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10:29 p.m. - July 06, 2002
I'm ambidextrous, did you know?
I am the guy you don't notice when your eyes rove, the one with non-hip clothes, the one devoid of fashion or statement-making or more thought.

Why I'm like this I don't know. When I look at people I wonder about their private lives, the ones crammed into their briefcases or backpacks or the wallets hanging from chains attached to belt loops. When you look at me, do you wonder about my private life? Do you wonder why I am like this?

I wasn't always non-descript. Do you know that when I was 15 I had a sexual relationship with a married woman who was 22 and in whose home I lived for 4 months with her husband? Do you know that I was a trouble maker, not by toilet papering trees but by setting cars on fire? That when Cobain died I was at the Seattle Center with Lara and we cried and danced in the fountain with everybody else? That I stabbed my father and regretted missing the mark?

But today I'm floating along the fringes and when I think back to before I'm surprised to remember that was me, that there was something of substance attached, instead of the blank look on my face that comes when I try to describe myself now. I wonder how long this will last and I know the answer in the same way that hearing a lawn mower nearby means the scent of cut grass will waft either your way or not.

I've been shutting down not like a blackout on the power grid all at once but watt by watt until the room is nearly dark and the eyes only now realize it's dim out. I want the lights back on.

I am to tell 10 people about it. I am to begin the letting-go process by acknowledging events, their impact, and saying Yes, this happened but it is not all of my life. I am to counter emotion with logic when needed, yet counter logic with emotion because I need that more. I say yes to my counselor but I won't do it yet, I can't right now. I am not done being angry and indulging in my fantasy of making him suck the barrel of a gun and causing his head to end up on the wall behind him.

This is why I hate myself, because I am not strong enough not to care about what happened, and not strong enough either to face it straightforward and with resolve. I'm treading water and sinking because I'm tired. This is why I'm non-descript, because I have no energy to be otherwise.

What I'd like is to talk about it until I run out of words. I'd like to fill in the gaps, make a time line. I'd like to know. That is a lie; each attempt by my counselor to help me do this is met with resistance; remember the things I was supposed to do with the photographs? I didn't follow through. I get scared to think of it yet that's all I do. How fucked up is that?

Huh.

This entry took on a life of its own.

 

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