Two Sonata and an hour later and I know that I am really fucked because the sleep just does not come, I try and try and try and it does not come and I fall a little further into this and I see its face and I know its name, and yes, it is an episode and it started slow last week and is coming down hard now.
My mood is depressed but my brain is hard wired like the days of crank, vvroooooom, this is your brain on ice, snort it, swallow it, put it your shot, shoot it up, just take that shit to get you through the night because you are seriously fucked if your paranoid ass goes to sleep and this way it all works out and you can get your school work done, just so long as the words stop coming out, the words stop flowing through your head so quickly, so pronounced and visible to the naked eye, in the third person explaining everything that goes on to an eager audience that does not exist but never explaining anything to yourself.
What in god\’s name were you thinking? Thinking was something maybe you should have done a little more of, thinking about tomorrow or next year instead of worrying so much and being so afraid of May 28, 1993 and the rest of the past and that day and the next minute and so full of fear of everything and everyone and yourself.
Just that little bit of hope was all that kept you alive, just that little bit, and oh god, oh god, look what I did to you, look what I put you through.
I can handle this here, in the now — this is easy. School, piece of cake in comparison. Look what I put you through. You were not ready for any of that, but you did it. You amazed even me. How did you do that? How did you go from cowering in a basement for two years, never seeing light of day, too afraid to come out, to stepping on a plane by yourself at the age of sixteen, giving your parents the finger and taking off for another country, planning on never returning?
Hiding there in that basement you were hiding the biggest set of balls I have ever seen; can I suck them? I need an ounce of that courage now. You waltzed on over there in your platform boots, combat trousers and floor length fake fur coat, stepped off that plane and knew you had just begun to whoop the ass of your social phobia. Where do I begin now, with my commitment phobia? For your strength, your courage, your hope, where do I begin?
I put you through so much bullshit, demanded too much of you so many times, but you never let me down. And you hated me for it, and probably still do, and I deserve it. I cannot thank you enough for getting me here; I have come this far because of you. You did a damn fine job, no matter what mistakes you made (and sure, you made a lot), and no matter what anyone else says — you did it. You made me, and I am still growing well because of you. Thank you.
Now please, will you not let me sleep? Take these thoughts away somewhere, put them in the past and let me cruise into the night silently where my mind can rest. My body is too tired to be hardwired with the jitters that my brain is feeling, but the anxiety about lack of sleep is starting to set in. This is night three.
I have a dreadful feeling that this episode is somehow tied in with my return to writing. I was doing okay until I took the cork out and Niagra burst forth as predicted. Once I pay attention to the words, they start to swim in my head all day, and they have been picking up pace as each day moves on. Most of it is lost to my voice recorder (which apparently had no batteries) forever, and the remaining fragments are here.
The problem is that it is all spinning out so fast now that I can no longer keep up with it, and for every one word that gets put in the journal, another two sentences flash through my head and another new idea pops up. The dam has burst; maybe it is not mania, maybe it is just almost a year\’s worth of stifled creativity. Or maybe it is both.
While this is going on I am hyper-emotionally sensitive to everything around me, so my brain keeps picking up on new little triggers to process through. New issues, old issues, deep, unsettling issues about things that are deeply rooted within me that I mostly do not like to talk about but suddenly feel the need to get it all off my chest, like I do not want to carry this weight anymore. Missy Scarlett goina beuh free!
Your ears are full, but you\’re empty / holding out your heart to people who never really / care how you are / So give me coffee and TV / Peacefully / I\’ve seen so much, I\’m going blind / And I\’m brain-dead virtually / Sociability / is hard enough for me / take me away from this big bad world / and agree to marry me / so we can start over again.
I need a pick up.
Top Five Happiest Moments of My Short Life
- Every time my flight lands in Edinburgh, but most specifically, the first time. November 29, 1997.
- Jamie proposing to me on the phone. October 13, 1996.
- One fine autumn day, colors bold and alive like mania or an acid trip (but neither were present), riding up and down Ellsworth in Shadyside, Pittsburgh on my moped, smiling, laughing, singing for joy, not giving a rat\’s ass who saw or heard. October 2000.
- Laying in the grass in Kansas, staring at fireworks, listening to Jane\’s Addiction and Radiohead, feeling the thunderstorms move in and then dancing like a maniac as the heavens burst. July 4, 2001.
- My sister\’s birthday party last year, where I realized just how very dear my family is to me, and how very wonderful they are to be around now that I am comfortable in my own skin. December 19, 2001
If you are full of love to give but have nowhere that is appropriate to give it to, so you hold back, then it would make sense that it would hurt the person who is holding it all in. Emotional blockage. I think I need another creative outlet. I am murdering these words. I think I need sleep. It has been two hours. I think I am going to try a third pill.
They have turned me into a socially acceptable prescription junkie. \”Can\’t sleep? Take these until you do.\” And I do it. Doctor\’s orders. Why do I do it? What the hell is wrong with me? I hate drugs! And now I have to take more than a dozen pills a day, and they just keep giving me more. Oh god, oh god, oh god, I cannot fucking think, I cannot. I do not know if I should be on these medications. I know what my friends think. I know what my parents think. I know what my doctors think. I do not know what I think.
Well this has been a shite night, absolutely shite in a bucket, worthless. I had three things I wanted to write about: rites of passage, the wedding and social interactions, but I did not get to any of them and now my head is too swimming to focus. Thought I would go for a drive but if I am too swimmy to write, I cannot drive. Well ain\’t I just fucked. I think I need to get off these meds, at least the sleeping pills. They make me incoherent. Well, that is because I am supposed to be asleep while I am on them. Hrm. But raging insomnia dictates that I be awake. Oh, help.
This entire entry is a waste of space. My apologies.