1:29 p.m. - December 27, 2003
Spring 2003: Misplaced entries, or, The Entries I Hid And Forgot For Good Reason
Cleaning up abandoned or lost files on the hard drive and came across these entries, a penumbric gasp between abandoning and resuscitating my journal. They gave me goosebumps and a profound sense of relief and heaviness.
March 29, 2003 5:44 p.m.Andy was right: I couldn�t stay away.
I can�t deny the need to write, to talk myself out of the thoughts running amuck that scare me. The other journal loomed and I lost myself somewhere, or rather, hid myself, worried about readers� opinions, nice guestbook messages, a loaded guestmap, how many readers visited each day. I took validation and comfort in the thought that if these people read my writing then I counted, I had substance, I was okay. And I wrote to be okay, to shrug things off and smile, be I�m fine when asked.
But I am not fine. I think about suicide and it�s not a matter of time but more a matter of nerve. I�m scared to do it and as the gradient of the slope rises the more desperate I become and the less frightened of the eventuality. I�ve failed in the enterprise of being human and maybe I can find myself again. I have trust and hope in writing and such little trust and hope in myself that this journal, too, seems destined for disappointment.
I am afraid that I am going crazy. I am scared to self-diagnose but the DSM-IV appeals and that�s against cardinal rule one: You don�t self-diagnose; you see a therapist. I spend hours at my desk looking out the window and I lose track of time and only when I reach back to flip the lamp switch do I realize I�ve lost a day; I shrug my shoulders and sleep, and lately, for some time now, I haven�t had my dreams and worries, just slumber. Maybe this doesn�t look like craziness but it does to me; I barely recognize myself now. I�m lost within my skin and I exhaust myself when I open my eyes.
I hope here I can let down my guard and wake up and go back to normal which wasn�t much to begin with but was better than what I have now.
March 30, 2003 7:52 a.m.
The best time of day is the hour before people arise when you open the doors and windows and that cool front moves in, quiet and stealthy, refreshing.
I called L. last night to allay her fear (?) that in addition to walking away from the other journal that I�m also reneging on these cyber-influenced relationships, and it was a mistake. I felt like a fool immediately after she answered and I muttered something inconsequential and half-hearted. The thing is, I don�t know if I want to maintain these familiar readers, as if those who know the inside of my life are more dangerous than those who know only the exterior. But in real life, these readers of mine wouldn�t be so friendly or interested and while there is certainly truth to the internet encouraging social relationships, it�s easier to have nothing than a pale imitation of the Real.
That�s it, you know. I crave people, friends, people who know me well and despite that, want my company, people whose company I look forward to. Closeness. And for a long time now the only people to whom I was open were online and that stark contrast between the real and the internet-ish is too cold. It�s my own doing, I know; I push people away, don�t give them room to maneuver. But that�s only half-true because nobody comes close enough for me to push them away. Does that make sense? I�m a loner, period.
And I hate it.
March 31, 2003 9:21 p.m.
I have this friend who�s divorcing and I find myself feeling down when I talk to her, not because I hoped the two of them would work things out or because I wish I myself were married, but because she�s on the rebound and going out, three dates over the weekend and I can barely get out of my house. The blazing contrast between her get-go and my let-go is overwhelming. Her life, my life, everything, is different. I�m happy for her � don�t think I�m jealous of her because that�s inaccurate; but I am jealous of these guys she�s going out with, jealous that they have or know something I lack. Apparently one of them told her he wants to kiss her some time soon and I thought Damn, I could barely tell that to a girlfriend much less some woman with whom I�ve just had a first date. It�s the self-confidence I don�t understand, the inside joke for the cognoscenti to which I�m not privy. Like the tired joke of being in line for parts during personality assembly, I�m missing a few things � I�ve missed the male experience it seems, especially when my women friends tell me about guys who hit on them in bars and flirt in class. I think how do these guys know how to do this? When and where did they learn?
How do men become men and quiet guys quiet guys? And it�s not a consolation to think guys like me win in the end, especially not while I wonder what it�s like to live, to feel that flush, to know women play with bad boys but marry the quiet, plodding, secure ones. It�s weird, but I don�t feel like a man at all most of the time. I�d chalk it up to childhood but that�s both too Manichean and reductionist for me; what I am lacking is not unobtainable providing I have the key and am looking for the lock. Not to belabor the obvious, but I probably don�t even have the key or know where to look for the lock at all.
I worked all day on the book and I should be writing more now, but my vision is blurry and it feels warm to sit here with my eyes shut and listen to music, thinking that any moment now I�ll crawl into bed and function per custom. In other words, do nothing out of the ordinary, nothing new, nothing at all. Isn�t it a matter of locating the kernel somewhere which yearns for change and following up, doing so? Isn�t it about saying Enough and changing your life? Of getting off your ass to pursue what little happiness you seek? I don�t care about any of that. That�s inaccurate; I care, I care that I�m in this pitiful mental state, that I�m ugly, I care that I�m pushing away further than ever before, I care that I�m unhappy. This cognizance extracts a heavy price: I�m aware and the realization looms like the scent of carcasses heavy on the air.
Whatever that means. But in this place I�ve given myself permission to write what comes to mind and it feels good, it does.
I am tired.
I think about suicide and death throughout the day, almost in a major band beat in disarray, from out of this noise emits a sibilant whisper calling my name saying Rest, rest, shut your eyes and how badly I want that, I feel stymied and betrayed by my mind and body, both of which focus on the details and not the destination. I worry about life insurance policies forfeited for suicide, about my debts becoming someone else�s problem; I worry about not being able to do it because I�m afraid of why my plan appeals though I don�t know if I could pull it off. Why am I thinking about this? Why am I talking about this?
I�m in the prime of life, so it�s said, and I haven�t had a pulse yet. I�m 27 years old and I feel like I was born at 50. I�m exhausted by keeping up the pretense of living. Do you understand? My thoughts fixate on this, I�m tired of looking out the window and seeing the world revolve but isn�t it sad, I�m not tired enough to open the door and join the pulse, the beat. No, I�m more like a forgotten pet that seeks out a dark place and nobody notices until afterwards when tongues click and heads shake and the next video comes on and that�s the end of a half-attempted life.
How sad.
April 1, 2003 4:22 p.m.
Had a conversation earlier with a classmate, a wandering Teutonic busybody, about great Southern California beaches and I nearly said Last spring I camped for a week with my boyfriend but a shudder � a spasm?- broke my thought in time to substitute the anonymous friend. Even that bland shadow is inaccurate; he is neither boyfriend nor friend, not even someone in my life. I wonder if he thinks about me as often as I do him and I know the answer before I conceive the reply.
The last time he hit me, the same night he choked me and I thought please God never again, we were on two sides of the room, breathing heavily when he sat down on the bed and began to cry. He asked Do you think I want to hit the man I love? and I was dumbfounded not by the statement but by the coldness with which I received his words. I didn�t believe him, I never did when he said he loved me. I meant it when I said those words. I think that�s a fundamental flaw of mine; I distrust other�s words and emotions, don�t see what they do. I loved him but for my own good and his I had to be done, I had to hurry along the course towards termination. I didn�t believe him but what if he was sincere and I threw it all away? Sometimes while I�m driving I think of the time we spent in my truck driving the California highways laughing and listening to music and yet always underlying those good times was fear and uncertainty, fear and loathing, and it was on those rocks that we attempted to create a relationship of sorts. It didn�t take because � of me? Because we�re too different? Because I think too much? Because I hated myself for not being his ideal?
Sometimes when the phone rings and nobody replies to my Hello I imagine briefly it�s him. But I know he�s done, I�m done, but still, I think about the good and the bad and it�s a lesson to remember.
It does little to make me feel better, but it�s good all the same.
Last night I thought about my intransigence, what I call my granite personality. Unmoveable. Unshakeable. Always the same. What�s the phrase? A creature of habit? This afternoon I went to the grocery store and planned to pick up the same (the only) frozen dinner I eat, but this time I thought instead of Lean Cuisine glazed chicken, the only frozen meal I�ve eaten for years, one I eat three nights per week on average, instead of this routine and predictability and accompanying dehydrated personality, instead of all this I chose something new and I smiled like the gently medicated and I was thrilled, thrilled enough to pick up � gasp � two chicken pot pies as well. It was hard to do and it was another bullet in the gun that reminds me of how I am. But it was good, I smiled and am pleased with myself.
One point gained for defiance; one point lost for thinking of him.
April 1, 2003 7:50 p.m.
I don�t know what I�m saying or doing.
April 2, 2003 8:17 a.m.
Yesterday I bought a quart of Dreyer�s mint chocolate chip ice cream and finished the quart this morning at 1:15 a.m. An entire quart. When I woke at 5:00 I was nauseous. It will be a while before I want to smell or taste ice cream again.
I�m incredulous that I ate the quart. I am beyond ashamed of myself. I just don�t care any more.
April 2, 2003 9:41 p.m.
Fairly low-key and uneventful, but I�m feeling much much better, grounded, focused. Worked today � I�m so glad I got out, listened to traffic, opened my eyes. Arrived home, overnighted the latest chapter to the editor. L. hasn�t responded to the email I sent her the other day and I am trying not to let it bug me. I am failing miserably.
In the truck this morning, parked under a tree that shed blossoms across the windshield, I thought about the old Romanticist view of suicide, a noble end to conflict and little more. I don�t think my thoughts about suicide were � are? But notice the past tense, notice the past tense � noble and this is good, thinking rationally again.
Feeling lonely tonight.
April 3, 2003 3:22 a.m.
I amended the will � the word is codicil, what a waste of an English major � and it�s in the refrigerator. I read somewhere once that�s the best place to put important documents. It�s a will and a road map � insurance papers are in the filing cabinet, top drawer; deeds filed under Property, power of attorney papers under Emergency. Today I sat in the truck for a few hours near my secret spot and I didn�t want to go out, didn�t want to leave.
I feel silly now.
I�m waking up, I can feel it.
I don�t know where to go for help.
Again, very tired, too tired to sleep, I�m out of cleaning supplies.
I think about God and am angry.
