Thursday, October 15, 2009
Hah. My sisters are such horrible liars. I know they have a surprise planned for me so I put on more makeup on my damned,
aging face.
Got a haircut & color today- shorter, smoother layers, and the color of iced tea with some ash.
[edit: pic deleted]
I think I'm supposed to be happy, grateful, touched... all that mushy stuff. But my loneliness, shame, dread, and worry overpower the aforementioned with heinous screaming inside my head.
[edit: pic deleted]
Bday with sisters @ The Tasting Room. Perfect place..
Chicago people go there! Thetastingroomchicago.com
aging face.
Got a haircut & color today- shorter, smoother layers, and the color of iced tea with some ash.
[edit: pic deleted]
I think I'm supposed to be happy, grateful, touched... all that mushy stuff. But my loneliness, shame, dread, and worry overpower the aforementioned with heinous screaming inside my head.
[edit: pic deleted]
Bday with sisters @ The Tasting Room. Perfect place..
Chicago people go there! Thetastingroomchicago.com
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Because I’m going to be out of town this weekend to prance around in a costume of powder blue one-piece & pearls in the middle of fucking nowhere on a street called Chaatawatta or something just as Cherokee, I stayed up late drinking Venom and getting some extra work done in advance. That drink looks really intimidating btw, it looks like packaged poison! But they didn’t have the cloyingly sweet yellow Monster I like and I can’t really stand the cough-drop aftertaste of Red Bull. Anyway yea who cares.
Wired, I drifted around 5am, and of course, of course... it’s a surprise independent study day. motherfucker.
As far as NanoWrimo goes, I slept on it for 3.2hrs & decided to go for it. I’d put it away about half-way through last year because the process of writing became rather draining for me, emotionally. I had to compensate by sleeping less and less, even though I was so tired from all the crying, and I looked like a total nightmare. A lot was happening in my life during that time of the year last year and while I was writing this autobiography [I couldn’t think of a separate plot- my mind was way too cluttered and exhausted to create a whole separate fantasy] it felt like I was doing a chapter by chapter analysis of ‘what went wrong’ ‘what happened to me’ etc. A lonesome therapy, a pathetic pity session. Once I realized this, I couldn’t have any of that now could I.
My perspective has changed since then, however.
Instead of looking at my need take time to review my history as self-pity, I want to treat it as a process of checking things off and adding the last closing sentence. With a little more grace. So that even if no one else in the world understands, no one else in the world believes me, at least I’ll be sure that my life was in fact, not a dream. At least I’ll be able to look at myself in the eyes and acknowledge what I believe is true, and support it.
I think I need validation... from myself. I mean what if I died tomorrow without having made peace with this, running from me, running from people? That’s way too sad. As if despair isn’t horrible enough as is.
My novel’s going to be part fiction, part non-fiction; no one will be able to distinguish which is which. It won’t be chronological like last year’s but it’ll be composed of flashbacks, changes in point of view, at times just a script... I think I’ll make a list of events I want to explore but I won’t think ahead on what to write during the 1-2 hour timeframe I set aside to write.
Oh geez. It’s going to such verbal diarrhea. haha.
Wired, I drifted around 5am, and of course, of course... it’s a surprise independent study day. motherfucker.
As far as NanoWrimo goes, I slept on it for 3.2hrs & decided to go for it. I’d put it away about half-way through last year because the process of writing became rather draining for me, emotionally. I had to compensate by sleeping less and less, even though I was so tired from all the crying, and I looked like a total nightmare. A lot was happening in my life during that time of the year last year and while I was writing this autobiography [I couldn’t think of a separate plot- my mind was way too cluttered and exhausted to create a whole separate fantasy] it felt like I was doing a chapter by chapter analysis of ‘what went wrong’ ‘what happened to me’ etc. A lonesome therapy, a pathetic pity session. Once I realized this, I couldn’t have any of that now could I.
My perspective has changed since then, however.
Instead of looking at my need take time to review my history as self-pity, I want to treat it as a process of checking things off and adding the last closing sentence. With a little more grace. So that even if no one else in the world understands, no one else in the world believes me, at least I’ll be sure that my life was in fact, not a dream. At least I’ll be able to look at myself in the eyes and acknowledge what I believe is true, and support it.
I think I need validation... from myself. I mean what if I died tomorrow without having made peace with this, running from me, running from people? That’s way too sad. As if despair isn’t horrible enough as is.
My novel’s going to be part fiction, part non-fiction; no one will be able to distinguish which is which. It won’t be chronological like last year’s but it’ll be composed of flashbacks, changes in point of view, at times just a script... I think I’ll make a list of events I want to explore but I won’t think ahead on what to write during the 1-2 hour timeframe I set aside to write.
Oh geez. It’s going to such verbal diarrhea. haha.
Friday, October 30, 2009.
i sincerely believe that my grandpa is dying of heartbreak.
i was never all that close to him... but the frequent updates i've been getting from my parents of his rapidly deteriorating health is affecting me a lot more than i'd ever anticipated. i'm not sure if it's because i'm emotionally tired of 'accepting the things i cannot change' and riding through multiple surgeries in my immediate family, or because it coincides with the reoccurring motif of death in recent relationships or impending ones, or because this bitch is about to get her period. i. dont. know.
but whatever it is, it's making me ache for the 86 year old man who was out and about just four-five weeks ago, before his girlfriend of two years suddenly passed away. i was in korea for a little over a week, and he was just as i'd remembered him minus a few additional wrinkles... he would get up at 6 every morning, read the bible, have breakfast, dress in clean, ironed clothes, and go out to wherever he was going. the hangout place for elders, bible study/fellowship, the ladyfriend's home...
she was the love of his life, not Grandma.
it's such a huge gamble.
"perishable".
i came across that word when i was sending some home-baked sweets to friends earlier this week
and the word just stuck to me and followed me home.
"perishable".
is that what gives love its significance in people's lives? it's powerful and threatening.
if not love, then people involved in it, people partaking in the ecstasy and agony of playing with that fire, they too are just as finite.
i was never all that close to him... but the frequent updates i've been getting from my parents of his rapidly deteriorating health is affecting me a lot more than i'd ever anticipated. i'm not sure if it's because i'm emotionally tired of 'accepting the things i cannot change' and riding through multiple surgeries in my immediate family, or because it coincides with the reoccurring motif of death in recent relationships or impending ones, or because this bitch is about to get her period. i. dont. know.
but whatever it is, it's making me ache for the 86 year old man who was out and about just four-five weeks ago, before his girlfriend of two years suddenly passed away. i was in korea for a little over a week, and he was just as i'd remembered him minus a few additional wrinkles... he would get up at 6 every morning, read the bible, have breakfast, dress in clean, ironed clothes, and go out to wherever he was going. the hangout place for elders, bible study/fellowship, the ladyfriend's home...
she was the love of his life, not Grandma.
it's such a huge gamble.
"perishable".
i came across that word when i was sending some home-baked sweets to friends earlier this week
and the word just stuck to me and followed me home.
"perishable".
is that what gives love its significance in people's lives? it's powerful and threatening.
if not love, then people involved in it, people partaking in the ecstasy and agony of playing with that fire, they too are just as finite.
Monday, November 9, 2009.
little by little, i now barely manage to distinguish between the seaweed kind of black verses the mars black. the only way to see the difference is to wait it out. i don't have any other option but to be patient and to for different lighting to hit the paint for it to reflect the conniving undertones. unnerving.
then i get tired of waiting, run out of patience, run out of faith! i can't keep my mouth closed in the perfectly controlled,gentle way, and i start leaking things here an there, leaving traces of this.. sewage. it's disgusting. i hate this because i try so damn hard to keep it behind closed doors. there's absolutely nothing glamorous about chronic depression, an eating disorder, or suicidally. nothing about the pain of enduring it on a daily basis nor the terror that descends upon me when nighttime falls. taking antacid after antacid to calm my burning empty stomach because i've already had a slice of low sodium nonfat cheese and a piece of toast for the day, or because i had that meal with that friend and ate a normal amount to both conceal my problem and to satiate my ravenous hunger, my insides are freaking out as a result of the inordinacy. no one would understand how vicious this war is and what it feels like to be at the losing end of it.
it's difficult for me to watch iron chef, or any media with knives/swords because they make me nervous. bloody memories from my childhood come rushing back in the wrong direction and suddenly i find myself choked up and mentally decapitated. it really scares the shit out of me when i can't exhale. i ask myself, am i seriously going to die, like, alone, watching iron chef, reliving a bad moment from the past? bitch please.
it's funny. i look forward to the day that i end it more than anything.
nevertheless, it's still unbelievably frightening. again, no one would understand. thinking of passive/active methods, reviewing past mistakes, predicting success/failure, rehearsing the probable scenario, weighing the consequences, repenting.. sincerely repenting with all of my heart for the effect it'll have on the people in my life that love me... because i'm aware that though it's a selfish end to my own misery, it may only be the beginning for some that don't deserve it.
a horrible person, i am.
i wake up each morning and think- another night passed and kind of feel like i failed at yet another thing just by waking up with the rest of the world. where is the conviction. what the hell is WRONG with me.
____________
i come and go- but i think i always return because i need, or want...to be heard. it's definitely not because i have profound insight- 90% of my entries are rather pointless and full of complaint. and it's not because i need acceptance, or to be understood. just heard. it's not of any importance to me if people read and think i'm yet another fickle, ungrateful chick re-living another fucking puberty, or if i'm being annoying with the incessant whining/self-victimizing bla bla bla- they can simply unsubscribe and stop reading, or have a lot of fun taking a break from mundane work/school and writing a witty entry dedicated to making fun of me for all i care. oh and my paintings suck i know, i have no skill whatsoever, but i post them on my entries anyway- again, to be heard. often, i'm on the floor working fast to blend in the acrylic and altering the original lines in order to cover up the teardrops that have fallen in all the wrong places and formed odd spidery patterns. putting up these ugly pieces is just another way of sharing an experience, nothing less nothing more.
i know exactly five people here, in real life. only one, very very well. so with that distance and semi-anonmity, i'm given this space to share what my life is like, that's all. the courage to write about something i wish no one else has to ever go through. and it simply makes meeee feel better knowing that somebody other than myself & those that i have intimate ties with in real life that i do *not* share this crap with, is listening to me scream of this nightmare without paying a crippling price.
then i get tired of waiting, run out of patience, run out of faith! i can't keep my mouth closed in the perfectly controlled,gentle way, and i start leaking things here an there, leaving traces of this.. sewage. it's disgusting. i hate this because i try so damn hard to keep it behind closed doors. there's absolutely nothing glamorous about chronic depression, an eating disorder, or suicidally. nothing about the pain of enduring it on a daily basis nor the terror that descends upon me when nighttime falls. taking antacid after antacid to calm my burning empty stomach because i've already had a slice of low sodium nonfat cheese and a piece of toast for the day, or because i had that meal with that friend and ate a normal amount to both conceal my problem and to satiate my ravenous hunger, my insides are freaking out as a result of the inordinacy. no one would understand how vicious this war is and what it feels like to be at the losing end of it.
it's difficult for me to watch iron chef, or any media with knives/swords because they make me nervous. bloody memories from my childhood come rushing back in the wrong direction and suddenly i find myself choked up and mentally decapitated. it really scares the shit out of me when i can't exhale. i ask myself, am i seriously going to die, like, alone, watching iron chef, reliving a bad moment from the past? bitch please.
it's funny. i look forward to the day that i end it more than anything.
nevertheless, it's still unbelievably frightening. again, no one would understand. thinking of passive/active methods, reviewing past mistakes, predicting success/failure, rehearsing the probable scenario, weighing the consequences, repenting.. sincerely repenting with all of my heart for the effect it'll have on the people in my life that love me... because i'm aware that though it's a selfish end to my own misery, it may only be the beginning for some that don't deserve it.
a horrible person, i am.
i wake up each morning and think- another night passed and kind of feel like i failed at yet another thing just by waking up with the rest of the world. where is the conviction. what the hell is WRONG with me.
____________
i come and go- but i think i always return because i need, or want...to be heard. it's definitely not because i have profound insight- 90% of my entries are rather pointless and full of complaint. and it's not because i need acceptance, or to be understood. just heard. it's not of any importance to me if people read and think i'm yet another fickle, ungrateful chick re-living another fucking puberty, or if i'm being annoying with the incessant whining/self-victimizing bla bla bla- they can simply unsubscribe and stop reading, or have a lot of fun taking a break from mundane work/school and writing a witty entry dedicated to making fun of me for all i care. oh and my paintings suck i know, i have no skill whatsoever, but i post them on my entries anyway- again, to be heard. often, i'm on the floor working fast to blend in the acrylic and altering the original lines in order to cover up the teardrops that have fallen in all the wrong places and formed odd spidery patterns. putting up these ugly pieces is just another way of sharing an experience, nothing less nothing more.
i know exactly five people here, in real life. only one, very very well. so with that distance and semi-anonmity, i'm given this space to share what my life is like, that's all. the courage to write about something i wish no one else has to ever go through. and it simply makes meeee feel better knowing that somebody other than myself & those that i have intimate ties with in real life that i do *not* share this crap with, is listening to me scream of this nightmare without paying a crippling price.
lynch me if you can.
Sunday, November 15, 2009.
One of my sorority sisters is moving to Beijing for grad school and is most likely getting married to this guy that looks like a dog. He has these droopy kind eyes and a large flat rectangular face. He's a mellow sociable guy with a clear vision of his career path and family life. My sister used to be the pretty one of her year who had a reputation of 'going around', which wasn't true. Now she's evolved into this incredibly strong woman who's fiercely protective of her loved ones and more willing to take risks and test her abilities. And she's happy... really, really happy. She went through a lot when she was younger, but she's alright now and most importantly, has faith in herself.
The past two nights we got together with close friends and acquaintances to celebrate her departure & new path. And the entire time I couldn't help but hold on to my chest to keep the weeping inside, knowing that this is probably going to be the last time I see her.
Scrapped from one of my sisters:
And the day came when the risk to remain tight in the bud was more painful than the risk to blossom.
- Anaïs Nin
It's hard for me to admit that I do have a choice. Well as long as I'm still breathing. My pride, fear, spite, whatever that keeps me here at the bottom of this rotting hell, if I dare want to, I can try and fight again.
It's hard when I let myself put down my foolish guard and I allow myself to see through humble eyes that life can be beautiful, and my life as is right now is full of beautiful people as well. They're not perfect, but I love them whole and believe they deserve fourth, even fifth chances. They're just people. They don't have to be extraordinary with extraordinary lives to deserve happiness.
Yet, I don't understand why I can't internalize this for my own life. I just.. can't. I walk closer and closer to death, losing more body mass by the week with no effort or desire to stop it. This apathy's going to be the end of me.
The past two nights we got together with close friends and acquaintances to celebrate her departure & new path. And the entire time I couldn't help but hold on to my chest to keep the weeping inside, knowing that this is probably going to be the last time I see her.
Scrapped from one of my sisters:
And the day came when the risk to remain tight in the bud was more painful than the risk to blossom.
- Anaïs Nin
It's hard for me to admit that I do have a choice. Well as long as I'm still breathing. My pride, fear, spite, whatever that keeps me here at the bottom of this rotting hell, if I dare want to, I can try and fight again.
It's hard when I let myself put down my foolish guard and I allow myself to see through humble eyes that life can be beautiful, and my life as is right now is full of beautiful people as well. They're not perfect, but I love them whole and believe they deserve fourth, even fifth chances. They're just people. They don't have to be extraordinary with extraordinary lives to deserve happiness.
Yet, I don't understand why I can't internalize this for my own life. I just.. can't. I walk closer and closer to death, losing more body mass by the week with no effort or desire to stop it. This apathy's going to be the end of me.
Monday, November 16, 2009.
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