I might as well pour gold glitter all over my head, and sparkle somewhat, somehow. It’s been a long time since I’ve sparkled, since I’ve played my story music, my word sounds. It’s been a long time since I’ve lived.
I sleep with the phone beside my head, in case you call, which you won’t, because you’re not you anymore, and I’m not me. I’m a shadow of who I used to be. Vital organs shifted and disintegrated, atrophying from discontinued use. My heart used to beat loudly in my chest; now my blood pressure is so low, I’m not sure if my heart is even in there anymore. Like, I loved you so much, that when it all fell apart, I did, too. I ceased to be, and now this girl dressed in a me suit silently wades through this world, seldom engaging at all.
And at the very base, I doubt the things I believed so fully in, like riding the wave where it takes me. Maybe I should put my feet on the earth and walk in the direction of where I think I should be, an active participant in this life that supposedly belongs to me, instead of having faith that life will provide its own answers. Maybe I should get off the board and hail a cab.
So like an invalid hooked up to a respirator, the music of others begins to breathe for me, slowly bringing me back to life, nursing me back to health. Like a familiar stuffed animal, I turn to the sound of my youth, hoping that it will vitalize me once more. These songs on repeat remind me that I am someone, that there is still a soul restless inside of me, asking to be let out again, so that my soul wears my body, and not the other way around. Maybe I didn’t completely atrophy after all – maybe I’ve just been asleep at the wheel.
My Coma May 4, 2010
I’m sad, but it’s nothing you’ve never seen before December 1, 2009
It’s true. I’m sad, but it’s nothing you’ve never seen before.
I hide in my cave, and I am reluctant to come out. Instead I lose myself in other worlds, dream-worlds and book-worlds and movie-worlds and song-worlds.
When I dream, I dream of you, and all is as it should be, until something twists and turns, and I wake up thinking, why?
When I read, I think about the adventures the characters go on, and how you and I could’ve gone on an adventure, and how I could still go on a solo adventure, but those are never as much fun as when you have someone to hold your hand and fight your demons for you, so I keep on reading and ignoring reality.
When I watch movies, I see how beautiful everyone is, and I think briefly about how I used to be beautiful until the self-destruction took over, and now I’m just bruised and beaten, slumped over in the makeup chair, unwilling to sit up straight.
When I listen to songs, I fall in love with whatever could be, like a swooning voice or haunting melody, and I twirl around in my thoughts and in my heart, and my eyes flutter with possibility…but then I sigh and remember that my voice means nothing and you never heard me anyhow.
When I write, however, I fall asleep in the spaces between the paragraphs, and come to life in the spaces between the words. My mouth opens up and I am filled by letters and symbols, and I am placated by my typewritten symphonies. My fingers play the keyboards like a grand piano, and sometimes I am Beethoven and sometimes I am a child in a music shop. One way or another, something comes out of my blood, and this is it.
I’m lost in a cave of my own making, sure. I’m alone and crying out for help, and sometimes you hear me and sometimes you go on with your life, and who could blame you? Sometimes I pack it all in and leave, and sometimes I just roll over and go back to sleep. Sometimes you should wake me, but sometimes
you should just let me sleep.
Yes, I am sad. But it is nothing you have never seen before.
you’ve got to be fucking kidding me November 26, 2009
huh. and so here i am.
crying at yet another grey’s anatomy episode.
in my bed. right where i should be.
all snuggled into my pillows and bear, right where i should be.
so i got fired/laid off/i quit. and i’m thrilled. i couldn’t stand another day at work. it’s like i’m in seattle all over again, unable to force myself out of bed to do another day of drudgery. and i know, i had a great job. but i couldn’t do it anymore. i tried to get fired, and i succeeded. just like i tried to be dumped, and eventually, it happened. my passive-agressiveness won yet again, and therefore i’m free. maybe one day i’ll make decisions for myself, instead of letting them happen to me.
i’m crying. part of me is just so sad, that i can’t do anything but cry, and the thought of doing anything else is absolutely ridiculous. i will just cry and cry and cry until i run out of tears. and they will be because of you.
but another part of me knows that i could reach out and have someone listen to me, and hold me tight, and keep me from the immediate pain. my friends. thank god for friends, who are ready to keep me safe from myself.
safe. i am beginning to be safe. if i stayed here any longer, i would die. my liver would give out, my lungs would quit. staying here is a matter of life or death. and the best part about that?
i want to live. and so, that’s why i’m going. i want to live. i want to live. i want to live.
How the be the better person, part 29 November 11, 2009
He died. I died. We all died.
Ring around the rosie. Pocket full of posies. Ashes, ashes, we all fall down.
And down we fell. Past the rabbit’s hole, into a black hole, into utter blackness, into outer space, into a space which I have never recognized because
I was never truly there before.
Like the plague. Like a handshake that gives you the shakes, the mono, the cholera, the everyday normal death.
It went like this:
Hi.
Hi.
I lust you.
I lust you.
No one will ever add up to you.
[Silence]
No one will ever add up to you.
[Years]
Oh, well, hello.
Hello to you too.
[Years]
I love you.
I love you too.
But I really love you.
Well, I really love you too.
[Together]
I love you.
[Silence]
(Acceptance)
[Silence]
I love you.
(Caution)
I love you too.
I love you.
I love you.
[Love]
Where’d you go?
(Silence)
Bipolarland.
Well, I still love you.
(Silence)
I love you?
[Silence]
I…
I love you.
(Um, me, me, me)
I love you, but…
[I can't do this anymore]
I can’t do this anymore.
(Silence)
Hello?
[Silence]
Wait, maybe I can.
[Go fuck yourself]
(But I love you)
[Silence]
(But I gave up so much for you)
[Go fuck yourself]
{Cry, cry, cry}
[Silence]
(Acceptance)
Yeah, so, a gory allegory: I moved on. Eat a shit sandwich and die.
I’m paraphrasing. But that was the gist of it. What I don’t understand is how you say you love someone, and then, suddenly, you don’t.
And I’m finding this to be more and more common.
How DO you love someone, and then suddenly treat them like shit you step around on the street? Like, the past five years never meant anything, like you were just biding your time until you could pull out your knife and stab them in the heart repeatedly.
That’s fun. What a fun hobby. “Hey, I love you. Oh, whoops, no I don’t. Here, I’d like you to die. A rather painful death. And I’m gonna go ahead and instigate it by telling you, showing you, imbedding in you my hopes, my dreams and my love, and then HEY, I’m just going to go ahead and murder you dead. Have fun!”
And they ask why I don’t want to date anyone again.
I have a space song. It’s glorious and weepy and all things invading one’s soul. My space song is the one that I sing when I am all alone and I wonder where I am going and what will happen to me. My space song keeps me warm at night and keeps me safe from the devil. My space song is what I count on to keep me alive and keep me safe from harm.
But the sad thing about my space song? It’s me. It’s all I’ve got. In the middle of the night, just me. In the middle of the day, it’s just me. When I’m feeling sad and lonely and desperate and full of regret, all I have is me, and sometimes, it borders on not being enough. I’m hanging on by a thread, but at least I’ve got my at leasts.
At least I’m not self-medicating. That much. At least I haven’t gotten over it by getting truly under something else. At least I tried. And at least I’m still trying to be a good friend. At least I’ve got the self-respect to take care of myself, and keep myself from harm, especially if that harm is from my own hand.
[Like last winter, when you saw the scars that I inflicted on your behalf. And you said you'd never allow that to happen again, and you insisted that I scar you like I scarred me.]
I stopped self-mutilating. Not that I don’t feel like it sometimes, seeing blood on the outside instead of knowing that my heart is bleeding internally, even if it’s not really, it just feels like it. At least I’m not railing drugs, or even drinking until I’m too drunk to even write. Instead, I take the pain and put it into words. And they may hurt, but at least I’m purging, and not in a “I just threw up everything I had for dinner tonight” sort of way. No, my sandwiches are staying deep inside of me, giving me the energy to get up another day and face myself and the life that I want. Without pain and with grace.
He told me so many things, so many beautiful things, and now that he’s gone and become Darth Vadar, I’m not sure what to believe, except myself. Because when I told him beautiful things, I was not lying. And when I did beautiful things, I did them because I wanted to. And when I do beautiful things now, it’s because I’m learning, slowly, slowly, but surely, how to love again, the person that needs to be loved the most:
Myself.
So to you, dear Molly, I give you more wonderful gifts for this birthday: grace and dignity.
And the following prayer:
Our Father in Heaven, hallow be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth, as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. For thine is the kingdom, the power and the glory forever. Amen.
Here’s the thing. I don’t hate myself anymore. I’ve made a lot of mistakes, but I think that I’m worth them all, and a lot more. I’m worth the wait. I’m worth the wait.
The ghost of you, the mannequin of me November 11, 2009
So. I loved you once. You loved me once. You love me not. Right now. I love you not…so much…anymore.
Or do I love you at all? Did I love you ever?
It’s funny, how you died. Once, you were amazing. You were my Joan of Arc. You were my everything. You were my song, you were my…love.
And then you died. In a fire? Spontaneous combustion? Some sort of evil that rose up within you? And then, you were gone. Dead. Dead, gone, dead. Not alive. Six feet under. Your entire existence ceased to be.
I can’t believe that you could just forget, so easily. You just turned your back, like we had never met, like I was some parasite coming to suck the life out of you, when really, all I tried to do was breathe some life back into you. Like we were scuba diving, and I tried to share my oxygen with you, but instead, you just grabbed the tank and let me succumb to the depths of the sea, and yes, that’s when I got The Bends, and all the old hurt started stabbing me again.
I just keep waiting for the day where I can go a good 24 hours without remembering you. When I can move back to my Seattle and live my life. I’d like that back now, please. Along with my ring and my feelings, and probably my heart.
Until that happens, I will try to keep breathing on my own, I will try to find my own oxygen tank and slowly creep upwards towards the horizon, and place one foot in front of the other, and try. And keep. Going. Without. Falling.
Into you, or the ghost of you.
How to be the better person, part 12 November 6, 2009
One eye on the prize, one eye on the eject button. Ear lifted to the sound of an escape hatch. Smelling…me. The only person I want to smell right now. Touching the door knob, tasting a life that may be within reach.
Sensing that satan may have gotten behind me. But I guess it took reading the devil’s email.
True love, true love…it’s the devil’s crowbar.
I’m just disappointed I wasted 5 years of my life. That I was sad for so many years. That…that was that.
But I’m not going to shift blame. That’s only going to land me on “Intervention,” and I’d rather watch that than participate. My own personal intervention will take place when I nap down on my mom’s sofa over Christmas break. Or, perhaps I already had one when I decided that I would be angry instead of devastated.
It’s not like my castle crumbled, or my Andy Wood overdosed. Rather, I guess that I’m going to have to purge, and get rid of some old shoes, and keep burning cigarette holes in pictures, and figure out what really matters in this world, and remember that Eddie Vedder was always right: I’m still alive.
I may have scratches, all over my arms, one from each day since I fell apart, BUT, I’m still alive.
And, dear reader, so are you.
The bottom of a well October 30, 2009
That Cuban girl
That brought me low
She had that skin so fine and red lips rose-like now
Her mouth was wide
And sweet as well
And now relentless hours of dreaming up her smell
And I feel as if I am looking at the world from the bottom of a well
Lonely
And the only way to beat it is to bat it down
Oh all the days
That I have run
I sought to lose that cloud that’s blacking out the sun
My train will come
Some one day soon
And when it comes I’ll ride it bound from night to noon
Aimless days, uncool ways of decathecting
Painless phase, blacked out thoughts you be rejecting
(Mike Doughty)
[Lonely. And the path out of the well is not through your Jameson or your Parliaments, although tonight, I wish it was. I guess it could be, but tonight, if I'm going to suffer through sleeplessness, I'd like it to be because I'm engrossed in a new book, and not engrossed in what you're doing tonight. Not tonight. Not tonight.]
Everything. All of the time. October 28, 2009
Fuck.
It’s extremely fucking painful.
So painful, I need to listen to Tool at top fucking volume. And probably the only thing that will help right now is “Aenima.” Relax, turn around, and take my hand.
I know you’ve changed. I’ve changed. I’m changing. And it hurts. More than I ever thougth was possible.
The last time that I changed, that I tried to feel, that I tried to be alive, I took razors to myself to feel something. A change. Alive. Life or something like that. I probably should’ve picked up a guitar and made really awful noises. But I didn’t. I just sliced and cut and sliced some more.
And then. Yes. And then. When I thought that I could win you back from myself, I stayed up all night, singing into my voicebox, trying to make you music, when that’s the last possible thing I could do. The very last thing I could do.
“Lie. Feel. Something.”
Well, I don’t have to lie. I feel something. I feel everything. I feel like dying, crying and vomiting. Throwing things. Like myself. Across the bridge. I feel so much, you’d be surprised. I feel so much, everyday. I feel so much, I’m to the point where I can barely feel anything anymore. And I’d really like to feel nothing. In fact, I think I’m going to feel nothing right now. Here we go.
[Listen. For what it's worth, I'd like to honestly feel nothing. But I feel everything. Right in the depths of my chest, everything hurts. And I don't know what to do. I really don't. Everything hurts. Everything. It all hurts.]
At least you tried, he said. Well, sorry, Maynard. I haven’t tried anything, really. I just let everything work its way through my blood stream, and kill me all the more. I actually said tonight, I just want to go home and listen to Tool. As loud as fucking possible. As he was kissing my cheek. I just wanted to go home.
Bitch. That’s me. A real fucking bitch. I have someone holding my hand, kissing my cheeks, and all I care about is something that never reminded me of you until it did. I suck. I really do. I’m a terrible person.
I REFUSE to look up Tool lyrics. There’s something sacred about them. At least, with Aenima. So for this, I say: “Standing above the crowd. He had a voice that was strong and loud. And it swallowed me so soft as I’m so eager to identify. With someone above the crowd. Someone that seemed to feel the same. Someone prepared to lead the way. Someone who would die for me. Will you? Will you now? Would you die for me? Don’t you fucking lie! Don’t you step out of line! Don’t you step out of line! Don’t you step out of line! Don’t you fucking lie! You claimed all this time that you would die for me. Why then are you so surprised by your own eulogy? He had a lot to say. He had a lot of nothing to say. He had a lot to say. He had a lot of nothing to say! Come down. Get off your fucking cross. We need the fucking space, to nail the next fool martyr. You must step out of line! You must be crucified! Of course you cannot lie. Goodbye!!!”
I realize there’s a lot wrong with that passage. But I don’t care. I don’t fucking care. I don’t care that there is so much blasphemy in that, and I also consider myself a “Christian.” I care about little much at this point. Little, little much. So very little much.
Everything is so loud. Except for the moments when I walked from 18th and Union back to Bellevue and Mercer. Those were quiet. Like the times I walked to 15th and Denny. Or like all the times I walked to the waterfront, sometimes packing. Lunch.
I am not lonely. I am not bored. I do not miss having a relationship. I can think of plenty of things to keep myself busy. But what I do miss is him. And no one else. No offense, but writing PDC tonight made me realize, I don’t miss him. Not a bit. What I do miss is him. And no one else. Because everyone else is a copy of a copy of a copy of him.
So I guess, what does that make me? A copy of him? Or more likely, a copy of me, of a copy of me, of a copy of me?
I went to Upland Elementary School for kindergarten, 1st and part of 2nd grade. Once, we had a race, like this whole big to-do. I ran the race. I came in last. I always come in last when I’m running for something, when I’m racing for something, when I’m competing for something. I’ve learned better. I don’t run. But I stalk. I find my prey, and stalk it.
Oh, but do I ever get what I want?
“Someday you will find the one that DIDN’T get away,” he said.
Well, I fucking waited. And then waited some more. And then waited a little more after that.
And I’m still fucking waiting.
“Without the skin here. Beneath the storm. Under these tears now. The walls came down.”
I don’t know what it means, and I don’t care. All I really know is that it’s not enough. Nothing is. And all of my grand ideas are not enough. All I know for sure is that nothing works, and everything hurts. Everything hurts. Every fucking little thing. They all hurt.
And you know what the worst part is? Yucaipa will never mend these wounds. They will only remind me of what I’m missing. Of all things, I thought I could count on Yucaipa. But that’s the last thing I can count on.
Even my childhood has let me down.
I can’t do anything but laugh at this point.
Because otherwise…
I was born secular, and inconsolable October 16, 2009
My lips are dry and cracked. Probably because they haven’t been kissed in such a long time. Kissed like they need to be kissed, anyway.
My arms have atrophied. Probably because they haven’t held anyone in so long, at least like they’re capable of holding someone.
I had a good, long hug today. A few, actually. A long distance, over the phone hug, and a furry, tail around the neck hug, and I was happy to get it.
I’m drinking more than I should, alone. But at least Tienda doesn’t judge. I can walk in, buy beer in the middle of the day, and not be questioned about it. Maybe they realize that my heart hurts, and they choose to stay quiet.
My life has flashed before my eyes the past few weeks. I saw Tommy Lasorda last night, and missed my grandma. I have talked to old friends, and missed my old life, as damaged and imperfect as it was. I saw a picture of you today, inadvertantly, and immediately felt the flush of pain wash over me.
Where is God, now, when I could use some God? He works in mysterious ways, I hear. He gives, and then He takes. Was there a reason He gave me him, and took him away?
I would assume. And I suppose that being almost, practically 29 means that I still have some time to figure things out. I was ready to settle, but obviously settling is not something I should do, ever. Maybe I should never be settled. Settling only leads to earthquakes and losing things in the dust.
I wish you, dear reader, could hear the song I’m listening to (“Born Secular” by Jenny Lewis and the Watson Twins), because the instruments are beautiful, as are the lyrics.
I sang to my furry little friend, and I think he heard me. I think he enjoyed it. I think he felt my pain, and wrapped his paws around me, assuring me that I am loved. At least by him. If not you, too, dear reader.
Winter(s) ghosts October 14, 2009
I want to write something, but I don’t know what to say.
Do I scout around for material? Do I haunt things, people, just to have comments?
It used to be that Santa Cruz consumed me, and I was haunted by people and places. I had left Yucaipa, for what I thought was good, and no ghosts followed. I had no history, I was a clean slate.
But then I got involved, and things, and people, haunted me. And then I stayed longer, and I had more ghosts. I was entirely haunted.
And then, I moved home. And a whole different type of poltergeist took over. All the ghosts I had dodged for so long caught up with me, one after another. An entire empire of ghouls crept upon me, and practically dragged me down. Couldn’t you just leave me alone?
I’ve been tired for some time, now. I escaped to Seattle, only to have my ghosts follow and haunt me more than I ever thought I could be. I was utterly possessed. And no exorcism could save me. I was destroyed. I was tired. And no one understood just how exhausted I really was.
So tired that I just wanted to sleep, forever…and ever…and ever. And ever.
And I told him, I’m so tired. I just want to sleep. I’m so, so tired.
But I stayed awake, and ventured back to California, sleepy and scared, but with a few amulets, to keep me safe. Namely, a blue-eyed, blonde haired little muffin of a good-luck charm that I am fortunate enough to call my nephew. Some people change your lives. For the good.
And yet again, some people change your lives. For the bad.
Look, if I was going to be haunted, I would welcome my grandma. Sometimes I dream about her, and I’m grateful for the moments. I could have an actual ghost, and be fine with it. Whatever.
But I am haunted by trinkets here and there, memories that come and go. And just when I think I have a Casper, a friendly ghost, it turns out that I get chills all up and down, and not in a good way.
Stop haunting me. Stop following me around. Stop trailing my shadow and creeping up behind me in the dark. Let me be. Stop. Just stop. I can’t have you in my dreams and nightmares, destroying the life I have left to live. I beg of you.
I beg of you…accept me the way I am. Don’t haunt my past, don’t frighten my future. Just accept me. Except me.
Please, I’m haunted enough as it is.
