| (no subject) |
[Feb. 22nd, 2009|09:51 pm] |
I thought I was ok, but apparently not.
Drowning in jealousy at the moment, vascillating from anger to disgust to indifference and back. Why is it we don't know what we want until someone else has it?
Fuck.
I'm so sick and tired of worrying about all this stuff. I want someone to take some responsibility. I've had to deal with the consiquences of OUR actions, while you're off being lovey dovey and don't give a shit. It's not FUCKING FAIR. All I want is to talk to someone about all the terrible stuff that's happened, and you're the only one I can talk to. Only I can't. Because as much as we pretended, we never were really friends. What's done is done. That's fine. But I'm sad that after spending the whole year deciding that you were actually an OK guy... you're letting me draw different conclusions now. |
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| A Glass Of Milk (chapter three) |
[Jul. 6th, 2008|10:30 pm] |
I was born into this, so for me, the sudden freedom was shock. I knew, with the tenacious nature of a child, that there was something wrong with the world. Everyone was unhappy and scared, and I didn't like the census man, or the priest, who we had to see once a week in the church. I didn't like the church, for that matter—the large, dark building dank with smells that weren't quite there. . . The incense that was burned always smelled foul, somehow; something sweet laced with something putrid, like the stench of rotting meat. It was the sweetness that gagged me. Even when the priest shrugged off the heavy crimson robe of office, and took on the white, conical hat of the census, that smell lingered with it. I was too young to identify it then, but I think now that it was the smell of death that lingered on him. Some people become so steeped in their profession that they will never quite rid their bodies of that aura-and an aura of death was entirely fitting for that snide, twisted old man. My mother and father had an aura of defeat, which I was able to identify, for wasn't that the pervading attitude of all of us? A select few remained with power, with the right to think…the rest of us were left to merely exist. The only clear memory I have of my mother is of a sad insanity. I must have been almost four: I remember I was mad, because mother was making me come indoors before the curfew bell, and I was still playing with Johnny. Johnny was the neighbor's son-but he was executed along with his family right after my fourth birthday, because he had two mommies and, as I overheard my father saying later, that was always found out eventually. Everything was found out eventually, he was saying, as the priest came and took mommy away. The day I remember my mother I was angry, I wanted to play. Mother called me in and I wouldn't come, she called again and I came, warily. Mother was always a soft spoken, vacant person. Father, Grandma Jean, most people were like that. But today, she sounded different. Today, she sounded... urgent, somehow. She sounded, in fact, like Johnny's mommies. They'd always had a different quality, a different aura. They sounded real, almost, though I couldn't make that distinction at the time. They sounded and acted like I felt. Mother called me into the kitchen, that day, and told me to sit in my chair at the wooden kitchen table. This picture, like a snapshot, ingrained in my mind's eye: the worn oaken wood smoothed down by long use; the red and white checkered place mats, the red fading and the white yellowing, but perfect to my innocent mind. The bread crumbs on the place mat as I finished my bread and the cup of precious milk mother placed in front of me, frothy and so cold the glass was condensing in the heat. I remember looking at a bead of water trickle down the glass, mother pleading with me to drink it, her eyes bloodshot. Something was wrong, and I knew it. I did not want to drink the milk, even though this luxury was something we rarely afforded and not at all for children. There was something wrong, I thought, and not just because milk was so highly rationed and its use limited. Not just in mother's alertness, in her eyes. Mother was crying. This in itself was not so bad, but I had never before seen another adult cry. I'd cried, long and hard, over slights real and imagined. I'd never once seen an ounce of emotion from my mother or father, from anyone in the village. Fear, sometimes, but mostly just a calm acceptance. Later I'd learn that this was the effect of the water, but now I was just frightened. There was something terribly wrong. The house felt off, and with my attuned nature I knew with all my heart that I should not touch the milk. Tears streaming down her face, she told me, "drink it, oh please, just drink it, and then I'll have some, and we'll be safe" but I slid off my chair, eyes huge and luminous in the fading light. Mother noticed the darkness all of a sudden and she turned, lighting the candle centerpiece on the table, muttering, "Though why I should bother…" I used this distraction move around the table, wanting as much distance as possible between myself and whatever was represented by that forbidden glass of milk. There was something very very wrong, something dark and unwholesome, in that glass, in mother's eyes. She'd transitioned from being indifferent to wildly, fanatically, afraid, and this fear was creeping up my shoulder and trickling down my spine. Something had snapped, and I was afraid. The candles lit, mother looked up again, and the dancing flames did something to her eyes that paralyzed me. This was not evil, not the wrongness of the priest, only fear and sadness. The depth of that sadness eluded me, but I knew mommy hurt and suddenly I started to cry. She came over to pick me up and I threw my arms around her, and we were sobbing together. My tears wet her long, reddish hair, and I clinged to her as if I was loosing her forever. It was at this moment that father returned from work, and, hearing the door open and shut and the tread of his workboots in the hallway, mother froze. Knowing something was wrong, I quieted mid sob and turned around in my mother's arms. As father's tall, gaunt figure appeared as a shadow in the doorframe, I gave a quiet hiccup-and then mother set me down, patted me on the head, and told me, in a resigned voice, "hurry up to bed now, lovey, there's a good girl". I fled, up the narrow dark stairs into the bedroom, slamming the door and scurrying into bed. I heard the sound of pouring, father's voice, questioning, then mother's whispered reply. I heard the clinking of glass and wondered if father was unhappy because mother had left the bottles she used for cleaning out next to the sink, next to the glass… No mention of the incident was made again, but a few days after we celebrated mother's birthday, she was taken away, along with Johnny and his mothers. I vaguely remember there was some argument about me, but I stayed with my father. I started school later that year and they told me that my mother was an enemy of the state. They told me that girls who love girls and boys who love boys are evil, and an enemy of the state. That people who do not toil for their supper are evil, and enemies. That people who don't follow the law are evil, and enemies. If you didn't go to church every day, and school every day, and later when you were 14 and grown, if you didn't go to work every day, you were evil. If you were ill you had to see the priest, because all illness is from the devil, and results in sin by yourself or others. The priest must determine who it was that sinned. The wages of sin is death, they taught us, and then told us that all enemies of the state are processed, convicted, and shot. Sins of the fathers reflect on the sons, they said, so children who are found to be corrupted, like Johnny, were shot-to prevent them from growing up to be evil. My father was not sinful because he reported my mother, it was told, and so he and I were spared. I was not to waste this precious gift, but should instead embrace the challenge of living an upright life. I would be under constant surveillance, listed under the "high alert" category. Because of my mother's sin father and I were granted half rations, as penance. Father's pay grade was docked, and in addition to extra shifts he had to work at the textile plant, we both had to attend both church services, instead of the requisite one a day. I was sad at first, losing my mother, but after the first few days people lost their sympathy. They told me I was lucky to be spared. The priest, in his double duty of census taker, asked me a week later how I felt about it. I told him I missed my mother, and wanted to know why she was taken away. In his soft, high pitched voice, he told me to repent my mother's lingering sin. He told me that I was ill because of my mother's sin and I needed to pray for an hour every day and drink ten glasses of water to cleanse me of the evil. I lowered my head and dashed away tears, and told him "yes, sir," with a rebellious heart.
Looking back now, this is all easy to explain. According to Alex, one of Wildwood's old "uncles" who adopted me when I straggled in, the government started putting Cariso, a derivative of carisoprodol, in the water of the major urban centers as an "immunization system" to protect citizens against bio-terrorism. The side effects, along with mild diarrhea and cottonmouth, included a decreased response to emotional stimuli. Whether its use was initiated because of this purported "side effect" or whether it was just a lucky bonus for a government needed a way to control its population is unknown at this time, but it doesn't really matter. When the mass exodus of the overpopulated cities and the residential cap on towns, the nightly governmental news channel Vox stated that the plague could be caught through drinking untreated water, and urged its citizens to purchase home treatment units or bottling water from a local city approved source. By the time I was born, the first generation to be born under the control of the Chancellor, people took the treated water for granted. Most people. The normal, law abiding ones, who never looked the other way when their neighbors lead untraditional lives, who "did the right thing". People like my mother and father. Until Johnny's mother, Satine, and her "friend", Georgiana, moved next door. The economy was frail and several families to a house were becoming the rule rather than the exception, but even as a child I noticed how Johnny had two mommies and everybody else had only one. From records found on the internal system here I've discovered that Satine DeCarte and Georgiana Johnston were tried and executed for lesbianism, indecency in the eyes of God, raising a child in sin, and blatant disregard for governmental safety warnings. Autopsy reports (which were examined for physical evidence to provide to the public: a sort of ad factum trial in the press), while not reveling any illegal drugs, did note a complete absence of Cariso in their attempted murder of a child, attempted suicide, and resisting governmental control and safety warnings. While still present in her system, the levels of Cariso were much lower than normal, consistent with several days of abstinence. The physical symptoms may have been difficult to mask, but as realization began to dawn. . . a slowly growing horror as she began to realize that we had no future, no point of living under the mind numbing tyranny of the current government. . . It was, I believe, an act of love. Misguided as it was, I feel she truly believed that she was rescuing me from a pointless existence. When I first came here, I wanted nothing to do with their war. I may not have been deluded into thinking that a humdrum, completely ordered existence without free will was a good or healthy or right thing, but I didn't see how any force could topple the current government. This changed, though, when I learned the truth about my mother. As abhorrent an act as it may seem, it was a gesture of love that I saw. She loved me; she wanted to rescue me the only way she knew. And I became determined that no more innocent children should have to suffer, as I did. Even in a society where friendship was forbidden, where we were taught never to trust, in that moment I developed a kinship with every girl who lost a parent to the Chancellor's harsh government, every mother that lost a child, every wife who systems. My mother, Rebecca Ann Lewis, was tried and executed for the sins of lost a husband. I decided to fight, and I find it fitting that the government has honed the very weapons that will destroy it. |
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| Wildwood Manor (chapter two) |
[Jul. 6th, 2008|10:30 pm] |
No one's sure when exactly it started to happen, but it wasn't a sudden change. Of course it wasn't. We were the proverbial frog in the pot. Stick us into the boiling pot and we'd hop out again, aghast; let us sit in cold water while it slowly heated and we would sit there, simmering contentedly. A failing economy, the increased threats of global warming, of pandemics, of terrorism. The end of the first decade of the new millennium, instead of heralding a new era of peace and prosperity, seemed to be the crescendo of events, causing a downward spiral that was picking up speed with each news broadcast. Increasing threats of terrorism made it more and more difficult to cross the borders. When the influenza supremica, the "superflu" broke out in ..:namespace prefix = st1 ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" />China, the United Nations collapsed. The US closed our borders, but it was too late: panic ensued, as military quarantines were overrun. The cities around the nation were vacated, looted…fires started, and the firemen; too sick or too scared, or already gone, left them to burn. Amid terror and disorder, the President suspended the democracy and instated martial law. Relentlessly soaring prices for food, housing, gas, and clean water forced several generations into one home, extending families. We became, almost overnight, a rural community. Laws from our new Chancellor trickled down, as the cities vacated, rights were suspended. The right to bear arms: gone. Free speech: gone. Religious freedom: gone. Church attendance (the new United States Church of Hope) was mandatory, homosexuality was forbidden, and marriage was required. These changes were to protect us, to help us recover from the massive collapse of the global economy and to swaddle us from repeating the past. America had once been a great nation, but she was prideful, and lustful, and selfish. Full of soft ideals and no practicality. We were being taught, as a nation, to scorn our parents and grandparents, whose generations forced us into the emergency situations we were in today. The new national policy is to protect yourself, care for your family, and honor and obey the government. Brotherly love, helping others: these things are dangerous. Have we not learned our lesson? By sending troops and medical supplies to China to assist with the first outbreak of flu-and a soldier's small, seemingly innocent gesture of comfort for the afflicted, resulted in the break of quarantine. Human kindness has no place in this modern world, so full of dangers. Trust no one but the government. Love no one, let no one close. Form no attachments. Slowly, slowly we lost everything, and most of us still can't really fathom what is gone.
Amid these happenings, over and above and around the changing scope of the nation, some people prepared for the worst. Eccentrics, those connected closely to the government, who could see the changes taking place that would eventually turn sinister, these people began preparing. Maybe the most important of these, on the east coast, was Ariana Ford. She inherited millions early on, and, with foresight verging on prescience, began preparing. "The great benefit, and ultimate downfall, of America before the pandemic," Ariana once told me, "was that everyone minded their own business: no one paid any attention to what their neighbor, or the government, was doing." Using this natural reluctance for Americans to pay attention, Ariana began enlarging her ancestral home in unconventional ways, stockpiling supplies, and hiring on staff that she could trust. She was seen by her employees initially as a little odd, but she paid well and treated them better, and so this oddity was overlooked.
This is where I am, now, in that spreading, amazing home. Over the years Wildwood Manor has become home to the resistance, home to freedom. I write this in our library, Ariana's personal culmination of achievement. Some didn't think it was necessary, at first, until the Chancellor started ordering the burning of most books, and banned all other non-government sponsored media. The room is underground, as is most of the labyrinth that is Wildwood, but equipped with a special air-lock and conditioning system to keep dampness and aging from the books. One of our chore rotations consist of scanning all the books into the large computer database, but the books are kept after scanned. While some are comfortable accessing their information electronically, some of us still need the comforting touch of the pages, the smell of the past wafting off the page. Even I, unused to a past that contained pleasures such as this, smile at the touch of paper. It is precious now in the outside world and not to be wasted on frivolous things that can be accessed just as easily on an electronic database. When I first came here, I was sick with withdrawal from their water, homesick and frightened, grief stricken from the loss of my family. And Ariana herself took me here, unused as I was to the bustle of the busy community, to reacclimatize with society at my own pace. I could read, a skill slowly being forgotten in a patriarchal, rural society, and so I dove into the printed words, marveling at the smell and the touch of so much paper all at once. I heard, later, that a few months after I relocated at Wildwood the Chancellor passed an edict, banning reading to be taught past a fifth grade level, and women to be taught at all. Ignorance is the best weapon for them, ignorance and fear. |
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| It wasn't always thus...(chapter one) |
[Jul. 6th, 2008|10:29 pm] |
"It wasn't always thus", they whisper, at the beginnings of the stories. They try, with old dusty adjectives quickly falling into colloquialism, to paint us pictures of how it was. Imagine a man long unused to speaking suddenly required to explain, to a child born blind, the glory of a sunset: this is how their tender memories are conveyed. It is, in a sense, masochistic. Why mourn the loss of the dead? They're surely better off than we are, striving against the current to change the tide of a river. Why try to revive them, to deprive them of their hard-fought peace? It is the beautiful things they remember, anyway. The freedom of choice…these things they miss. Not the terrors they caused with these freedoms, the unintended consequences. Pollution, crime, war: all these are eliminated now. Unless, of course, you count the crimes of the government. Unless you count the pollution of our water with their drugs, of our minds with their propaganda, or of our souls with their mind-numbing lack of spirit. Or the war, the war we wage now. Guerrilla terrorism, more like, but this is our war, our burden to bear, and even though we die fighting, we die still. They still, indulging in remembrance, choose to remember the good things from before, instead of the very real fears that caused them to surrender their freedoms in the first place, to look the other way as we inched closer and closer to the ledge. They forget they've committed their joys to the past, and now leave their children to clean up the mess. We aren't inching towards the ledge anymore. We're in free fall.
But, it wasn't always thus, and they grasp that truth tightly, clinging to it as a sense of what they call hope—a foreign a concept in this time as love or faith for us. Hope, they say, that one day it will be thus again. That is, after all, what we strive for. That is our purpose, it is why what we do what we do, day after day. It is why we don't drink the water. It is why we don't let ourselves forget. We fight constantly, the Lilliputians fighting a giant… our group is elusive, evanescent: we've cloaked ourselves in mythology, woven into the old fairy tales. Robin Hood, King Arthur, the Lady in the Green…we incorporate elements of them into our lives, blurring the lines between fact and fiction until no one believes us, clothed in an impenetrable fog of superstition. Between the rationing of the gasoline, the closing of the borders to all but a few licensed traders, the government control of births, marriages, careers, salary… we have largely become a rural society. Smaller crowds are easier to control, you see: The population of any town is capped at 7000, and each town is governed by a specifically appointed man, chosen by the Chancellor himself. Between providing for themselves, the local governor's tithe, (who cannot, of course, take time from his duties to have another profession) and the required church tithe, and the Chancellor's tithe, the title peasant comes to mind: we are back in medieval times. These legends, then, are apt. As formal schooling is now handled by the church, they mold the minds of the young to uncompromising obedience even as they drug them with "fortified" water. But I digress. This is to be a chronicle of this chapter of my life, of this moment in history—for, as Ariana tells us constantly, we will be doomed to repeat our mistakes unless we learn from them. This, she's charged me with, then: a documentary, of past and present, that the future will be a time when we look back, shuddering, and tell our smiling, content, free grandchildren, "it wasn't always thus…" |
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| (no subject) |
[Nov. 18th, 2007|08:18 pm] |
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Unrequited love is still love, right? |
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| (no subject) |
[Jun. 27th, 2007|12:29 am] |
I don't think this is a good sign.
Sitting at work today,
I was trying to type.
And the chick sitting next to me,
WOULD NOT STOP chomping and slurping her noodles.
I tried to ignore it but the combination of the spaghetti which just did NOT smell right and the slurping turned my stomach so badly I had to aux my phone and run outside until I was reasonably sure I wasn't going to vomit.
There is something wrong with me.
I think I might know what it is.
I've been crying all day. |
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| Spend all your time waiting for that second chance... |
[Jun. 14th, 2007|01:22 pm] |
So. I've been struggling with some things, lately; mostly ultra-personal but the core of it has been an issue that has constantly come back into focus for me. I think a lot of it has to do with the way that I was raised, but I keep thinking that there's more to this life than what I've got. By all practical counts I'm doing well; I have a stable job, my own place, I pay all my bills every month and have a handful of wonderful friends, and a lot of other people to hang out with. I'm content with my relationships, I don't want a family right now and I seem to be pretty balanced. So why, oh why, am I so empty?
I think a large part of it is I don't have any old friends available to talk to right now. Those people I used to pour my heart out to, the ones with whom I was comfortable enough to trust with everything, are gone-and with their absence I'm reluctant to confide in anyone. After all, history repeats itself if you're not careful, and anyway, the better someone knows you the more they can hurt you when things go wrong. And if there's one thing I've learned in life, it's that sooner or later, everything goes wrong. Call it pessimistic, but it's part of Original Sin; everything is inherently wrong and if left to itself any person, any friendship, any endevour of people will eventually fall. Governments, religions, and relationships of any kind. Eventually, everything goes to shit. Maybe it's that lack of solidity that leads me to vent to a computer screen what I can't vent to a person, and it's beyond me why written down it's easier to share than just talking. Maybe it's because I'm confidant with writing, the transition from pen to paper or fingers to keyboard is so much smoother than having to listen to my shy little self stutter out broken phrases and getting things all wrong... all the while wishing I was someone else, one of those people who can just take life at face value and never wonder "why?".
That's my downfall, has been since I was small and my parents were just starting to wonder when I'd grow out of the questions phase. It's in tribute to this facet of my personality, maybe, that one of the most formative relationships of my life was initiated by a twelve hour conversation on, among other things, how a microwave works... I like to understand things, how they work and why, and between home schooling, private schools, and my oppressively intimidating shyness I haven't had much interaction with society until recently. This leads me to believe that I'm just going through some adolescent phase a little late, I still don't understand how people work, why they do what they do, and I'm so driven to understand that I think about it too much... eventually I just come back to the lessons pounded into my head before I was old enough to properly remember: "you'll never be good enough, you'll never be like them. You'll spend your whole life watching but you'll never really know what it's like to be free."
I'm really not as emo as this sounds, promise. It all comes down to, I'm a rational adult, I know what is real and what is all in my head. I know what I need to do with my life and how I want things to play out, and I'm pretty much on the right course. I just wish it wasn't so damn lonely... and the worst part is, I have friends, good ones. And people who are willing to be my friend if I could lower my pride and drop my instinctual terror at trusting someone to be a decent human being... Maybe I'm writing this as an explination, proof that I'm not completely cold and heartless or completely psycho, both of which I feel at the moment. Proof of the fact that I won't make the same mistake as my protagonist and sabotage every chance of happiness I get. I try not to, I really do, and most of the time I'm ok. I just feel sometimes that we were not meant to walk this path alone, so why can't I open up to my friends? For what it's worth, I think I'm getting better; I'll be ok someday soon I hope. Let this just serve as confirmation that I didn't forget our conversation last night, or the one that's now several years past...I really am trying. |
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| (no subject) |
[Jun. 12th, 2007|04:10 pm] |
I don't know what I'm doing; with my life, right now, just in general. I've got a date tonight, which I'm looking forward to, I guess; but not really, because it's with the wrong person. I keep wondering if I have a tendancy to fall for guys who are out of my league as self perservation, or because like Holly says, I fall for guys who are looking for girls who are the person I want to be, not the person I am. And, given my past heartbreaks (a small enough number, but still) I think she's right. And I guess that leads me to assume that I don't want to be the person I am now, and I've been working harder than I ever have before to change. I'm doing better, I've got my little plan and I'm working on it...it's just so hard to accept the fact that I've already fucked things up too badly to fix it, and I'm going to be stupid and open myself up to too much stress because I'm initiating a relationship with a guy who I really don't think I'm going to be able to fall for. I don't mind starting a relationship without the gaga feeling, it's hard for me to allow myself to get there till I'm semi-confident that I'm not wasting my time, anyway. Love is more than just a giddy feeling, it's the hard work and dedication you put into the other person, the willingness to put them before you. But there has to be some compatability, something other than the merely physical or superficial. And, knowing all this, the saddest thing is I continue just because I'm so damn sick and tired of being alone, not that I mind generally but I lost all that self-confidence that I was building up all last year, lost it in one stupid move that I am starting to think that I will never forgive myself for. Backsliding is one thing, taking all that hard-earned self esteem and shreadding it in one stupid drunken night is another thing entirely. I finally got to the point where I believed all that bullshit because I thought I was worth it... I'm back to feeling generally alone and un-loved and worthless, and I know it's not true, I know I'll be ok, but for now I think it would be harmless to indulge in some casual dating. Even though I know it's not, and that I'm about to be a royal bitch, maybe it's my turn to lie to them.
What have I become? |
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| Something is wrong. |
[Jun. 7th, 2007|04:18 pm] |
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So I'm getting this horrible sinking feeling in my stomach, and that yearning ache in my chest: something terrible is going to happen. I would just blame it on the Shadowland book I'm reading, but it happened before I started it. I have a bad feeling about tomorrow, I'm going to court, I just don't know what to to with myself; I think I'm going crazy. I'm almost through now, things are almost better, but I keep feeling scared and hopeless. I need someone to hold me and there's no one there, I don't want to be alone tonight. |
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| Car info |
[Apr. 18th, 2007|02:42 pm] |
23017142179 fax #
100800329521
ph #
mail signed title, keys,
$2368
ph# and fax# mailed to maif debbie dresser 1750 forest dr anapolis md 21401
4102698512
T903483
ddresser@emaif.com |
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| Your presence still lingers here, and it won't leave me alone... |
[Apr. 11th, 2007|04:41 pm] |
So.
I think it's safe to say, that for the first time in my life I've had a guy lie to me to get me into bed. I've had people try the sweet talk before, but I've always had such little self confidance that I knew they were only trying to have sex with me. This time, I thought, that for once I'd found someone I trust. I didn't ask for an upfront commitment or anything, I thought the promise of something to come would be enough. I trusted him; and for once, I trusted myself. I thought I could see something good in me, for once, something that would make someone actually want to be with me: I believed I was worth something more.
Apparently I was wrong.
He's still completely courtious when I run into him, but he hasn't answered a call or a message in over a week, and I've gotten to the point now where I really don't care anymore. I'm not that hung up over him in perticular, it's not an emotional thing or anything; I'm not going psycho or anything. I'm just a little sad, because it would be nice to have someone at least come out and say, "Hey, sorry about that, I was drunk and just wanted to fuck." That, I could deal with. But this not hearing anything, I keep thinking, "maybe..." and it's driving me nuts. So I'm done, I guess it's a step up that someone's lying to me to get me into bed now instead of not even wasting time or curtasy on that...
Things will be ok, I'm getting to be less mad at myself now, so it's ok... |
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| Wow. |
[Apr. 3rd, 2007|07:38 pm] |
So things are looking up. Financially I have a plan, I'm going to be ok, so I'm not so worried about that. My sister is a dear and let me use her phone, so I can get in touch with people if it's important. I'm starting to shed the last few bits of nastiness from me, and getting to know more people that I like. I'm also working on some things I haven't gone into in a long time, I'm not ready for a five year plan again but I've gotten info on HCC classes to start, and in a few months I'll qualify for tuition reimbursment. I'm also starting to get set back up on my payment arrangements to knock out this debt. If everything runs as planned this will put me back only a few months, so I'm looking at being completely free in about a year and a half at most! So far everything is working out, I'm starting to loose that panicked feeling like my world was falling apart. Living with Holly is harder on the budget, though, so I gotta work on being tough and saying NO! Every time she wants to eat out or something.
Anyway.
And, on a completely unrelated note, I've been sleeping very well lately...I think I k now why, too. :) |
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| Then again. |
[Mar. 28th, 2007|11:13 am] |
So. The bad news is, I'm hanging onto my sanity by a thread. I keep having to blink back tears, and when people ask how everything's going I lie, to not be that person constantly bitching.
The good news is, I'm hanging on by a tread-I haven't let go yet!
Things are gonna be ok, I just have to remind myself every once in a while. :) |
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| How will I know if I end up where I want if I can't tell you where I'm going? |
[Mar. 15th, 2007|09:08 pm] |
I've decided that my life is a bit stagnant lately. I've elliminated a lot of the drama, but that leaves me with a slightly smaller pool of friends and less...nights out, I guess? So, I'm going to be taking up some new hobbies. I would also like to meet some new people. Things are finally starting to look up for me and I'm trying to diversify. I'm going to take up quilting again, as soon as I can reasonably afford the materials I'm going to start making things for my hope chest again.
Because I am that archaic.
Anyway I'm also going to embrace the slight shift in weather and have decided to start doing more out-door type things again, I can't wait till I can go swimming but in the meantime I'm thinking I'll take up tennis or something. Or maybe work on my pool game a bit, it's been a while and I'd like to get decent again. Not that pool is an outdoors thing but I've realized that, unless I'm at the bar, the highlight of my night is cleaning my apartment and cooking/baking. I really am an old woman, and I really am bored...but the answer to that is not going to be found entirely in a bar. I really do wanna dig myself out of debt, and there are a lot of cool things to be done for cheaper than the cost of a few drinks, anyway. So. Any suggestions or accomplices? |
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| It's been a while since I've updated... |
[Mar. 10th, 2007|11:12 pm] |
| [ | mood |
| |  drained | ] |
| [ | music |
| | Beethovan's Moonlight | ] |
So then.
Yeah.
Life really hasn't been that bad, in general. My apartment is coming along nicely, starting to get settled in. It actually looks like a home almost. It makes me feel happy and old and young all at the same time. Because, it's mine. I pay for it, I'm like this grown up person now with a job, and an apartment, and bills... and I still feel like a child playing grown up. I guess it has to do, in part, to growing up without much of a childhood: but it's not that I'm just re-living adolescence or anything like that, because I pretty much act like a grown up. When will I get to the point where I feel honestly like an adult? And is that a good thing, or a bad thing? Too many older people have lost their appreciation of beauty. Is the fact that, despite everything I've gone through, I still retain a tiny bit of childlike wonder every time I see something beautiful a testimony to my personality or just that I need to grow up? Maybe it's a good thing that a pretty sky as the backdrop for a v of geese still makes my heart ache, maybe it has less to do with being juvenile and more to do with being alive?
So what a bunch of rambling nonsense, eh?
I still feel lost. I miss being able to connect with someone, and I think I'm starting to miss having an audience for my writing. I've decided it's not so much the lack of a muse as lack of a goal. Writing is the only thing I've ever really been good at, so to hear affirmation of that is like getting approval for being me. I feel less worthless. I've reverted a lot since moving out of the house on Spruce St. It's very tough having to re-assimilate myself with a whole group of people, getting to know so many people and places. I miss my ka-tet. I miss not having to say anything unless I really want to, and not having to deal with anything. I guess I'm just lazy. And the people I've been hanging out with are cool...
The other day I was talking to a friend, just a general chat, not even anything too drastically important, and I got scared. Like, I felt like someone was forcing me to watch that evil Cheshire Cat or something. It wasn't anything too horrible, I'm starting to think it's just my way of keeping out of harm's way any more than strictly necessary. I literally had a mild panic attack, just trying to keep up a conversation... At first I blamed it on him, but it isn't ANYTHING I can put my finger on. It's gotta be in my head. I am so completely terrified of trusting people that I think when I start to get even close, my subconscious starts back-peddling as quickly as possible. I'm completely incapable of being friends with anyone in a meaningful way. I will give and give and give but it's so damn hard to take anything in return, and I think that holds me back from being the best friend that I can be... in Jack Lewis's book The Four Loves, he talks about Affection in terms of Need-love and Gift-love. One is taking, the other giving, obviously. But he also notes that the both are irrevocably entwined, because Need love gives itself to others freely, in order to be appreciated; and Gift love needs to be needed, or looses its function entirely. So. Anyway.
I wish I had someone to talk to about stuff like this.
I wish I could talk to someone like this without choking up and changing the subject. I've gotten far too good at mumbling something intelligible, and bringing up something else.
So that is my life, or something like it... |
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| Revisited |
[Mar. 7th, 2007|05:02 pm] |
Black streets,
Rain-streaked vision
Further blurred with tears,
Is that emptiness in the abandoned corner
I stand at, unsure of where to go?
Or just the numbing of my heart...
I think I'll start a new life,
Somewhere far away,
Think I'll travel far beyond this,
Till where I'm at now is just
A memory of what was,
And I've dissappeared, into the dark,
And no one can find me,
Not even in the shadows that line my face,
The walls that line my heart,
I'm gone...
And please just forget me,
As everything fades away... |
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| (no subject) |
[Mar. 6th, 2007|05:17 pm] |
I don't know what to write.
Do you ever feel like you're fading away and there's no one around to notice? |
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| Life |
[Jan. 10th, 2007|07:40 pm] |
I'm getting an appartment by Feb. 1st, hopefully, I looked at it Monday and I fell in love, it's nice and open and spacious. Haven't gotten a call yet, I'm calling tomorrow to check up. Work is going nicely, getting my overtime check this Friday. And yet again, the feeling that my world is falling apart, and a terrible aching lonliness like I had way back when, before. I have friends, I have a lot of people who I can hang out with and have a good time. But I'm still lonely, and homesick, and tired. I really don't see the point in doing everything the way you're supposed to do it, and I have no great love to sacrifice myself for, nothing worth making me get up every day and do the same old shit. Friends are important, yes, but for the most part everything is superficial, yet again I get the feeling that I care about everyone in my life so much more than they care about me, and there's nothing worth it, and I feel so depressed I want to hang my head and cry, and the worst tragedy of all is that I've no where to be alone, no where to just let it out. My bedroom is gone, I commute to work so I'm always around someone.
I really don't know what the point is anymore. |
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shadow_stabber's journal
