~Flustered

Sometimes I can deal with not being able to get my head to where I want it to be, sometimes it just makes me angry.

I want to be able to write... to continue on with that little journal adventure I've been on, but it all seems so complicated. There's so much detail... there are so many stories... how am I to determine which are the most important? Sometimes I think that I should stop attempting to tell any sort of story... sometimes I think that I should just slap up random entries and see what it looks like. Pushing myself to tell the story is what makes this the most therapeutic though... it forces me to really look hard at things... to weigh them... to put them into perspective.

How can you know where you want to go, or if where you're going is where you want to be, if you don't know where you're coming from?

Why is it so important to me?

~Give it a rest

I have a lot going on right now, so I think that I might be posting less entries for a while. Bummer, I might lose the #19 spot on the "Hot Blogs" list. What a pity, I won't be able to climb up there to the top of the list along side of what borders on kiddie porn. I'll feel like such a failure as a writer.

Seriously though, I think I might be pushing myself to write blog entries when I shouldn't. I should be keeping this blog going only for myself, writing when I feel like it. That's what I started this thing for. For me.

I look at my stats page much too often, and too often actually give a rat's ass about the hit count. That's not a good thing. Once a day or so was just fine when I started this blog. I think I'm going to cut myself some slack.

Too much... too little...

Moderation.

Moderation can be a good thing.

~No

I don't need anybody
I don't need anyone
I can stand alone
Needing no one
I don't need
I do not
I don't
I
Don't need
I don't need
I will not need
I will not

I need

You

~I am slowly

waking up.

~eew

Herr's Crunchy Cheese Sticks are just NOT Cheetos.

yuck.

~Things

I had a lot that I wanted to write about while walking to and from the shrink. It seems to have all slipped away though. Now, the only thing on my mind is this tasty bottle of Boone's Farm which I picked up as a snack. Everything else is just a hum... blended in with the white noise of the a/c. Even these sentences are taking effort. It's not a good thing or a bad thing... just a thing. It'll pass. Most things do.

~As if this blog isn't therapy enough...

I'm off for the weekly shrinking.

Well, at least the walk will be good for me. I feel like I'm hatching a red dog.

~Bumpies

I remember, one night in January of '87, being on the el and writing in my little book. A woman who was sitting near me asked me if I was going to be a writer. Maybe she asked if I was "writing a book", but it's all the same. I'm pretty sure I said "maybe" or "you never know". Exact words aside, I remember the night vividly... taking one of my usual trips into Center City to see my friends... bumping along and bitching about the fact that it was really screwing with my penmanship. I started calling the episodes "the bumpies". Much of my teenaged writing was heavily influenced by the bumpies.

I wonder if that woman remembers that night... and I still wonder if I really am a writer.

~17 part 1

7:20 PM Jan 23 (1987)

Drue called me, I can't stand it. I can't fall out of love with her. Yeah, I can see Angel, mess around, but it wouldn't ever mean anything. It would just be something to keep me busy. Drue would still come first.

Why can't I break away from her? Am I so weak, is she so strong? I just can't understand my feelings. Maybe it has something to do with one of my past lives. Could be. That's the only reasonable explanation that I can think of.

So here it is Friday night and I have nothing to do but wait to call Drue back tonite. What a curious life I lead. Where does it all come together?

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Now?

~Scratch it, if it itches.

I'm itchy. I hate allergies. I swear, I have more allergies than anyone else I've ever met.

This morning, it's the molds. This place is really bad with mold. Anytime it rains, forget it. I feel like scraping my skin off. Itch itch itch.

I've always had a pissy immune system. Intolerances, and allergies galore. Some allergies are ALLERGIES. You know, the kind where your throat closes up and you look sort of like a blowfish. Others are skin rashes, stomach irritations, itchy eyes and runny nose.

They say that people who were abused or neglected as kids often have a lot of allergies and other health problems. Not that they're psychosomatic, they're very real, but apparently the brain decides that the body should get sick when the person needs love. Often, that's the only time an abused child feels cared for or gets something resembling the love they need, and so the brain just grows up that way.

I don't know how true it is, but as often as possible, I try to take the power of the brain into consideration when something is bothering me physically. So, for example, if my skin itches, I try thinking to myself something like, "ok, what's under your skin?". I just always try to factor in my brain as much as anything else, when I have a physical complaint.

There is a book called something like "Heal Your Body" where the author goes into physical ailments and what they might mean on a life level. It's pretty nifty... makes some sense. True, sometimes a cigar is just a cigar, but sometimes it isn't.

So, what's under my skin? What's irritating me, other than mold spores? Not sure. It's my shoulders and back that are the itchiest. Maybe I feel like I'm taking on too much? Carrying a weight, so to speak? Baggage is irritating me? Could be. Too, it could also be that I just need to change my damn sheets.

~Turn it off

Guess it's about bedtime. My eyes are getting heavy. There's a part of me that doesn't want to go to bed though. I have no clue what it is I want to do. Eat. Drink beer. Watch tv? (Magically transport myself across the country? YES!) ok... really... I don't know. In the last month I've really cut down on the tv watching. I guess I watch blogs instead. Maybe it's that there's enough drama in my own life? I don't know. I'm thinking that it's a good thing. TV really warps a person's sense of reality. It can be educational and enlightening too, but too much and you're forgetting what the world... your world is really like. Worse, you forget what you're really like... what your place is in everything... how normal you are... how ordinary.

Remember 9/11? Yeah... THE 9/11. I remember being asked, on a message board, how it had affected me. I gave an honest answer. I said, "It hasn't". Well, other than the drama of the day, it really didn't. I think that if people didn't have the Internet, tv, newspapers, the media in general... well... only the people in the areas where the planes went down, and their relatives and friends would have been affected. If it hadn't been for all that, it would've just been another day for me, and probably for millions of other people too.

I've always thought that at any moment, bad things were going to happen. Worrying about airplanes crashing into buildings? Old hat. No new worries in my book after that day.

People would be a lot less stressed out without the media. They'd look around them every day and realize it's just like the last. If the continent on the other side of the planet from you suddenly disappeared, would you notice, if not for the media?

Less tv. I think it's a good thing.

~EEEEEEEEEEK!!!!!!

Sudden THUNDEROUS downpour!!!!!

Someone send a boat!!!!!


AAAAAAAAA!!!!!!

~All about walls

There are tapes all over the place. I'm trying to put them back in alphabetical order, because date order was making me nuts. Not that it isn't fun. It does appeal to all of my OCD characteristics, but there's no getting it done fast enough. There's at least 5 feet of tapes lined up against my living room wall.

...and I sit here in silence... listening to the hum of my a/c.

Old music. Music holds memories... memories of things I don't really want to think about, and feelings I don't really want to revisit. Want to see a mess? Stick me in a room with Pink Floyd's "The Wall" playing.

I don't need no arms around me
and I don't need no drugs to calm me....

It just sorta takes you back. Doesn't it?


Great. Now it's playing on the internal radio.

Think I'll listen to the external radio instead.


Sweeet home Alabama
Where the skiiies are so blue
Sweeet home Alabama
Lord, I'm cominnng home to you

woohoo! Git down!


Much better than beating my head against the wall.

~Labeled

So... in January of 1987, after the insurance ran out, I was miraculously well enough to leave the locked environment. I was discharged and sent to live with Art, although I had to keep attending the school attached to the crazy house.

They sent me "home" with my own fancy shmantzy set of labels. It all made sense now. I was just crazy. No problems. I wasn't really hurting, I just suffered from Major Depression Recurrent. I wasn't screaming to everyone who saw me, showing them just how much pain I could take, trying to scare off those who would harm me, I just had Borderline Personality Disorder. And really.. I wasn't a boy. I was just a girl with Gender Dysphoria.

Everything's all ok. Happy Happy. Joy Joy.

Labels. I'm obsessed with them. Why? Because of what they have the power to do. Because of those damn labels, and the fuckers who put them on me, I spent half my life thinking that I was a sick person... knowing that I was a sick person.

They won. They got me into the mold, and created what they wanted. They put layers and layers of CRAP over my core... suffocated it with labels... suffocated ME with labels. They gave birth to a depressed, psychotic, lesbian.

I learned to love the dirt I ate, and happily sucked the dicks of my makers. Yes, so to speak. Dykes don't do dick. I made sure to be exactly what they wanted me to be... or at least, to present myself that way. I knew what happened when you didn't. When you didn't, you'd starve on the street. When you didn't, you'd lose your freedom. When you didn't, they'd give you Thorazine.

I'm tired of being sick.

~Projects

I'm in the middle of a music project. I fear that I'm going to have to abandon it though. I haven't been in the right head space to work on it for months.

What gave birth to this project was another which I did for my brother. See, I have hundreds of cassette tapes. At last count, near 400. I just decided one day that I was going to make a collection for him. The first song off of the first side of every tape. The project was FUN. Too, it helped me discover which tapes weren't any good anymore... you know, the ones that go screeeee screeeeee screeeeee as the poor little 80s band tries to sing in the background.

When I was done, there were 19 tapes. I think that my brother appreciated them. He did get a very good sampling of Bowie, and heard Adam Ant for the first time. He REALLY liked the song "Friend or Foe", and is now buying Bowie CDs. That makes me feel good. Passing on good music is a good thing.

Anyway, from that project, I wanted to do another one. I decided that the next project would be for my best friend. What I decided to do was to do the exact same thing, side one, track one, only... put it in date order. Well, let me tell you... that's not exactly easy. I spent hours at Amazon/CD Now looking for dates. The Eagles Greatest Hits may have come out in '76, but "Take It Easy" was actually from '72. ...and what if it's a traditional or folk song? Do you go by the recording date, or the date it was written? You just can't go by the tape case on a lot of them.

I'm at 1982. There are 6 tapes so far. I think I'm giving up though. It's making me crazy having tapes all over the place and not in alphabetical order. I just hope that she'll understand. It's nothing personal, I'm just ODed on the whole project aspect of the thing. I'd rather just make single tapes for a while. I like being able to complete things in a reasonable amount of time. Five months on a tape project is just a little too long for me.

Speaking of the Eagles... "Hotel California" just came on the radio. How's that for coincidence? This song reminds me of Marie, my second roommate in the loony tute, once I bitched loudly enough about the first girl I was first roomed with.

Life is full of coincidences. If it's all going ok, there are A LOT of them. I read that in The Celestine Prophecy. If it's true, then I'm doing very very well lately.

~Behind the Wall

I'm thinking that I'm spending way too much time on detail. Not that I should just skip from thing to thing leaving people in the dark, but that if I keep getting into so much detail, I'll never move through this little project of mine.

I could fill pages of what it was like in lock up. I don't know that I want to though. Maybe leaving it short and vague is just fine.

I was in. The kept me until my insurance ran out. They gave me drugs. They tried hooking me up with foster parents. They gave me labels. They made me continue school. I had visitors. Drue was one of them. There were good days and bad ones.

For hell, it was actually pretty ok. There were friends in hell, and perhaps a wartime soldier-like bond between us. I'm sure that in so far as institutions go, it was a damn country club. It sucked to be locked up, but in a twisted sort of way, I liked being there. The people there, even though it was only because they were paid to do so, cared for me. They made sure I ate and bathed and had clean sheets. They listened when I needed to talk.

My doctor sucked. He was a guy who looked to be about 80 years old, who couldn't even remember my name half the time.

I learned their game, and I played it well, and I learned my lesson. Not being specific when asking for help, is a very very bad idea.

~Diva

I used to fall asleep to the "1984" Soundtrack. Eurythmics... Annie sang me to sleep often in that dark time. The voice of an angel.

~Complex Life

My neighbor just knocked on my door. She asked if she could use my phone. Hers was turned off. She didn't pay the bill. Money money money... the root of all evil, and a big ol' thorn in the side.

She also told me that Louis died. Louis was the head maintenance guy for the complex. The BEST maintenance guy too. Louis was a really nice guy. It makes me feel sad.

Apparently there was an accident out front. I live my little mole life in the back. I didn't hear anything. He was in a coma for days. He died last night.

Sad.

~Sticking To The Wrong Guns

So, I had a bit of an epiphany last night. (Thank you, aX, for asking "Why?" in just the right way.)

My grandmother, my mother's mother, didn't want girls. My mother always told me how her mother didn't like girls, she wanted boys. My mother had 3 brothers. She was the only girl. She was a "Daddy's girl" for that reason.

So... my mother's head? Perhaps...

I'll always love you for being the girl you are, because I know how horrible it feels not to be loved for being a girl.

Does it excuse any of my mother's actions related to my gender? Fuck no. She's had 55 years to add 1+1, and she still gets 3. When talking to people, she'll still refer to me as her daughter. Past is past, but if you're still making the same mistakes, and still hurting or disrespecting the people you claim to love, all that means is that you're too stubborn to admit to fucking up.

My mother always said that stubbornness ran in her family.

~Cheetos in the afterlife, please.

I hope that I sleep well... that there are no nightmares... that my dreams are better than my past, and just as good (well... maybe a little better) as my present.


Now I lay me down to sleep
I hope the cats don't bite my feet
If I should die before I wake
I pray Chester Cheetah my soul to take.


(Couldn't help it, I needed to end the day's blogging on a chipper note.)

~Beware the savage jaw

She took me there to be admitted, my monster.

I remember seeing her face through the little window as the heavy door closed. She was standing there... making fake sad faces, and waving at me.

It was then that the reality hit me.

I cried.

They let me cry for a little while, as they searched through my belongings.

Then it was time to get "settled in".


The first thing they do is strip search you and give you a physical.

That was fun for me. I got to watch the doctor's face go white when he saw what was under this boy's clothing.

That felt good... just so normal and comforting. Not humiliating in the least. I was going to just love this whole lock up thing.

It ended well. After I watched a 12 year old girl being tied to a chair because of throwing a tantrum, they put me in a room with a girl who had a thing for ripping her toenails out with her teeth, and told me that I had to cut off my mohawk.

It was Room 101.

~Justified.

Sometimes, words like "anger" and "bitterness" just don't work. They, in comparison to what you're actually feeling, feel like nice words.

"Hate" comes close.

~The Dark Place

It was the end of September, 1986. I had just turned seventeen, and it was my brother's fourth birthday. I couldn't take not being around him. I knew what he was dealing with... who he was living with.

All the way around, I felt like crap... beaten down... face to the dirt. Helpless. Responsible. It was all my fault. I did this to myself. I was shit. I couldn't be there for my brother.

I picked up the phone and called my mother's apartment. I wanted to say Happy Birthday to him. Having split up with my step father (that's what happens when you sleep with your husband's best friend), my mother was living with my brother. That made me nuts. I knew what he was dealing with.

Yes, I called... and yes, it sent me sailing over the edge.

I heard his voice, and it ripped my heart apart. It ripped my head apart.

I begged her for help. Explained how bad off I was, living at the squat. I wasn't that bad off, but I just wanted to be able to be there for my brother. In the squat, I couldn't be. I had to climb back into the mold... play the game... endure the torture.

I asked her for help.

What was the result?

A night or two on her couch, a week or so back at the squat, signed over to the city, stuffed into a "Youth Shelter", and then... BAM!

I was institutionalized.

Thanks Mom. You always did really try to help me.

Cunt.

~Day Off

Damn head is stuck... doesn't want to go back to 1986.

Can't I just think of this as a weekend?

~Can't smile without you

Harold's doing ok. I just added some soil to his pot, to even it out where it has settled from watering. Since his moving there are new shoots and everything seems just fine.

I like plants. It doesn't take much to keep them happy, and you can always tell when they're not. Sort of like kids.

Did I say this before?...

People always say how being a parent is tough, because kids don't come with an instruction manual. I say they do. It's called a smile.

These days, Harold has been smiling a lot. That makes me feel good.

~Knock Out

I like watching sports. No, not all sports, but some. I love (NFL) football. I like tennis, especially Women's tennis. (NHL) Hockey, I like. College basketball can be fun to watch. I love watching Rugby. I'm not into the soap opera part though. I often see professional sports as "soap operas for men". It's the same thing... many guys know the history and stats for the teams and players, the same way many women know the plot lines for the daytime dramas... and they really can get worked up about it all. For me, I like watching sports because the athletic prowess is impressive, and some sports can be very visually stimulating because of the brilliant colors.

Playing sports? No. Not since I was very young.

When I was young, I was a little jock. I was really good at baseball, swimming, and running long distance, and pretty ok at most sports I participated in. Then, there was a little episode at day camp.

There was this boy, David. One day, all the kids had to be indoors because of rain. A bunch of us were in the supply room being kids, and David punched a punching bag and was telling me how much it'd hurt. I didn't believe him. How much could it hurt to punch a punching bag? So, he dared me to punch it as hard as I could. It was a dare. Of course, I took the dare, and punched it... as hard as I could.

oops.

It wasn't a punching bag. It was a gymnastics horse turned on its side. I broke my hand.

So, I spent the summer in a cast. I was not happy. No sports for me, and even worse, they were trying to make me do Arts and Crafts, which was for girls, in my young opinion.

I did the Arts and Crafts. I wasn't a bad artist either, but it didn't make me feel too good. I had enough issues with my sex and gender. I just didn't need the blow to my male ego.

Because of it all, something started changing that, my 10th, summer. I had to find another way to assert my masculinity. I did find it. Punching things. Getting hurt. Being "bad". So, the potential "jock" ended up becoming a "bad boy". It worked for me.

Well... except for the arthritis, the misshapen hand, and a body covered in razor scars.

~All work and no play...

Waking up. It's Sunday.

All days are the same, really. I have no such thing as a weekend. The only difference is in what other people can do, and how that affects me.

I think that every day should be a "weekend" for everyone. Life shouldn't be tedious with a break every few days. It should be relaxing and fun with the occasional bad or stressful day. Wonder who came up with the idea that life had to be more work than play.

~Won't you be my neighbor?

My neighbor just knocked on my door. To show you how sweet she is, she knocks so softly, knowing how noise can scare me, I can barely hear her.

Tonight, she was completely trashed. I swear I could smell the Seagrams through the door, but even with that, the knock was light. She drinks a lot, and it worries me. She has a young daughter, and although she's well taken care of, I can't imagine how it effects her daughter having to see her mom that drunk that often.

My neighbor's been nothing but welcoming to me. She's a really good person. I just worry about her, and feel really sad sometimes. She's having a rough go of life, and she just doesn't deserve it. I hate that good people get the short end of the stick so often.

Anyway, it was sweet of her to check up on me. I haven't been over there in a couple of months, so she was wondering how I was. I should go over for a visit, but I always end up drinking too much while I'm there. Sick drunk is not the way I like being.

I don't know. Maybe I'll stop by sometime soon. It feels like the neighborly thing to do. Getting drunk every now and again isn't a bad thing, and maybe I'll have a nice visit. Her family can be a lot of fun to be around, and they've always been nothing but nice to me.


See, I do have some good things to say about some people.

~The little yellow one

So, I do have some writing from that time period, July of 1986 through January of 1987, although not much. Little bits, keys... just enough to keep the memories open to me. I had a little yellow notebook, not much bigger than my palm, and I'd jot notes down in it, sometimes a poem, sometimes a rant. Somehow it survived the 1988 purge. I'm very glad it did.

It's difficult to write about things though. So many stories... so many things happening all at once. My whole life has been like that. Intense.

The first phase of Drue had come to a head. I snapped. I quit the job I had. I headed back to West Philly, to the squat, where I felt I belonged. I took my baggage with me though. All the pain... the cuts that were always fresh and the anger that was always two minutes from becoming illegal. I took Drue, the ghost, with me too. Like I said.... all the pain.

When you bring the baggage with you, they'll find you... the ones who want you... who want your soul. They'll have gotten into one of your bags while you weren't looking, and will pop out when you least expect it. They'll step on you, and wait for you to crack. They'll take everything you've got, until they can get you back into the mold... until you put yourself back into it, willingly, begging for forgiveness.


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

9/22/1986

I feel like shit. I am shit. I'm no one, no one cares. I'm down so low, I don't know what to do. I'm all alone, no one understands me, no one trys, no one ever will. It's my own fault. I'm a loser.

~Harder Harder

Hardcore. My core is solid... hard. You can do a lot to the shell... but you can't change the core.

When I left home in '84, my core found a home in West Philly. It became part of a "scene". Around me was music, and community, and love, and ideas, and LIFE. My core was home.

Thing is, the rest of the world doesn't go away. It's still there, doing what it can to protect itself from you. The minions are there, holding your nose to the dirt and your ass up to the Empire. The almighty dollar. Kneel. Worship. Pray. This is your mold, this is what you're going to look like. Shut up and get in.

We try to escape the torture. We try to play the game. We moan and yell, "Fuck me harder! Yes! Yes!" and then we fall and lick the dirt, dissociated from the pain, and then... when they think they've won, and they're just about to blow their load, we rise above, and kick them in the nuts.

I got off "the street" and into the rehab in '85. I took one for the team. In '86 I took my freedom back.

I pissed on the minions, zipped my fly, and took my sore ass home.

~Control Issues

Dying is the only thing we have no choice in. It's the only thing we HAVE TO do... the only thing we really have no ability to choose whether or not to do, no matter what we want. No wonder people have such issues with it... and want to control it.

~Wanting meat

Had some coffee, and I feel a little more awake. Trying to figure out what I have to do today. I suppose the only thing I really have to do is cook the meat that's in the fridge... but even that... I could choose to let it rot, I suppose. In truth, I don't have to do anything. It's all about wants. I don't want to die, so I have to breath. I don't want the meat to rot, so I have to cook it. Wants can often lead to have to's, and then they become needs. We need things when our wants outweigh the desire to be free of have to's?

I really need to stop thinking so much. (or do I just want to?)

~Sleep not

I didn't sleep very well, despite my efforts otherwise. Was hearing stuff (I think they call them auditory hallucinations, but I get them every so often), and when I fell asleep I had nightmares.

Thinking before bed is important. If I force myself not to, the thoughts will come when I sleep... when the guard goes down... and then the littlest insecurity will become a nightmare.

Woke up a lot, which is the usual, but with nightmares, I wake up and then stay up longer. There's no simple half cigarette, sip of water, then back to sleep. It's more, turn on the tv, eat something, smoke, drink water, use the bathroom, then try to get back to sleep.

Woke up the last time to the downstairs neighbor's bass line.

I'm still tired. Think I might nap a lot today.

~Can Can

Going to bed now... thinking of all the good things, shutting out the bad. Those shutters can actually be of use sometimes, if you use them right. Tonight, I think I can. I have had a lot of practice.

~Surprise!

The summer of '86 is where Volume One of my journal stops... and Volume Two doesn't pick up for months... but please... allow me to tell you why...

When I dropped out of school, I got a job. Telephone market research. Yes, I was one of those people who call in the middle of dinner and ask you if you like avocados and why. I hated the job, but it was a job, and I was told that I had to have a job.

Things with Drue got tricky. I don't remember all the details and reasons too clearly, but she broke the relationship off. It didn't sit so well with me at all. Yes, I was still in love with her, but I was angry too, and I didn't hide either fact. Even when I went to her graduation, I didn't do a very good job of being nice. I was hurting.

She was heading off to college in the fall, and my friend, Carlyn, was helping to organize a surprise party for her. I was invited. Big mistake.

It was the end of July. Things were "over" between Drue and I, but the hurt ran deep. Just how deep, I didn't know until that night.

Surprise indeed. Drue walked in with her boyfriend. Ouch.

Things get hazy here. I don't remember what happened when.

Drue's boyfriend left.

Drue's other boyfriend showed up.

I was noticeably upset, to put it lightly.

Drue's mother noticed alright, noticed enough to call me into a room and ask what was going on. My answer? "Ask Drue." So, it was one of those, "Drue, get in here." types of things. Drue came in. Drue sat down. Drue lied through her teeth... to my face... to her mother's face.

I was so hurt that I think it was another one of those steel shutter moments.

Boyfriend #2 was staying the night. Carlyn was staying the night. Carlyn was my ride.

I just couldn't do it... looking at them laying there together... I couldn't take it.

I left the house and walked to the nearby train station. I called my shrink to say goodbye, then went down to the tracks and took out my knife.

Hack Hack Hack

Well, I didn't die, obviously.

My shrink called Art who called the cops who went to the wrong train station. Lucky me!

It's blurry... but I made my way back to Drue's house and when I came in, her mom spent a long time talking with me and helping me get cleaned up. I don't really remember much of what she said, except for one thing... she said, "I'm not mad at Drue for being involved with you. I'm mad at her for lying about it."

So, there it was... Drue's mom had asked her about it before, and she lied. I guess, that night, it sucked to be Drue.

~16 part 3

June 23 (24) 1986 3:33 AM

Again I have this horrible feeling of being lost. Of reaching out for someone I've yet to find. I thought Drue was the one. Again I was wrong. But if it takes all my life I will find that person. Somewhere in this decrepid world I have a counterpart, I will find this person, and I will be happy.

~Jade

The nap idea didn't work. I tried, but the head started running. It was an odd feeling, because I was feeling really good, but then I started feeling really scared at the same time, so I had to get up and write and stick my ear to the phone.

I'm getting into a new relationship, and I just want so badly for things to work. I don't want to be like those who hurt or used her in the past. I want to show her the same respect she shows me, the same love, and the same trust. I don't want to let that which is jaded in me run the show... I don't want my jaded brain to give my smiling heart a fat lip.

~It's

naptime.


Don't know why I'm so tired, but I am. Must be the half of a pizza I ate.

ugh

~16 part 2

May 1, 1986

I dropped out of school today. I'm not so sure why, I just know that I didn't want to be there anymore. I have a feeling I'm going to die soon. I've had the feeling for a while, I think I'm scared in a way. I mean, I'm curious about death, I'm suicidal already, but I think the idea of dying when I don't want to scares me. I just threw some pills down my throat. I feel like ODing. I certianly have enough medicine to do it with. Life is such a shit. It's a joke. Death is probably so beautiful that's probably it. Life's a joke, we don't have to live, death is probably better but since no one knows it we live until we're old and grey and insane. What a joke. I don't know why I'm still living. Probably Drue or the hope of something better. I don't know why. I could've finished school. Only two more months. But it's too late now. Too late to turn back. I'm doomed. Maybe that's what I want.

~Stick me

There's nothing like the thought of sticking an inch and a half of steel into one's thigh to get one out of bed in the morning.

I've been sticking myself for about a decade now, and I still hate it every time. If it didn't make me feel human and allow me to function better, I'd mind it more, but I sure wish there was an easier method available to me that worked just as well.

It's a dependency, and I don't like that aspect of it. It's a man made substance that I need... but, it's the same as being Insulin dependent, I suppose. My needles are longer and have to go through muscle, that's all. On the up side, balls are a liability. I don't have that weak spot.

~cheers

Just kind of staring... finishing my beer... trying really really hard to stop pulling at my beard. My face is hurting bad. As soon as I get the new photo done for my ID, I'm going to have to trim it again. Makes me sad.

Going to head to bed soon. Rest my head on my pillow and on good thoughts. There's a girl, and she says she really likes me. I really like her too. I like that.

~Shrinking fuse

Reading back over the Drue stuff, although it makes me a little angry, isn't really breaking me down. I think that either I've finally moved past the pain, or I'm just shut down to it right now. That time period was hellish. It was a different sort of hell though... different from the early childhood hell. My getting out of my mother's house, my time on "the street", the people I met, discovering Hardcore, all of that made me stronger in many ways... but it also made it nearly impossible to function in a "normal" environment like school. Living with Art wasn't too normal. He wasn't around much, and when he was, I was more like a roommate than a son... or, what I perceive to be a father/son relationship just wasn't the case with us. Not that it was all bad, it was like living with a friend, but I don't know if it's what I really needed at the time. The support and guidance was a bit lacking. Too, I was still in a lot of pain... none of the issues had been resolved, I was just further away from the abuse my mom and stepfather had served up, and blocking out the early childhood stuff.

Basically, I was a powder keg, a powder keg whose fuse was lit.

I was a mouthy punk, being forced to be quiet.

~me eat

Did you know that with a little water and a good minute or so in the toaster oven, you really can eat the biscuits from KFC after keeping them about a week in the fridge?

Biscuits and gravy? I like eating Southern edibles.

~16 part 1

Jan. 4, 1986

This year sure has started out strange. So far, the high point is Drue. I've never had this big of an infatuation with anyone before. I gave her a book of poetry I'd written. 150 poems written in two weeks. She appreciated it, but she's still driving me nuts. She's so blind to what's going on. I called her around 10:30 today, she was quite busy and said she'd call back, of course she didn't. It's now 12:11. I know she won't. Drue Drue Drue. I eat sleep and breathe that name. I wonder if this infatuation will die down any.

~needs and wants

ok, so far, I've managed to write, eat, and cut my hair. woohoo! Aren't I productive?

My brother is coming over tomorrow, so I might ask him to take me up for my picture, rather than walking there and having my picture be of me drenched in sweat. If he can't, I'll worry about it Monday. As for the other errands, same goes. I really need a nap.

The kids are screeching outside. I don't like being kept from satisfying my needs. It makes me want to do very bad things. Good thing I don't really need to. I'd have to take my meds.

~The Holey Ghost

I suppose that I should answer the question of why I stayed with Drue, or wanted to be with her at all, and why I've often referred to her as the "love of my life" for the last 18 and a half years or so.

I want to say, "just do the math", but even I couldn't do the math, for a very long time. See, I first met Drue from being in band and orchestra, and I did have a bit of a crush on her, but I didn't fall in love with her until late '85. I don't remember the exact date, but I was sitting outside after Field Hockey practice one day, not wanting to go "home", not wanting to live. I had my knife in my hand. I don't know that I was actually going to do "it", or just slice myself up, as usual, but either way, I was not in a good place.

Drue and Cathy were good friends, and Drue was driving her home. The car stopped and they asked if I needed a ride somewhere. I said no. They drove off. My focus went back to my "task at hand".

The car came around again. This time Drue got out.

I quickly hid the knife and assured her that I'd be fine... that although the school was not in the best neighborhood, it was nothing to worry about, that I'd be catching the trolley in a bit. After being sure that I was sure, she got back in the car, and they drove off.

I sat for a bit, and put the knife back into my pocket. I then crossed the street, and caught the trolley.

The next day, I found Drue and thanked her repeatedly. She cared.

I fell in love.

Drue became life to me. She was every woman in the world to me. I wanted her. I wanted... needed someone who cared.

Even after the whole thing fell apart and ended... she became my ghost... the one everyone else had to compete with. It's not easy competing with a ghost. Ghosts don't make mistakes. Ghosts don't hurt you. They're always there when you need them and gone when you don't. The shit of a ghost just don't stink.

Drue ghost was perfect. Drue ghost always loved me, always cared, always told me that everything was going to be ok.

The truth? The reality of all of it? (...which I learned a while into my relationship with Drue, but chose not to look at...)

I had an affair with Drue ghost for more than 18 years.

It was actually Cathy who asked her to stop the first time, asked her to come back, and asked her to get out of the car.

Drue would have kept on going.

~grumble grumble

Awake, but still sleepy. I have errands to run, and I fear that the most I'll accomplish today are the basics... eat, shower, write. True, that's better than not being able to get out of bed and only managing a bathroom trip every few hours, but I just really need to get things done. I got my card in the mail to renew my (non)drivers ID... that means cutting my hair, walking a mile, and getting my new photo taken. I have to get some paperwork done and a couple of things into the mail...

I'm tired though. All I really feel like doing is crawling back into bed.

ugh

~Just so you know

Yes, I do have a girlfriend. Don't even try to compete. You've already lost. I'm not saying this because I'm conceited, it's just wrong for her to have to sit and read flirtatious comments posted by people who don't realize that they're barking up the wrong tree. I love her. I'm not looking. 'Nuff said.

I'm using much of this blog to go over my past... to take a look at where I came from... to gain insight, and to stay real. Yes, I still have bad days and still have bad feelings, and I will express them... but I don't need saving. As I said, flirting will come off as disrespectful and pointless, and patronizing me will only get your comment deleted. I reserve the right to be pissed off, to hurt, to point the finger of blame, and to say whatever the fuck I want to say without having to apologize for it, or endure being force fed a dozen cream filled donuts by people trying to get me to "look on the bright side".

I do like it when people read what I write and get something from it (what writer doesn't?), and I do enjoy intelligent comments, even if I don't always write back.

My story is a colorful one. My life has indeed been hell, but I'm not there right now. That was then, this is now... and right now, things are looking up... even on the days where I'm cranky or hurting.

Please respect that.

~Feel It

Just the thought of writing out the whole Drue story is enough to make me nauseas. That's what my life was about though... Drue, and suffering. It was twisted and wrong. In Drue's head, lesbians weren't "normal". She needed to see me as a girl though... I wasn't a "normal" guy... and she could easier deal with me being a lesbian than me being a guy that had an "F' on his ID and the "wrong" shit in his pants. We'd go out somewhere and people called me sir, and she "just couldn't see it". I don't think that she wanted to. If she saw me as a guy, she'd have to come up with another reason why she couldn't be with me... either that or defend me. People might find out she was loving a freak... and she might get a taste of the gutter. Guy freak or lesbian? Lesbian. With the lesbian, you get to keep the acceptable guy to bring to the prom.

She didn't break up with her boyfriend while (secretly, of course) seeing me. She didn't want to be "alone". Yeah, it felt pretty crappy and invalidating. She did look forward to when I could legally change my "sex", she even had a name all picked out for me. Society. She was a slave to it... and I just didn't fit into her picture. She was that school's equivalent of the head cheerleader... belonged to all the right activities, had all the right friends, was good at everything... and me? I was the school's "Bender". The fucked up one.

At the time, most of my writing was in letters to her. (Sadly, they're long gone now.) Her mom found them once. She made up some lie about how I was letting her read my journal, or something like that. Drue lied about me a lot. We'd have hours of sex, say I love yous, talk for hours... I was in love. Her? Well, I think that the problem was that her head was over her heart. She didn't want to lose her potential status. Drue loved me, I never doubted that, but she loved fitting in more.

True, I was a mess at the time. I was suicidal, anxiety ridden, depressed... in a tremendous amount of pain. I was doing everything I could to "do the right thing" by my parents, my teachers... Drue. It just all built up and overwhelmed me. I couldn't keep playing the game... I didn't even know what the game was anymore. I didn't know what I was anymore... who I was... where I belonged...

I knew pain. I knew rage. I knew obsession. I knew infatuation. I didn't know "me" though. I knew what everyone else was trying to make me... and it was all starting to blur... I started believing that I really was just an ugly girl who was unique... meant for closets and affairs. I was the other man/woman/thing... the one who was worth spreading your legs for, but not worth taking home to mom.

There might still be some dents in the lockers. I killed time in school, instead of going to class, beating them up.

~15 part 4

July 22, 1985

Reading over the past, I see that I changed a whole hell of a lot, but in many ways stayed the same...

There's a thunderstorm raging outside. I'm scared. Today was the first day in years I was actually scared. It bothers me alot. I never used to get scared. It just started today when I woke up with that awful dream. I feel like running, running and running till I collapse and die. But I think that now I'd even be afraid of dying. Shit I was never afraid of death. But I guess I'm afraid of things I can't understand. Life and Death. Shit. I'll just keep writing.

Y'know, I wish that Art had taken me in in March 84 when I wanted him to. I probably wouldn't have run away and fucked myself up in school. Now I have an extra year to tackle.

My sexuality kept changing from straight to gay to bi, to gay to bi. What's the scoop? I think I finally made my mind up, but will I change it in another year? I don't think so, I don't feel confused or scared of being gay anymore, and I actually consider myself a guy. Anyway, what determines gender, he or she, male or female. Tits? a Dick? Appearance? Sexual preference? Attitude? What?!!! Do you know? Society does! And society sees me as a guy, so that makes me one, I see myself as a guy, so that makes me one, in my book.

Running away. Now that's a hell of a topic to cover. Why did I do it? Because I HAD TO. I don't regret it.

Family. Damn, that's quite a touchy subject. I want a mother. I guess I sort of have one in my shrink, she's like a fill in for everyone I don't have, I think it's called transference or something, I'm not up on Psychology. But it's true. She's the female figure in my life right now. And my best friend, the only one I can talk to and feel safe.

...the storm is over. I think I'll stop and relax, maybe go to sleep. It's 2:45 AM and I'm a bit tired.

~Pictures

I used to have a scanner, but I don't anymore.

Pictures are rough. With older ones, I either want to burn them, because they're pictures of me in hell with everyone smiling around me, or preserve them as proof of hell. Some of them I don't mind sharing, because they were taken on a better day than most. There aren't many of those.

~Hold onto your kilts, Girls.

I guess I'm going to have to say a bit about school.

I started my "formal" education (aka Nursery School) in the States. I did Kindergarten in Israel, and also started first grade there. When we returned to the States, I was tested, and placed in the "smart kid" class at my local Elementary School. After the fire we, of course, had to move, and I finished 4th grade [2009 note - it was actually 3rd, and then all of 4th] at another public Elementary School, transferring to the Middle School next door for 5th through 8th. I was in those "Gifted" programs. It was called being "A.T." (Academically Talented), but then changed to "M.G." (Mentally Gifted). Whatever, it meant that I got to take cool classes like Art, Social Science, and Communications. Too, being that I was in the top class, I got foreign language and advanced Math, and being that I was a musician, I got to be in the band and orchestra as well.

The problems at home and the fact that my mother had no real aptitude for child guidance, landed me in my local High School, after I graduated from Middle School. That was simply hell. Hell because of the size of the school, and hell because of being surrounded by really stupid kids, and hell because I had a really big crush on my "best friend" at the time, Maggie, and she didn't go to the local school. She went to a "magnet" school... a magnet school for really smart girls.

ok... so, this is where I had an edge on all the rest of the guys who were being led around by their dicks at the time. I had an "F" on my birth certificate, and a mother who wanted me to be her little girl doll.

You bet your fucking ass I transferred. I don't know many guys that age who wouldn't have, if they could have gotten away with it.

After being escorted out of the school repeatedly (boys weren't allowed in there), they got to know my face, and I just became a really odd looking girl (nothing new for me).

It was good to be in school with Maggie, and another friend of mine, Jisook, was there too. I got to be in the band and the orchestra and hooked up with people for the talent show thingee, and got to be behind a kit for the first time. Then there was Heather, and the school musical, and the stage crew, and challenging classes. All while things at home got worse and worse and worse...

After the running away, the "street", the rehab, and the shrink, came figuring out what they were going to do with me in so far as school was concerned. (Hold onto your bladders folks, this gets really entertaining.)

This is what they, the Administration, came up with for their little 'I want you to be a good lesbian like me' kid. Condition #1 - Repeat 10th grade. Condition #2 - No more music. Condition #3 (snork) - You have to play Field Hockey.

HEY!

You can stop laughing now.

ok, ok... let me explain. If I repeated 10th grade, they'd catch me up in the Summer and write me personal letters of recommendation to Bryn Mawr. (HEY! STOP LAUGHING!) ok... the deal with the music thing was that the Administration was having a personal war with the Instrumental Music department (that was well known) and too, I think that they wanted to steer me in the direction they wanted to steer me in. Field Hockey player? (You're doing it again.) I pitched one hell of a fit about the whole field Hockey thing... even more than about the music thing. Their explanation was that they wanted to keep me out of trouble after school. Riiiight.

So, I agreed. I didn't have much choice, really. I didn't want to graduate a year late. I knew I couldn't deal with my local High School, and I did want to keep up with the friends I'd made. It wasn't so bad being the only guy in an all girls school. I played the bisexual card well, and told people what they wanted to hear. ... and there were a lot of girls to look at and flirt with. I just did what I had to do.

I got to play goalie. That was a help. I got out of having to wear one of those silly skirt things. I just showed up, tripping my face off a lot of the time, but there, and got to have girls in little skirts drive Field Hockey balls at me. They gave me all the balls a guy could ever want. And then... they gave me Drue.

~minutes

I'm up, but I don't know for how long. I woke up with a racing head and gave up after about a half hour of trying to fall back to sleep.

Writing is neato. For example, you (the reader) have no clue that there was 10 minutes between this paragraph and the last one. To you, it just reads... there's a second or so between paragraphs, provided you don't get distracted by someting. It's also neato because all you know about me is what I tell you. For example, you don't know if I'm writing this in a business suit, occasionally staring out an office window, or in my underwear, occasioanlly dragging razor blades down my arms. All you know is what I tell you. Neato.

Thanks for trusting me.

~I see dumb people

I don't remember too much about being in the rehab. I'd done some drugs, but I wasn't addicted at that point. Once I got out though... well, I guess I figured that if I was going to be accused, I might as well indulge. What the rehab said was that although I wasn't addicted to anything (after "detoxing" me from (get this) No-Doz), I could benefit from being in therapy. Must've taken a genius to figure that one out. After breeching into the world, I ran smack into (off the top of my head):

surgery
moving
surgery
chicken pox
abuse
Father tries to kill mother
untreatable bleeding eczema
food allergies
Sex and gender issues
Getting rid of all possessions
moving to the Middle East
Sexual Abuse
material allergies
Getting rid of all possessions
Returning to the States
Dog bite
abuse
Nosebleeds
Severe allergic reaction to face paint (it was pretty bad)
Mother leaves on my birthday
Abuse abuse abuse
Father returns to the Middle East
Step father enters picture
Car accident
Fire
Lose almost all possessions


Still with me? We just turned 8.


Yeah. Maybe little therapy, fucking Einstein.

I'll stop here. I'm getting bitter, and I had a pretty good day.

~15 part 3

moving right along...

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
July 20, 1985

Well, Summer vacation's half over already. It's been ok. I guess. Alot of shit falling down though. I've been seeing a psychologist weekly and I enjoy it emensely.

I'm feeling very lonely lately. I lie in bed at night and wish for someone I can roll over on and get some affection. Sometimes I wish Karen were back, but then I get to thinking, she put me through alot of shit along with the good she did, I don't know if I could take that again.

I really can't think of what to do with myself. I want to meet new people, but I don't have the money to get out of the house. I guess one day I'll find somebody, but this waiting is maddening. It's so boring here I can't sleep or eat, only smoke. My lungs are the color of this ink by now. Life's a bitch. Where are all the lonely people? I'd sure like to give one of them some company. That'll be 2 less lonely people in this mad mad world. I feel like crying, but tears don't come anymore, only sadness, like a deep dark pit, knowing it's swallowed you up. I quit this band I was in for a while. You can't be in a band with no instrument and no money. So, I can wait, something's bound to happen soon. Life's so eventless lately (last 2 weeks really) Bad events have been happening for awhile, but not really good ones. I'm so bored, sad, tired, lonely. HELP me! Somebody!!!!

Love is somewhat like a nuclear bomb
It comes without warning,
Hit's you hard enough to blow you away
And when it's gone,
the pain continues long afterwards
Love is life, death, and birth

~shrunk

Good session. Yes, it did start out with "How are you?", but it went well. Was able to talk about a lot, and it wasn't a problem going over an hour. I like being the last appointment. (I can be a bit of a motor mouth.)

Now to tackle the food thing...

~Over the river and through the woods

I have to leave soon to be therapeed. I have no clue how I'm going to get everything in my head out in an hour. I'll be stuck on the "how are you?" question for at least 15 minutes. You gotta love that question. Every time, I just want to snarl a "Well, if I were doing fine I wouldn't be here now would I?", but I don't. Some things are better left unsaid. I usually just reply with "still breathing", or something along those lines... and then I'm left to explain how I am. Fun Fun Fun

~Let me hurt. It's my right.

Well, at least I got started... there's more, of course, but getting started is the hard part. I feel like I'm leaving so much out in writing here... details... It's tough to keep pushing myself... to keep reading, to keep forcing myself to look at it as an adult... to step back as my 34 year old self and see the 15 year old. It makes me angry with them. Very angry. I'm even angrier, though, about the fact that not only were they very rarely there for me then, but that never changed. They're not now. My mother is an ill, selfish woman who cares only for herself. Art, my "father" is also selfish and heartless. He lives in Israel today. He's never even seen his 6 year old grandchild, and didn't attend his daughter's wedding. It was always about them... and it still is. One day, maybe it won't hurt as much.

~15 part 2

5-23-85

Well, things aint too hot. I'm broke and homeless. I have to go back home, but I can't until my dad hears from a "proffessional" that I should. So, he's sending me to a drug rehab. I'm not addicted to anything, but he has no reason to believe me.

~15 part 1

Just for the record, I'm leaving the spelling and grammar errors alone, purposely. That's how it's written in the actual notebook.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
3-28-85

Well, it looks like I'm doing good so far. I don't have a job, but I'm managing to get by. School's a wreck, when I do go, I only go to one class and cut the rest.

Things are going good. I'm really developing as a person, but other things are horrible. I'm dead to Mom and Stan, I can't talk to, write, or see my brother or sister, and Stan has already threatened me. I wish they could understand how I feel and what I'm trying to accomplish in my life. I miss Seth, alot. He's so young.

Karen has helped me alot, she's always there for me and I love her more than I have ever loved anybody. I wish she knew how I felt. I'll always be there for her, and always love her.

~It takes guts

I don't know how I'm going to get through the day, but I want to. I want to not drink any beer today. I want to be able to go a few days without being all freaky.

It might be the alcoholic in me that's saying, "Why torture yourself? Why not drink if you don't have to?" Then, it might just be that it's a good point.

I don't want my life to revolve around beer. You can't drink on a Greyhound bus. It's a drug that works for me though. I've even had my doctor and therapist both tell me to drink. I've had my friends tell me to drink. It just works for me. It makes me calmer, more open, nicer, and funnier. The way I see it, it's no different than taking a daily pill. It just tastes better... and actually works. There have been drugs, legal and not, that I've been addicted to... and stopped for that reason. Too, there's a difference between drinking and getting drunk. There's a difference between using a drug and abusing one.

When something hurts me, or the people around me I care for, I don't do it. Even with smoking... I have a NON smoking room in my apartment. (I wonder how many non-smokers have smoking rooms.)

I wonder why people on Prozac aren't condemned by society.

...and I wonder why the abusive people who don't drink aren't factored in when people start pointing fingers.

I wonder why people blame the symptom, rather than the cause.

I wonder why people don't blame the person, instead of what the person consumes.

Abusive people are abusive. My mother didn't drink. My "father" did. They were both abusive fucks.

I'M NOT.

~dry

It's just past 2. The bar is closed. I'm out of beer. This sucks.

~Tuning in

I guess that one of the main reasons I'm finding it so difficult to write about 15, other than the pain that comes flooding back when I think about it too hard, is because so much happened in such a short period of time. It feels like I could write a damn book just about that year.

I had an "awakening" in 1982. When I described it to my shrinkydink, I compared it to an old tv set... how when you turned it on, there was a flash, but then it took a while until the picture was clear. June 27, 1983, the tv was turned on. By November 5, 1984, the day I left home, the picture was crystal clear.

I often want to tell all the little details... all the stories and adventures. It's rare that I want to focus on the feelings. It's rare that I want to go into detail about what it was like living in that house before I left. That's the trauma part. It's like talking about being 7 or 8. I can talk about the fire, or the car accident, or my mother leaving, or my "father" leaving, or being hit, or what have you... but I can't talk about the way it felt. I can't get there... not without feeling it again.

Did you know that when my sister cried, my "father" used to stuff handkerchiefs down her throat to shut her up?

Never make noise. Noise will get you in trouble.

~Hope

I can only hope that tomorrow I can continue moving forward with a healthy knowledge of where I've been. I can only hope that if I trip and fall, the demons of my past and the demons of my future will devour one another. I can only hope that when the dust settles, I will have the strength to stand up, and face the present.

~The point is

I don't know that I can do this. I keep picking up that yellow book and tying to read through the pages... and the rage builds and builds...

I don't know that I can keep reading it... I really don't know if I can share any of it. Why put my pain on display? Why open up and allow people to patronize me? Why set myself up to listen to people who don't have a fucking clue, attempting to share what they consider to be wisdom with me?

What is the point?

This is one of those days where I want to burn it all... every last word... every last memento of my past... every last thing that can hurt me....

I'd have to burn myself though, and a lot of other people around me... and they say you're not supposed to do that.

~Whatever

It took me an hour to make a salad.

Now I'm going to have a fucking beer.

Maybe someone will give me a fucking medal.

~I don't know what

I can't concentrate... can't get there...

Interesting, I'm stuck at the same exact point in therapy. I think that it's sometime mid '84... maybe earlier though. There was a lot going on with me. Abuse and past trauma aside, the sex, gender, and sexuality stuff was becoming more and more of an issue. It was all confused in my head, and there was no one there to help me figure it all out... and no one to defend me.

I was a normal 14 year old BOY that came from an abusive, traumatic background. It didn't matter what was or was not in my pants, under my shirt, in my gut, or in my blood. I was normal. That was the whole problem though... to them... I was an "I don't know what". That's what she said... the night before I left, right after telling me that I wasn't allowed to do music anymore... word for word, "I have a son, and a daughter, and an I don't know what!"

I remember how the words cut into me... it was like being hit in the head... no... the heart with a bat.

Steel shutters slammed down around me... I nodded... and agreed to everything they'd just told me I was to do. Then, I went upstairs and replaced the books in my bag with clothing, and talked with my sister. She cried and cried. I explained that it was either this or "jumping out the window", the metaphor for killing myself.

In the morning I played it cool... accepted my bus token money, and left for "school". I remember walking down the driveway, turning around, looking up at the house and saying, out loud, "...and I ain't never coming back."

...and it began. My life. My real life. The path of undoing 15 years of damage... of un-brainwashing myself... of educating myself... of surviving.

~The usual

Even if I can do something simple today... make a salad, or take a shower, or something... I'll feel a little better. Feeling a little stuckish at the moment though.

Nothing new.

~Take this childhood and...

I'm putting off moving to the next year in reading my journal. Things were painful and traumatic for the first 14 years... but when I hit 15, I finally snapped.

The pain never goes away. You never stop being angry, and as the years pass you become bitter, as the baggage strapped to you rips your muscles to shreds.

I can only be thankful that I'm at the point in my life where I know where the hate inside of me comes from... and to whom it should be directed. I am very thankful... and you know what?... you should be too... because I could've brought any of you down with me, if I fell that far.

I was lucky. Lucky that I had the strength to get out... to leave... to raise myself... to heal myself... to be there for myself. Not everyone is lucky. You'll find them in jails, mental institutions, and coffins. Keep that in mind though. I was lucky. Their feelings and residual actions... are completely understandable. All you have to do is know.

Love your children... for who they are. They're not your dollies or your action figures. They're not your avengers, or the ribbons on your chest. They are human beings. They are their own. Be a PARENT. Be willing to give your life for them. Translate that! That includes your LIFESTYLE. If you don't, they may well find another life to take.

~The beat goes on

I'm feeling a little off. I took a nap, and woke up feeling first hungry, then this weird combination of scared and angry.

The bass level on my downstairs neighbor's stereo is way up. Trying to block it out... turned on my own radio. Sympathy for the Devil is playing. woowoo woowoo woowoo woowoo

It's not drowning out the bass. My eardrums are rumbling.

I'm reheating coffee from this morning. I'm really torn between that and a beer. Torn between two lovers?

Not wanting to think about that time... Boy George... My "awakening"... Bandanas... changing High Schools... Heather... Hardcore... The Hunger... Mr. Kauriga... Carlyn... My first time behind a drum kit... Playing Double Bass... Cutting under the desk... Lori... The Pajama Game... People thinking I was on drugs... the summer... waiting in line for Jefferson Starship tickets and bumping into Mia... Elf Quest... Bowie... Stray Cats... drumming... drumming... drumming...


I'll stop the world and melt with you...

~By George, it must be 14!

...and then there was the time I went to High School...

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Feb. 11, 1984

Things happen so fast, but when they're through happening, it seems like years.

I guess Heather didn't love me as much as I thought she did. Maybe she did for a while, but not now.

So, I was shitted on again, lied to. Lies hurt. My life's in a bad way. I love Heather more than life itself. And you better believe it too, because for a while there it seemed like death was the only thing to stop my love for Boy George.

I was such a jerk to think that someone could actually love me as much as I loved them. No one ever has, no one ever will. Maybe somewhere down the road there'll be another Heather. Someone who I'll fall in love with and someone who will tell me she loves me. And then, she can shit on me and say she loves me when she really doesn't.

I love Heather, and I know that she didn't lie to me to hurt me. She lied to help.

I really shouldn't say that she shitted on me. Cause she has her own feelings too. But I'm just hurt, that's all.

There's something wrong with me. I think I'd better see a shrink. I mean, when I get angry or upset I hit walls until my knuckles split open, or I cut myself until I have 9 or 10 gashes.

When I try to talk lately, my words come out jumbled, and no where near to what I want to say. I feel so uncomfortable with myself, like, I just can't understand myself.

I used to be able to talk to Heather. Now every time when I talk, either over the phone or at school, there's so much uneasy silence.

Why the hell did I have to go and fall in love with a girl anyway? Why couldn't I have stayed the asshole I was. No love at all is better than having the ones who love you turn on you.

Maybe one day this shit will be over, and I'll be able to say to someone, "Thank you for making my life worthwhile." Maybe one day I'll be able to come home to a house where somebody loves me. And maybe one day, just maybe I'll be able to say to myself, "I made her life worthwhile and she loves me." It will be a her. That's one thing I'm sure of.

~Needs

I'm a little behind on things... as usual, I guess. I need a shower. I need to clean up the kitchen. I need to make some salad. I need to get the bills into the mailbox. I need to cut my hair. Many needs.

Harold is doing ok. I gave him two cups of water last night. I'm not sure if that's enough, going by the size of the pot, but I guess I'll be able to tell in time. He looks pretty good, all spread out and keeping an eye out the window at the parking lot and building behind me. I think he wishes I'd get some laundry done though. His room is pretty messy and I'm sure it's not the best air freshener.

Trying not to think too much on being 12 - 13. It's tough not to though. In June of '82 was one of the more messed up experiences of my life. It's a whole long drawn out story, but in brief, my sister and I got caught shoplifting, and the "punishment" was extreme enough to warrant my mother and step father being incarcerated. No such luck though. All that resulted was about a year of shock and, I'm sure, one "personality" or another being "born".

I look back and read things that hint to my teachers being able to tell that something was different. Wish they would have done something, although I don't know that it was possible to do anything at that time. Was anything different? uhhhhhh... yes? My brother had just been born in September, giving my step father a real son, demoting me to the freak of the house. My "father" had come back into the picture after having been gone for about 5 years or so, and he wasn't as horrible as my mother had been making him out to be. I was still reacting to 12 or 13 years of various traumas, and was in a lot of physical and emotional pain due to my body "changing" in all the wrong ways. The real kicker though? What really put me into that state of shock? My step father discovered that the buckle end of a weight lifting belt was ok to use to teach kids a lesson, and my mother had, among other violent and humiliating punishments, given me a concussion with a wooden clog.

I learned something from being young in that house though. I learned that in order to get the caulk clean in the bathroom, you use a toothbrush.

~Yellow

The covers of my journals have always been yellow. I don't know if I associate yellow with creativity because of this, but I do. I associate yellow with creative energy... beginnings... the number one. It's a primary color. The lightest of them. Colors and numbers; I've made those associations for a couple of decades.

My first journal was/is a spiral notebook. It's yellow. It has Ziggy and his dog on the front, walking along, with a banana peel on the ground right where Ziggy is about to step. At the top it says, "It's you and me against the world..." to which Ziggy says, in a bubble, "AND PeRSONALLY i THiNK We'Re GONNA GeT CReAMeD!"


...think about the days of me and you....
you and me against the world....

~Fall into the

I think that what really makes me crazy about not having my earlier writing is that there are too many gaps in my memory. Some things you never forget; surgeries, fire, car accident, injuries, abuse stuff, abandonment stuff, moving, the really big things. Not all of it though. There are gaps... things missing... things I know are back there, but I can't get at them. I guess that I feel that when I got rid of the early diaries, I got rid of all the treasure maps... ate too many of the breadcrumbs.

My sister, years ago, touched on a few things... asked me if I ever thought that blah blah blah happened. It was all I could do not to laugh, as I'd spent the last few years trying and trying and trying to piece things together... trying to remember. So, I said yes, and we talked about some of the reasons why we felt/suspected/knew things happened. When it came down to it though... and I think this is one the biggest differences between me and my sister, she didn't want to remember, even if she could. That's what she said. She didn't want to remember.

Maybe, one day, the pieces of the puzzle will all be there for me. I have a rather large puzzle. Many pieces. I can only hope that at some point I'll find the missing ones under a couch cushion or carpet somewhere. I'd check my sister's house, but she won't let me in.

~13

...and so I continue looking back... continue my attempts at learning from myself, from my past...

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

11-5-82

Don't ask me why I'm starting my journal in November, I don't know. So far this has been the best and the worst year of my life. In a nutshell, I'm going crazy.

Alot of people are saying for the past month, "Is something the matter", well that I know of, not really. My teacher Mr. Romoff, the other day said, "You're not acting like yourself" Well, who am I? I'm certainly not the person who used to share a bed with my sister, I'm not the "tough punk" who shoplifted at Woolworth's, Thriftdrug, Thriftway, or anywhere else I went, so, who am I? Maybe by next year at this time I'll know. Maybe I won't.

I'm pretty smart, but pretty dumb too. I really don't have any logic. I have no idea what to be when I get older.

If I had a nick name I'd probably want it to be Crazy. 'Cause that suits my strange personality. Part of it anyway.

I dream alot. Not mushy day dreams, just nice ones. Growing up, what kind of house I own, where, things like that. The reason why I dream and read a lot is because I wish I could be somewhere else.

I hate shrinks. I think that if people don't know what to do about their own problems, their lost that's all their is to it, they shouldn't go and blab to a stranger.

It true your peers can push you into anything especially hating people.

~What I do.

Over the past couple of months, I've looked through a lot of my older writing. I looked through stuff I'd posted online, scanned through a bunch of old poetry. I have a lot of old writing. Years... decades... of shtuff. It only goes back so far. The early years are gone, and that frustrates me to no end, but there's still a good 20 years or so of stuff around. If I did nothing but read, it would take me about 5 years to get through it all.

20 some years of confusion, pain, insight, and questioning on paper. I've answered some of those questions I asked in my youth, and have come to terms with the fact that there may be no answers for others. I've changed, yet stayed the same. Through it all though, I've written.

~Now I lay me down to sleep

Brushing away the doubt
Denying apathy
Moving and lying still
Jumping
Falling
Knowing


Your life has been one long road leading directly to this moment.

~Intensity

Slept a little. My dreams, the one I woke up from anyway, were troublesome. I was arguing with someone, not sure who... an older woman, maybe 60 or so, about something... I don't know... it's all chopped up in there... you know how dreams can get.

I'm glad that the shopping is out of the way. I feel pretty set with food. The KFC leftovers alone will last me a few days. I kept the bill down, not including KFC, to $50, which is a good thing.

Spent a lot of time talking with my brother about a lot of things... things that are going on in my life, things that are going on in his, the nature of the expanding and contracting universe... good conversation. He's 21. Life is rough. The twenties. The twenties SUCK SHIT. There's no other way to say it. True, life can suck shit in general, but there's just something really rough about the twenties. I'm sure that there's some sort of scientific mumbo jumbo that will explain it all... about what stages the brain goes through. Maybe it's worse for people with crappy childhood stuff in their background, I don't really know. Trying to explain to my brother that he's not a worthless piece of shit, that's difficult. He's not at the point yet where he realizes where it all comes from... all the insecurity and self loathing. He knows where it comes from, in a way, but not well enough to stop the damage from beating the hell out of him very often. He hasn't quite gotten to the point of realizing that the only reason he thinks he's a piece of shit is because the two most important people in his life who should have shown him otherwise, never did, and treated him like he was one... and they still do.

My brother's a smart kid. He has a lot going for him. He doesn't realize it though. A little guy with a loving heart, an emotional nature, and a lot of intensity doesn't feel like he has much to offer when he measures himself up against the rest of the big, cruel, cold, shallow guys out there, at his age. I told him not to worry though... once all the girls are tired of being treated like shitty pieces of meat, it's him they'll fall in love with. A whole shit load of good that does him now though. Right now, I may as well be telling him that there really is a tooth fairy.

I hate what my mother and his father did to him. I hate that he's hurting. He doesn't deserve it. Neither of us do.

~Nap time

Food shopping done. Cyberbees taken care of. Good day with brother. Me like KFC. Me like Wallace & Gromit (& Feathers!). Me NEED sleep.

Me sleep now.

~Frozen

I wanted time to freeze.
I WANTED IT TO FREEZE!

but it didn't

and here I am, 14 years later...

It hasn't frozen


but I have.



1/3/00

~Beggars can't be....

This sucks. I'm really tired.

My brother works nights, and so the food store thing happens at night, usually. Of course, today, being that I was up until after 6AM, is a fine day to suddenly call me at 10AM.


I love my brother.
I love my brother.
I love my brother.

~Curled

Happy Woofy.

When Woofy's happy, we're all happy.


Yank that chain.

~Cyberbees

Might be a little scarce over the next few days.

Somehow, I got a fucking bee in my nose.


Scratch that... it flew up my ass just to spite me.

~Ignorance is bliss

I've long known that "ignorance is bliss", and that along with awareness comes pain.

Take the whole "life is what you make it" mentality... from where I sit, the only people who ever spout that nonsense are people with really good luck. Take time to smell the roses... right, easy for people who have no allergies to say... and even easier for people who not only don't have allergies, but who never got a fucking bee up their nose from doing it.

Wish I could shove bees up the noses of most people. They need a good stinging.

~Cool it

The kids are screaming and yelling outside. Completely obnoxious. It's been so nice around here lately, I was ready to go over to the office and comment. Guess I got spoiled.

My electric bill came in. It could be worse, but it was still pretty high. This is what I freeze all winter for though. I have to choose, heat or A/C. A/C always wins. You can add layers. You can't peel off your skin. (Well, not without considerable pain.)

Spring and Summer here feel like living in a bowl of soup. Living between 2 rivers makes for humidity hell. "Heat index". Whatever, it's gross. A/C is my friend.

~Choice

I've always valued my freedom. I've always appreciated being able to do things because I wanted to do them, not because I had to. True, over the last few years, I've been in a shitty position. There are certain things that I have to do to stay alive... to keep a roof over my head... but... I've still maintained a certain degree of "freedom".

Yes, I'm free (to do what I want, any old time), but I do make use of my IQ. I think things through. My decisions are well thought out, not impulsive, not motivated by deep rooted psych issues. I've become one of the most cognitive people I know. I think before I do. I think after I do. I analyze. I make changes. I stay aware. It doesn't matter that I feel like killing people sometimes. I have enough of a brain to choose not to. It doesn't change that I feel that way, but it does change the course of my life... from a life in lock up to a life of freedom. "Impulse control", I think they call it, and I, luckily, have a lot of it.

Writing helps... talking helps. It helps to be able to say that I feel like killing people. It helps to be able to go through a whole diatribe... bitch all about how life is pointless and I feel like blowing my head off. It helps to have the freedom to do that. Expression. It's a pressure release... it's the way I take my emotions, give them form, and allow them to be validated... and allow myself to be calmed.

Am I more homicidal than other people? Probably not. I just talk about it more... and I think that talking about it, in truth, makes me a whole hell of a lot safer to be around than most. If there's no pressure release, you may well eventually blow up. Stifling expression stifles the ability to choose.

I choose to write, to talk, and to maintain my freedom.

~- bedtime -

I pull out the blade.

There you are, my friend...

Let me tell you, my friend, I am...
I am suffering tonight.

I thank you in advance, my friend,
For being so sharp.

I love your edge.
Such an edge.

No, my friend, there will be...
as usual,
no audience.

Just...
Kiss me.

I...


Thank you.


JBW - 4/29/00

~Cutting things that grow

There's nothing like the sound of lawn mowers in the morning. Not that I was sleeping too well anyway.

So, I'm up... and itchy... and sniffly... and wondering what the hell my day is going to look like. At the top of the "to do" list is to scrape the fuzz off of my face. Not that the Grizzly Adams look isn't ok, but it's really not what I'm shooting for.

My hair is getting darker, the older I get. When I was a baby, my hair was a dark blonde. Now it's a dark brown. I have blonde and red in it, especially my beard, and a white patch/birthmark on the left side, but it's brown. Dark brown. ...and receding, but I won't go into that.

Just in case you were wondering, guys have (I feel so fucking) ugly days too.

~94

As the leather slices me
I see you

The hand of the master
Not master

My back cries tears of blood
For dry eyes

In this life I have suffered far worse
At the hands of those supposedly more tender
Caresses
All bring pain
Every tender embrace
Brings on unknown torture

The worn whip of our love
Lies invisible in your left hand
In your right are the spikes you will use
To nail me to my cross
The one you helped me build
When my blindfold of thorns was secure

I wonder will you bathe in the blood
That will flow from the deep puncture wounds
Or somehow let it cleanse your spirit
Let it save your poor soul
As I slowly perish
Crucified for your sins


JBW - 11/95

~Have it your way

Sometimes, when things get bad, I can listen to the voices in my head. Sometimes it gets scary though, so I do all I can to shut them out.

Right now there's someone who's very angry, and someone playing an old Burger King commercial song over and over... Have it youuuuuur way, have it your way....

There is a "voice of reason"... the one who keeps saying, "Relax. You don't have to do a damn thing. You don't even have to breathe if you don't want to."

Right. Whatever you say.

I watch my beer gut grow and try not care. I try to appreciate the silence in my apartment building. I try to appreciate my air conditioner. I try not to look back... not to get too ahead of myself... not to blow my fucking head off. All I do is try. Try try try.

I didn't drink that much today. This is only my fourth beer. It's a Pabst Blue Ribbon. The can tells me that it's the "Original Pabst Blue Ribbon Beer". Funny, the last one I drank said that too. I wonder which can is the liar.

~never never

I'm having a beer... trying to write... trying to keep myself from spiraling down.

There's a lot that I need to do that I can't manage to do... everything from cutting my hair to getting to the doctor. Since I've been out here (trapped) in the burbs, my friend has taken me to the doctor when I've needed to go. On average, once or twice a year. Seems she has decided that it's not something she wants to do anymore. That leaves it to me to get there... although she did say that if I time it right, she might be able to take me to the train. The pisser is that I'm not even ill. I don't need to see the doctor, I just have to get some pointless yearly blood work and make sure that he's aware that my head is still cracked. Always on trial.

I feel frustrated, depressed, angry... sick. Life is difficult. Fuck, life is beyond difficult. Even when something good happens I can barely enjoy it before things around me start poking at me... reminding me how fucked up my reality is... and may always be.

I want to run off into never never land.

I guess there's a reason they call it that. It just ain't gonna happen.

~Wake me up

What a long awkward day this has been.

I feel like I'm in a dream.... nothing feels quite real.

~68

Swiss Army Knife
I look at the blades
What have I got here?
One that looks like a claw.
Mental note made
It'll do
They get louder and louder
The voices in my head
Screaming their endless messages
They get louder and louder
Swiss Army Knife
My back still throbs from the chains
Not good enough
The claw meets flesh
And now
They're silent for a moment
One battle won in the war
By the Swiss Army



CC - 1994

~blah

Session was cancelled. Shrinkydink is ill. Guess I'll shrink myself. Maybe I'll just sit and talk to Harold. He's a good listener. Not the best on advice though.

Feeling a little off... sort of sad... sort of bored... tired, although I've been sleeping on and off all day. Don't know what that's all about.

Maybe I should force myself to go for a walk anyway. Have to do something to get myself out of this funk.

~19

She can't sleep
Her life is buzzing too loudly in her brain
Other times she's drunk
or crying inside
I know
I've lost count of all the beers I've consumed
Whose hurt am I responding to?
Please
Can't we pretend not to feel
Can't we pretend we feel safe
Can't we pretend not to flinch
not to fear
not to care
Drunk attempt at passion
Wish she could breathe easier
Wish there was no stress
Wish I could protect her from her past
from my past
Drunk attempt at love
My brain feels too little
too incapable
Am I one more two faced asshole
One more to laugh at her pain
One more to shut her out
Drunk attempt at understanding
Perhaps becoming an alcoholic is reasonable
Motivation towards temporary happiness
temporary numbness
Please fall asleep
You're reminding me
That I'm awake




CC - 6/93

~Prove it

I don't think that I slept very much. I don't really remember though. That's ok, I have time to sleep more later. Nothing set in stone until tonight's appointment with the shrinkydink.

I have 25 beers in the house. That's all the beer I get until the fates fall through. See, I made a deal. One of those, "Oh yeah?! Prove it!!" types of things. I do it a lot. Make deals with fate. Invariably, I win. I get to keep smoking or keep drinking or whatever I bet with. Last night's deal/bet was a little complicated. It had a few parts, but part one was that I would stop smoking and drinking once what was in the house was gone. I've "tempted the fates" a lot over the last month or so. I've "lost" every time. That is to say, they indeed did "prove it".

I don't know, I'm starting to think that maybe I should play the lottery and make a bet there.

To which the fates say, "Don't push it."

~Where everyone would love to drown

I can't sleep. So much is on the brain...

Thinking thinking thinking

Thinking about life... love... soul mates... fate...


What if?

What if that "one" you've always been searching for suddenly showed up? Then what? What the fuck does "happily ever after" look like? What are you without your searching... your wanting... your misery and aloneness?

What if, one day, that "one" is actually there... to have and to hold... to make everything ok... to make all the bad go away?

Then what?

Do you wait? Do you wait for the "other shoe to drop"? Do you trust it? Do you run, fearing a repeat of every last one of the billions of times when you thought "maybe this is it"?

Why do we wait? Why do we search? Why do we hope?

... and What if? What if all of a sudden, it was all over?


Who would you be?

~Songs in the key of stupor

A drunk lies in my street
Singing at the top of his lungs
I approach him
Stare down
And I sing his song in spite of myself

~Itsnot

I can't stop sniffing and sneezing. It's making me nuts! This is the worst allergy season I can remember in a long time. I have a theory that the drug company people are putting stuff into the air to make people buy allergy pills. Even people who never had allergy problems are being beat up this year. Then, I'm an insane conspiracy theorist, so pay me no mind... just pass the tissues.

~Fragments

I sit and contemplate an autobiography.
I try to remember all the events of my life,
But I find it impossible.
Things,
People,
And events
Overlap,
Become clouded and forgotten.
It seems as if my story will remain locked away
In fragments,
In a dark corner of my memory,
Which is slowly
Dying.


CC - 1/86

~In brief

I cooked. I ate.

I made a deal with the fates.Smiling. Sleepy. Will nap well.

~I worry, therefore I am

Back and forth and back and forth.

Wearing a path into my carpet.

Worrying. That's what I do best. Worry.

It's all about money. It's always about money. Wonder how much money it would take to make me stop worrying...

I'm drinking a beer. That's about 50 cents. Doesn't seem like much, but it does add up. Worrying leads to me drinking... which leads to more worrying... and so on and so on...

How much would it take... hmmmm... $300 + $600 + $3,000 + $600 = $4500

ok, $4500 will cover me through September.


aaaa... who am I kidding? I'd worry anyway. I'm just so darn good at it.

~no see food

I haven't been in the place to cook. I have to though. I'm out of Cheetos and Hot Dogs.

From what I've been told, I'm not a bad cook. I do enjoy cooking. I just don't enjoy cooking for one on a daily basis. My food budget, and the fact that I only get to the grocery store every other week, doesn't allow for much either. Produce doesn't last. Meats always have to be frozen. Bread only stays fresh for so long. I work around it, but it's not the healthiest diet. Too, there's the head thing. Sometimes cooking isn't an option at all... and there's no hiding the Cheetos.

Right now, the makings of (my version of) Seafood Fettuccine are waiting for me.

It's just that I'd rather have a beer... I'd rather get in my spot on the floor and sulk.

Notice I'm here typing. So, although I'm not staring into my beer, I'm also not cooking, showering, working out, cutting my hair, or taking out the trash either.

Whatever it takes. Right?

~Salvaged

When I was 16, I fell in love.

Yes, I'd had girlfriends before then. A few, actually, but not like her.

Maybe it was the timing.... seeing the right face at the right time. Maybe it was fate... destiny... accident? I don't really know, but that day back in 1985 when I was sitting on the curb after school, and that car pulled up, and that girl got out, and unknowingly stopped my knife from ending all of it... it was the beginning of a love affair that would last the rest of my life. The actual relationship really only lasted until sometime in '88. It went through ups and downs. I was not the only one in her life/bed. ...but... she was my obsession... and she stayed my obsession.

During Christmas/New Year's vacation in '85-6, I filled a book with poetry. I wrote and wrote and obsessed and obsessed. When I went back to school after the break, I handed her the book and a rose.

I have the book. She was going to throw it away, and a mutual friend snagged it before it hit the trash. That friend kept it for years... maybe protecting me... maybe protecting it.

The poetry is, simply, horrible. Between the lines though, is a gold mine.


This is your heart. This is your heart on infatuation. Any questions?

~Realization

I see a figure
Too far away to see clearly,
But a person in chains
Being led away
Towards an immense canyon.
The person seems not to mind,
Or not to notice,
Until the very end
When he is pushed off the edge.
He cries out
And the voice is all too familiar.
I shiver when I realize
The voice is my own


CC - 12/85

~Choppy

Long day... long night... focused and not....

Wanting to write, but feeling plugged up... choppy... split...

I need to relax. I'm not good at that.

I'm trying though... trying really really hard. I said, "stop trying!" Why is it that advice and guidance is always so much easier to give than to listen to? Easier said than done. Right.

Need for myself to know... everything's going to be ok.

~There

Thinking and traveling and dreaming
Moving and not

Everything is going to be ok.

~Take us or leave me.

My thoughts aren't exactly all over the place, but the head is busy. Maybe it's the head... maybe it's the spirit... or the heart... Whatever you call it, "We're" busy.

Such extremes I go through... full of fear and insecurity one minute, the next I'm bigger than a mountain.

I've always been this way... a scared child, a fearless warrior, a violent psychopath, God and the Devil... all rolled up into one package.

I've been told that they're called "alters"... that I have anywhere from 18 to 23 of them. Selves. No, not facets... individual gems.

Not "I" meaning "I", but "I" meaning "WE".

All the pronouns are so confusing.

I swear that being diagnosed with this "disorder" is one of the worst things that can happen. As split up as you might be, the diagnosis makes it worse... you split further... draw lines where there were none. You take a functioning democracy and turn it into a rioting anarchy.

Love ME. Love US. Hate ME. Hate US.

Don't pick and choose. Don't call anyone out.

WE are an I.

~Old and piercing

As my knife pierces
My own skin,
And the blood pushes
To the surface,
My violence disappears
And I slowly
Drift
Back
Into normal
Consciousness

CC - 12/85

~Extremes

You don't know heaven until you've been to hell.

That said...

just think how orgasmic "happy" can feel.

~The stuff fears are made of

Stuff.

Stuff Stuff Stuff.

In 1993, I got rid of everything I owned, except for 3 large duffel bags, got on a Greyhound bus, and made the 76 hour trip to San Francisco.

I lasted a month.

It's 2004. I have a very large apartment with LOTS of STUFF.

It's just stuff...

Stuff can be taken away. Stuff can be burned up or washed away or frozen to the floor. Stuff can be left behind. Stuff can be given away.
STUFF

Stuff can be replaced. People can't.

A few weeks ago, I was ready to burn it and lock myself away.

A few weeks ago, I tried to give my brother advice about picking up and running off for something unsure.

A few weeks ago, life felt different.


I'm scared.

~Support system

I feel like taking a walk again, but my ankle is still pretty sore. Maybe if I wear my short boots it'll make a difference... more ankle support.

The head's a little messy... distracted... racing a bit, yet completely focused too.


I want to run away to home.

~Kissing your liver spots

I'm trying to eat healthier today. Salad for meal one, Ham Steak and Brussels Sprouts for meal two... but then there are those mysterymeatburgers in the fridge needing to be cooked for meal three... and the seductive bag of Cheetos... and Beef Jerky.

It's tough enough avoiding a beer gut... why does the whole food thing have to be an issue too?

Who am I kidding? Avoiding? I have a beer gut. No, it's not as impressive as some guys', but it's there. I don't like being insecure about things like this. Damn media. I'd love to have the "love me, love my gut" mentality, but... shoot, I've lived my life in front of one screen or another for the past 2 years (more like the last 5, but it's been the most isolated the last 2). I don't even really know what real people look like anymore. All I've seen are plastic people, and although most of them are pretty icky looking to me, it doesn't stop me from using them as a "hot or not?" scale for my own body.

Old and ugly. We're all headed in that direction. Thing is... when I look at (real) people around me, they don't look ugly. People about my age look good... some of them REALLY good. I wonder if, when I'm 80, if I make it to 80, all I'll see is the beauty of the person in front of me, who is about my age, like I do now. When I was a kid, people in their 30s and 40s looked old to me... not attractive at all, really. I'm supposing that our concept of "hot" changes with age. Maybe we won't get old and ugly. Maybe we'll get old and sexy instead.

~Roughage

Ate some salad... hoping it'll push the half ton of Cheetos that I ate yesterday through my system. Buy one get one free can be a BAD thing when it comes to junk food. I still have another bag... and a long day ahead of me.

I have things going on in my life... BIG things... not really wanting to go too into them here though. I can say that they're doing me good. I can say that I've been having a lot of good days... and that I am beyond grateful for that. I've had more than my share of bad days. When the good ones happen, there's a part of me that fears... that can't quite get to the point of believing that it's real... or that it will last... but despite that, I appreciate them.

It's a reality I've come to know in life... The price you pay for getting everything you've always wanted, is the fear of losing it.

~Yapping

I spent the last 5 years posting on, and running, online bulletin/message boards. Day after day I'd post, and bear my heart, my soul, my head, my thoughts, and my goddamned genitals... and day after day I'd have to explain myself over and over and over again.

I started a blog thinking (stupid me) that it was like an online diary... that I could write and just pass out the link to people I knew.
oops

I'm ok blogging now. I think that it's cool that people read what I write, and that some even comment about what I write. I won't go back to BB/message board mode though. I'm not going to argue my point, defend my words, or translate what I'm saying into 100 different forms of English so that everyone "gets my point".

I just want to write... express myself... maybe tell a few stories about my life... post a few poems. If people get anything out of what I write, I'm glad. That makes me feel very good. I'm not going to turn my blog into a message board though. I'm not looking for community, I'm just looking to run my yap.