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9:18 p.m. - January 28, 2003
To flea or not to flee, that's not the question; the inquiry is, have I flatlined yet and if not, why? I'm expecting prompt service, not like the last time I rode a public bus.
When I was 15 and frustrated, stymied like a millipede in a form-fitting straightjacket, I walked i nto the psychiatric department at the medical facility and I talked for an hour, whatever it was I said spilling out in a torrent and then the therapist said We will need to formalize treatment and I learned I could not pay cash for services since I was a minor. That was the end of that attempt.

What alarms me today, tonight, is that I'm feeling the same suffocation I recall stifling me then, a pattern now understood as the flight mentality. As a teenager, I took flight literally and would try to distance myself and call it a day in a new state, being able to breathe again with the prospect of starting over, fresh. Maybe the strategy was successful, maybe not, but I was able to control the stifling pressure and not panic. I can't flee and I feel caged and the desperation is spreading like mildew in your dirty bathroom, a faint spec in the far corner and now there's so much it will take more industry, a heavy scrub, zeal, to restore. I realized some time ago that I'm not like those who bounce back and can laugh off adversity; I take things far more personally than I show and keep everything inside and I feel bloated with disappointment and censure. And I don't know what I've done wrong.

The front of the laughing Jason, occasional star student with goals and motivation is too difficult to perpetuate this week. I'm doing nothing but school and I feel it's too much but realistically, the only concurrent expenditure is breathing itself and suicidal ideation is not my thing. There is nothing left to cull; I'm operating on reserves already. I'm not answering the phone, checking my mail, replying to emails. I don't have time and it's not the time, it's the time to corral loose thoughts and shape them into something worthwhile. There is so much anger inside I'm bewildered and today driving home I cried some, wanting to go elsewhere but having nowhere to go. I'm angry and I don't know what to do. Me, who always has a plan, a backup, something in reserve for contingencies. Asked myself why I'm shutting myself off from people and there is no good answer and my actions contradict my wishes, my secret desires but practicalities here, it doesn't matter what I want when it's apparent to all I'm simply unfit at the moment.

Advisor informed me today of a position in Rochester, New York, tailored to you and again I promised to look into it and he said and simultaneously I was hurt - What, you want to get rid of me? - and tired by thinking of the work involved. I understand, though; I'm occupying a valuable, coveted position and the next rising star needs a place at the table. The sad thing is that I was the rising star and today I'm the crazy uncle at the children's table.

What the hell am I talking about again?

Tomorrow will be a better day, I'm sure.

And the State of the Union address assaulted my ears. Horror! I'm not even interested in flossing my teeth tonight. Now I'm sure something's amiss.

Good night. Find yourself a more entertaining journal to read. Nothing here save uninspired helplessness.


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