Acute Sinus and Respiratory Infection.

Not helped by the fact that, up until three days ago, I was partying every night for weeks, literally. Every night, I'd go out, rage hard, watch myself do these things, say these things, feel these things, see how sick I was getting, and push it back, back, back, pretend I didn't care, because halfway I didn't.

It catches up. Remember that. It will always catch up with you, eventually.

For a moment, thought it was the flu. I was throwing up a bit. Honestly couldn't tell you if it was from actually being sick, a weak gag reflex, or the bulimia refusing the food to settle.

Broke my seven months of abstinence with a twenty-one year old Viking. Neither of us got off, but apparently he's liked me for over a year. I like him, I suppose. He's intelligent, funny. He's also an alcoholic, needs a bottle of whiskey every day. I don't like the smell of whiskey, the taste of it even less.

I don't like what I see in the mirror. My reflection is haunting. Perhaps that's why I bury myself under all these chemicals and induced bliss. Perhaps I think I'll find my way to the divine that way. Half the time I think so. Then I'm reminded by the sober light of day, the few hours I've seen lately, that I'm still that sad, lonely girl. I'm still just looking to fill the void.

At least I'm honest about it.
At least I own up to it.
That counts for something... doesn't it?

150

I'm back.

I doubt anyone noticed that I was gone, vanished into the abyss, but I thought I'd announce my return, anyway.

I went away. 3,000 miles away. I went to California, just before Halloween. I went with a couple friends, to meet up with a few other friends. We did things. We saw things. There was drama. There was tension. I went to Oregon. I went to Washington. I saw the Redwoods, and the Pacific, the Grand Canyon, the Petrified Forest, again.

It was beautiful. A strange land, an unusual freedom, the push and pull of each direction.

I was gone for almost two months, but I returned. I did. I came back.

I'm homeless. I'm living out of my car and boxes. I'm spending money I don't really have. I've been getting high and tripping a lot. I'm realizing how fucked it all is.

I have nothing to show for it but photographs and a few more scars.

I don't know. I speak of college, of a job, of settling in for the winter. I open my mouth to scream, and no one hears but the monsters in my head. They've woken. They're hungry. They are as unforgiving as before, less so.

I've been some sort of object of desire. Male friends have been showing me sexual interest, and while I share the interest, I do not pursue, I do not allow my desires to be fulfilled. I have not had sex in over six months. I have too much wrong with my head, how dare my body defy me with want? I am too much. There's too much work to be done. I want something real, something tangible. Love. I want someone to love me, to want me, I want to be swallowed whole by this thing they call Love. I want to sleep sound, held securely, knowing I am bound to the earth by something stronger than these demons that batter away at my defenses. I am so weak. I am so, so uncertain.

Questions circle like vultures. Answers are elusive and few.

I keep searching.

blood pumps in these veins

I finally cried tonight. Fought it all day, and the day before, and the day before that... Fought it all week. Didn't let myself cry for a week. And tonight, it just happened. I read one thing. It said this:

'Had a rough day? Don't know what you're doing here? Put your hand on your heart. Feel that? That's a purpose. There's a reason you're here. Don't give up.'

So simple. I put my hand over my heart, and pressed down, and suddenly, there it was. My heart. It was beating. It still is.

I had forgotten I have a heart that beats. I had forgotten.

How do you forget something like that?

So I cried. Because my heart said hello, and how much it had missed me. I missed it too.

We'll get through this. Somehow. Whatever this is.

crazy

Ludicrous.

Do you ever experience that feeling where it's like your brain is going too fast, too slow, caught in quicksand, no, make it jello? Do you ever feel like you're flying by the seat of your pants, even though you aren't moving, you're barely even breathing? Do you ever get to the point that there's this screaming in your head, and you know only you can hear it, but you still cover your ears like that's going to make it any quieter? Like that's going to help at all? You only look as crazy as you feel. You only hope that nobody walks in as you whisper over and over, "SHUTUPSHUTUPSHUTUPSHUTUP", like there's anyone around. You can only hope that eventually the noise will stop, the speeding will slow to the usual monotonous roll you're accustomed to, and that you can go back to being the normal crazy that's dominated your daily existence for what feels like forever. Since before you were born, or even conceived. Like there is no other option, because how could you have ever been even slightly sane, with this kind of obliterating madness annihilating everything you thought was good? HOW CAN THIS BE OKAY? HOW CAN THEY NOT SEE OR HEAR IT?

Do they even care, or are you really this good at pretending, now, that everything's fine, that they truly believe you? Or do they stay ignorant to avoid getting caught up in the whirling hell of your world?

Does anyone notice at all when you're not around? That you're not listening? That you can't, for all the noise and screaming and whispers and terrible events occurring within you? Do they know what it's like? Have they ever gone a day that was an hour that felt like an eternity?

There is no way I'm alone in this. I keep saying it, over and over, and maybe one day that means it could be true. I can't be alone in this. Because alone in madness is worse than any other kind of alone out there. It's binding, it's brutal, and it will destroy every cell of your pathetic, weak, all-too-human body. It will rip to shreds your mind, and throw a needle and dental floss at you, for later, when you might possibly be capable of stitching the pieces back together. It's mocking, taunting, shrill, and cruel. It's something that allows nothing else. It is the distraction; it is tormentor, it is punishment, it is the be-all, end-all. There is nothing else.

It is.

The days and nights bleed together, and I don't know what the hell I'm doing, or where. I have a notion of 'how', but that requires actual determination to follow through with these plans, these ideas, these quaint little notions that I can Be Somebody. That I'm not just some burning out hypocrite encased in make-believe. Even when the fantasy seems better than the reality, I know it's nothing more than a figment of my overly active imagination, and means nothing if I don't put it to some good use.

There's got to be something more to me than meets the eye; there must be more than my reflection. There must be someone home in this body, this shell.

There must be. Now if she'll only answer the fucking door.

Fat, weak wrists.

My hands have been giving me trouble, probably from potassium deficiency... and general malnutrition. The joints, primarily. My fingers will freeze, sort of a momentary paralysis.

I ate, and it's been too long for purging to get anything out of it, but my body still says purgepurgepurge. My face is fat from throwing up so much yesterday. I went to the dentist and as soon as I got back to this empty house, I ate, and threw up, drank a beer, threw up, shot up some drugs, and went to the store to get a big bottle of wine. When I got back, I started drinking, and eating and purging. All day.

It's exhausting.

My teeth are more sensitive than usual over the stomach acids, due to the fact I just got them cleaned. Stupid, really. I know better, but what was I supposed to do, just let the food fester and rot inside of me? I forgot my laxatives, and I don't have many pills to help counteract it. I am out of the good drugs... which is why I'm considering driving a couple hours to go to this show tonight, to dance and rage and get more drugs, so I can stay high.

So what, I'm broke. Being high is more important than being able to afford gas and food. Who needs food when you have good drugs at your disposal?

I've got to do something about this...


Nothing will change. I'm stuck in this familiarity. I don't mind it, until it gets too much. Then, all I can think is what would happen if I left. That seems to be what my family wants me to do. The only problem is, they don't understand the level of my depression, the anxiety, they just don't know how far I've gone. They have no idea what will happen if I do leave.

It'll be over before I begin.

Wow. It's like I just can't help myself.

The fall is a wonderful time of year. The cold is reminding me of that feeling, that cool, familiar feeling, that drives me mad with want.


I'm going mad. Gone.

The chemicals are fresh, constant, and if there's no drugs, then it's the alcohol. If it isn't the alcohol, then I'm in a pit of doom and despair, locked away by my own horrors.

Words circle, they're thinking seriously of kicking me out. They say "get out", they say things like "LEAVE".

They don't understand. They just don't.

Nothing is going to change, not until something momentous happens.

And it hasn't, yet.