... going to the pier and just doing it. Letting gravity do the dirty work for me, letting myself fall into the icy waters. Maybe they’de save me and I would go to the hospital and I would live, but there would be a change, something to break the chain of alternate misery and bliss.
I told my mom, because I could not eat normally and I could not stop crying. I could not just keep it to myself.
I am a coward.
I’m calmer now. I needed her to tell me I could make mistakes. I needed her to give me permission to be human. It’s so funny. I needed her to tell me she made mistakes too. And she did, nothing has changed though. She is not a tender thing with me, she demands and punishes and tries to show me life and impose limits. I don’t know if she is doing right or wrong there. I have always felt that she is right, that whatever she does is for the best.
Rain falls, blessed rain, that measures the instants in droplets, that lulls me to sleep despite all pain and all madness. Things always go on as they were. My mother is afraid I might do it, but I won’t. She thinks I need medical attention to stop thinking about it, I do.
The fact is, I don’t want to surrender. However long the road is or however hard I don’t want to do it. I don’t want to end all possibilities with the last sweet promise of death. I want ot know the world as much as I ever did.
But I want rest now. Rest and maybe tomorrow things will make sense again and I can go back to the daily routine that so saves me from despair.
I can work and think I’m going somewhere.
I don’t know what I’m doing, I don’t know if I’m right, I know I want to be held and I know I want to go on. But I’m tired now.
And it’s got nothing to do with failing Math because I could care less. It’s got nothing to do with the fact that I forgot to call from the party or that I could care less for the tylenol; no, it’s none of these things. It’s scaring my mother, it’s making her angry, it’s disappointing her that moves me to nausea and wrath.
Because she is my model and my inspiration and all the strength I want. Because I don’t care for boyfriends or grades, but I care for being good at what I love to do. And she is good at her work and she works hard and she has strength. She has a strength that my father can never hope to have. She has a will that my father could never even touch.
I want to be like her. I don’t want to be like my father.
God, I just want to be like her.
I wish to die.
I wish to put an end to all illusion and all strife. I wish to end all suffering and think no more. I wish to runaway because I am a coward. I wish to escape the fact that I’ll never grow up and that I’ll never do anything. I wish to stop crying and to put an end to the imprisonment.
My house has been a microcosmos all this weekend. There was no world and no people outside the walls of this house. There was no other soul but my mother. My mother who is strong, my mother who is disappointed with me. My mother who won’t trust me, my mother who has made absolutely clear that I am still the spoiled brat I have always been. How many times do I have to repeat myself that people don’t change, that we are doomed to be what we have always been, that I will never go beyond a glorious expectation, that I will always be on the brink of something beautiful.
I’ll never get anywhere, life is as hopeless as ever, all my plans and all my decisions are for naught because I do not have the strength of will to see them through.
I have nothing and no one and I cannot die.
Because my mother is most right when she is honest and she is most honest when she is furious at me. No matter how long I repeat myself that this is a phase that it’s just a lapse, that an incident does not make a liftime I’ll know that I will keep doing it all my life, that I’ll never finish anything worthwhile. That I am an imbecile and a child and that all I can ever hope to get is a mediocre job with some relation that feels pity for me. That I’ll never be able to take care of myself and that I will always be my mother’s ungrateful daughter.
I have no one in this whole town but my mother. I feel homesick and miserable and I hate making my mother angry. I hate making her worry. I hate reminding myself what I am.
Because I hate making mistakes.
There is no hope and there is no salvation and there is nothing I can do about it
I feel so alone and I want to go home.
For a second I had thought I could picture the scene. Tomorrow, not going to school, calling Millie with a few quarters. Telling her how sorry I am and how much I love her and to tell all the others I love them too. Then... going to the pier and just doing it. Letting gravity do the dirty work for me, letting myself fall into the icy waters. Maybe they’de save me and I would go to the hospital and I would live, but there would be a change, something to break the chain of alternate misery and bliss.
I told my mom, because I could not eat normally and I could not stop crying. I could not just keep it to myself.
I am a coward.
I’m calmer now. I needed her to tell me I could make mistakes. I needed her to give me permission to be human. It’s so funny. I needed her to tell me she made mistakes too. And she did, nothing has changed though. She is not a tender thing with me, she demands and punishes and tries to show me life and impose limits. I don’t know if she is doing right or wrong there. I have always felt that she is right, that whatever she does is for the best.
Rain falls, blessed rain, that measures the instants in droplets, that lulls me to sleep despite all pain and all madness. Things always go on as they were. My mother is afraid I might do it, but I won’t. She thinks I need medical attention to stop thinking about it, I do.
The fact is, I don’t want to surrender. However long the road is or however hard I don’t want to do it. I don’t want to end all possibilities with the last sweet promise of death. I want ot know the world as much as I ever did.
But I want rest now. Rest and maybe tomorrow things will make sense again and I can go back to the daily routine that so saves me from despair.
I can work and think I’m going somewhere.
I don’t know what I’m doing, I don’t know if I’m right, I know I want to be held and I know I want to go on. But I’m tired now.
And it’s got nothing to do with failing Math because I could care less. It’s got nothing to do with the fact that I forgot to call from the party or that I could care less for the tylenol; no, it’s none of these things. It’s scaring my mother, it’s making her angry, it’s disappointing her that moves me to nausea and wrath.
Because she is my model and my inspiration and all the strength I want. Because I don’t care for boyfriends or grades, but I care for being good at what I love to do. And she is good at her work and she works hard and she has strength. She has a strength that my father can never hope to have. She has a will that my father could never even touch.
I want to be like her. I don’t want to be like my father.
God, I just want to be like her.
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