rachel

New Journal...

Tue, 01 Apr 2003 13:49:51 GMT

The main reason that I haven't written in this journal is that I find my username to be humilating, essentially because I have worked so hard to enhance my writing skills.

So I got a new name.

_despondency

It is friends only, and will most likely be used for poetry. But feel free to add me. I

Tue, 11 Mar 2003 06:45:07 GMT

Midnight’s Cry

Silence the crickets
(Or city cars)
The night is still young at rest
The blue sky is distant
Take hold of the stars
Sleep with moon at its crest

Dream now, sweet lady
Let night pass you by
Drift away from your tears
Wrapped dilemma
The night will enfold you
Sleep onto all of your fears

The night time is dodgy
But morning will come
Redeem you with rhythm and grace
Only in dreamland
Will princes come
Dressed in fine velvet and lace

A girl with such beauty
And a radiant glow
Must always remember that face
Of childhood laughter
And childhood woe
Sleep – get away from this place

written last friday...posted on blurty...

Tue, 11 Mar 2003 01:39:30 GMT

I haven’t been writing as often as I’d like to. There is so much I have to say, but just can’t articulate. These past forty-nine hours have been a rollercoaster (whenever you reach the top, you are always bound for the most fearful of falls). Fearful isn’t the correct word. It’s more of a thrill than anything else. He’s a cat with nine lives (although, by now, it’s more like twenty). One might think that suffering would bring a family together. But they don’t drop the catty attitude – not even in ICU! Apparently, she plans on leaving him once this whole ordeal is done with. But can you honestly imagine my mom, the perfect New York psychologist, divorcing? My life should be skyrocketing by now. I’ve been ~~not-so-~~secretly praying that they would both learn to get on with their lives for years. Divorce has always outweighed the other options. I’ve already lost a ‘dad’ anyway.

What is he anyway? My all medical terms, alive. But I no longer see a man capable of embracing life. It’s a hopeless case. I’ve been watching him for the past three years. Each surgery leaves him even more lifeless than before. Purphaps the most disturbing realization is that so many others deal with this everyday. I’ve always had everything – the perfect upper-middle class New York lifestyle. I’m use to perfection. I’m almost thankful that something went wrong. No more miss pretty for you, miss.

Look at yourself - just over one-hundred, but still continuing to starve. You know perfectly well that three-hundred calories just doesn’t cut it. Mom knows you smoke – daily, in fact. The world around you is a mess, but you have to go fuck it up even more. Will you ever outgrow this childish behavior? Will you ever drop the angst and begin to actually write - poems and fiction, for that matter? An ode to your own self is nothing. There is so much potential even you know you have. I deleted my old dj because I could no longer stand to look back at my own stupidity. Some memories are best left unsaid. Will this journal be genuine?

in case you can't tell, im posting old entries...

Tue, 04 Mar 2003 04:58:41 GMT

Welcome to a world of delusion. Please enjoy your stay.

What is crazy? Sometimes it’s all too common – a girl who runs downstairs in pea –coat, focusing on every step, yet no longer fearful to fall. You wish that there was somebody there to guild you, telling you that the bad guy is behind that golden door. But this time you’re the enemy. It’s all too easy to fall. The hard part is getting back where you belong.

I’m not the same girl I was a week ago; you can thank time for the difference. I accepted Lindsey’s Ambien. I’ll pretty much take anything that puts me to sleep. I’ve been puking myself into bouts of pure insanity. My dad’s stuck in the hospital (again), but did I care to visit? No. A chemical fixture is much more appealing when you’re feeling walking around completely despondent. ~~I don’t want to talk, but you’re still here to listen.~~ Joy. Not even a touch will get me going. Action use to fill the void inside, but lately that gapping hole is the only form of a constant I carry with me. “My mind is, to use a disgustingly obvious simile, like a wastebasket full of wastepaper, bits of hair, and rotting apple cores” Right. I’ve turned into a cliché for teenage cynicism. I’m doing horrible things to my body, but, for some reason, I just can’t get myself to care. Is there such a thing as a chronic sadness? Am I paranoid, jaded, or just plain bored?

Today is my three month anniversary of sobriety. Am I proud? No. I’d do it again, if given the chance. I like loosing control for a while, knowing that everything I say or do won’t be judged. After all, you can’t possibly expect honesty from a drunken slut. So for a couple of hours, I can take off the mask and loose control.

Today’s weight = 102 pounds.
Short term goal = 99 pounds.
Long term goal = 91 pounds.

And that’s my life in a nutshell. Please exit to your rear.

a poem from january

Mon, 03 Mar 2003 22:01:54 GMT

(I hate gatherings.
They make me ill.)

Your every motion foreshadows the outcome
To an unknown destination
You wear your pride like an unimportant accessory
And throw yourself around like a casual sack

Each day in the country continues to extend to restless nights
And each hour ticks away at your maturity
You sleep to escape the endless decay
And awake to smirks in the kitchen.

It’s the informal dinner parties that sicken you
A gathering with the lowest form of nourishment
It’s your uncle on the right who clearly illustrates
His plans for a new sundeck on his fifteen acre farm

It is when the deserts are cleared
That they will question your morality
Your security
And your identity
They will criticize your every flaw
Until you rush back to the car, desperate to escape
And await a predictable collapse

(I hate falsities.
They make me ill.)

Mon, 03 Mar 2003 18:26:21 GMT

Writers build illusions. They are masters of the stage, the ultimate Gods and creators. We fear them - nobody wants their emotions roused by another man’s literary intention. But misery loves company. If I can get another to step inside, to justify this vile existence, by God, it will work out okay.

For now, I have a single goal. And each day brings me closer…

once again, ive resorted to blurty...

Mon, 03 Mar 2003 18:19:09 GMT

I haven’t written a real entry for days. Everything I had before managed to get deleted. It’s the minor things in life that always bring me down.

Tonight I am ugly. Not just imperfect, but hideously unattractive. I’ve lost faith in my ability to attract members of the opposite sex. It’s been so long since I’ve been with a man. I find myself slowly becoming the girl of my nightmares. Welcome the girl who conforms to society. I was raised in a world of fantasy, believing the authors at Seventeen magazine’s high school perspectives. I’ve stayed blind for so long, living a stereotype. But everything – the colossal waves of anger, hunger, oblivion and greed, the ways of human kind – has been put before my eyes. I use to dream of prom night. I said that was the night when I would loose it all. But I guess that reality is what you make of it. I scare myself sometimes…

They tell us the only way to truly understand is to walk in another man’s shoes. In that case, these boots were made for walking. I’ve always been so quick to let people into my life. But lately I’ve lost all trust. I’ve learned that people subconsciously feed off of misfortune. They learn from your mistakes, while your wisdom leaves you left to wither. Once somebody has walked down a self-destructive path, the trail is automatically marked as a dead end. Two people live out a competition, because only one will get the help they deserve.

The other is simply dismissed as a nothing.

I feel pushed to my limits to expand my disease. I’m beginning to refer to myself as an anorectic – an anorectic with nothing to show. So many share this god-awful diseases, and I wonder, what makes me any different? I’ve been told that I’m sick – but sick with what? My BMI is still 21, placing me in the ‘normal’ weight category. My hair remains intact, my vital signs are stable. I look at the real eating disordered woman, and become ashamed.

I’m beginning to understand dread. It comes from a vague core within yourself – implanted in your bones, running through your blood. All those years are finally boiling down to anxious days and restless nights. If fear was a drug, I’d be long gone by now. Sometimes I wonder if people can see it. Look deep in my eyes; you know what you’ll find. Or are we just too scared to care?

5 minute poetry

Mon, 17 Feb 2003 23:48:42 GMT

“Perhaps”, said the author, peaking through the Plexiglas screen,
“I’ll remain justified
Through just another sonnet
An ode to the shortcomings of spring”
And how she’d laugh at the disjointed words
Aligned on the typewriter’s rusty screen
The vanilla moon shined over her shoulder
As she fell straight into the April myth
Washing the rain with her fingertips
And bringing light to each reader she pleased

i hate this journal so much. i need another code. or else ill just stay on dj. either or. :-D!

Fri, 14 Feb 2003 18:42:25 GMT

Everything in these entries is written more and more for me rather than other people. I don’t know why I am still keeping a deadjournal. Sometimes I get tired of exposing myself to the world. But writing is a constant, something to keep me grounded. I remember in eighth grade, when I reached 100 pounds, promising myself to help others with the same illness. I now know how childish, how naive, that dream was. What can an 87-pounder say? I haven’t suffered enough. Or maybe I never really suffered at all.

Through the wind and the rain she stands hard as a stone,
In a world that she can't rise above,
But her dreams give her wings and she flies to a place where she's loved,
Concrete angel

Yes, I’m obsessed with a country song.

This long weekend is going to be hell. I’m being rushed up to ct. the moment school is over to avoid a potential terrorist attack. I hate it when they watch me. I’m scared of abandonment, but their love is even scarier. I live with a two headed women who switches at the drop of the hat. Is she bipolar? Who knows? I’m sick of diagnoses. I’ve dealt with so many – from obsessive, to borderline to straight out depression. It’s no doubt that I have characteristics of all of them. But so does everybody. I’m not perfect – who is? I don’t know. I get sick of living by my own standards. If only I could wish upon a star and change…

Despite feeling incredibly ugly, I am in an unusually good mood. It’s Valentine’s Day, of course, and I’m loveless. But I somehow know that it’s okay. I have a few fake ‘Valentines’ whom have made my day. People are dressed in so much color (as opposed to my outfit – black and gray). There’s lots of lovage all around. This is the first time I’ve ever felt accepted – like I’m actually a part of something. The people here like me for who I am. My parent’s have decided to re-sign the contract, which is just wonderful in my mind. Next year I’ll join some team and do more dances. I will find some way to stay far away from family.

There is no pain you are receding
A distant ship smoke on the horizon.
You are only coming through in waves.
Your lips move but I can't hear what you're saying.
When I was a child I had a fever
My hands felt just like two balloons.
Now I've got that feeling once again
I can't explain you would not understand
This is not how I am.
I have become comfortably numb.

if you w ant to keep track of my entries, join dj or blurty. but i plan on deleting this thing.

Tue, 11 Feb 2003 17:26:20 GMT

“The reason I haven’t been writing in this book for so long is partly that I haven’t had one decent coherent thought to put down. My mind is, to use a disgustingly obvious simile, like a wastebasket full of wastepaper, bits of hair, and rotting apple cores. I am feeling depressed from being exposed to so many lives, so many of them exciting, new to my realm of experience…”

- Sylvia Plath

I may never be happy, but there was a time I felt content. But what do I know of sorrow? I’ve been blessed with a brain and attractive exterior. I’ve always been the one with potential. But potential just doesn’t do it anymore. I’m jealous of those who write better, are more attractive, and just live better than I. I’m sick of living in a world of gray. But every time I start to recover, it comes back stronger than before. Sometimes life gets so incoherent that you’d do anything to bring yourself back to a state of clarity.

…And there’s my life. Summed up in one disjointed paragraph.

Wed, 11 Dec 2002 15:00:11 GMT

The glow in his eyes was enticing. Perhaps it was all a figment of my imagination, but, for just an instant, I had regained my sexual appeal.

I have become my own vixen.

Life is no longer ‘mediocre’ or ‘ordinary’. My mom spent half the session with him discussing my current mood stabilization. Is a stable life really supposed to be so…vapid? Everything just seems so bland and alike. Poetry has lost its beauty. I keep sitting down to write in my journal(s), only to find that I have no source of inspiration. But worst of all is the music. Every song has lost its appeal. Every lyric is disgustingly cheesy.

I’m scared of anything and everything around me. I went through half a matchbox trying to light one candle. I’m convinced that those diet pills and cigarettes are slowly causing me to wither.

I guess that things are for the better. I’m feeling pretty self-confident. I’m actually pleased by the mirror’s reflection. But…something isn’t right. Can good things last? Can I let them last?

A man I know from my synagogue was beaten to death in Argentina yesterday.

I would like to give a big thank you to Tif. She knows why.

Fri, 22 Nov 2002 04:03:11 GMT

People ask me how I got here. They are really just asking if they are bound to get here themselves. All I can tell them is that it's simple. Once you begin to slip, you're glidding an endless sprial of insanity.

I use to dread weekends because they involved the country. Lonelyness. My parents would fight, sleep, eat...and no matter who was with me, I'd always just be on my own. I'd stare into that same goddamned mirror, crying.

It didn't start off as a weighty issue. I was just...aware. I felt healthy. I felt free. I lost my grip. I was completely helpless. 99, 95, 87...~~WHERE DO YOU THINK THESE SCARS CAME FROM~~.

Haven't I taught you anything, love? You've seen my body...you've seen the cuts and the bruises and the scratches. ~~I wore capris today - don't you NOTICE.~~ I've showed you the pictures of a walking skeleton. Have I been stripped of all identity for no reason?

I've already wasted four years. And this horror will last until my final days. A disorder is an intangible scar. I suffer, and I learn. But here you go...it's a fad! You can excape, school can be a haven! I want to go with you, I want to battle against this flesh. I can't.

I took off all my bracellets and saw my wrists for the first time in months. My wrists were once my sucess. People would comment on how tiny they were. If I concentrate and look closly enough, i can tell that they are still the same. The only thing that puts me back into reality are scars. Thank goodness for scars.

And here. I just wasted half an hour of valuable work time as a precautious warning. Will you ~~still~~ ignore my call?

you know im dying here. but you choose to touch upon these topics. im not like you...my missery does't want your company!

~~fuckers.~~

Sun, 17 Nov 2002 06:12:22 GMT

There is so much that I will never be. I glance in the mirror, to find a child?s idle refection staring me in the eye. As I stand there and wait for my features to reappear, I begin to realize that the void steals my identity. I?ve stood here through it all. That same glass has seen the Rachel of all shapes and sizes. The 87-pound skeleton still exists, but behind a mask of scars. But demons always find ways to return to their original form. My eyes are dreadfully dreary. I wish I could say I felt apathetic, but instead i'm just empty. I want to hide beneath my bed sheets and never re-awaken. I know that tomorrow is just another burden of work and loneliness. Tomorrow is always just another day?

wow, i keep on forgetting to update this thingy...lj IS better than dj...

Tue, 12 Nov 2002 04:54:38 GMT

They haunt us

Their shadows wither to the sky
The grey dimensions of what’s to never come

Their emancipated and plump
Throughout their suspended hunger-battle
The reminders of endless future dreams

Their battle is tireless
For the thin people do not relinquish
Their heartless desires from empty souls

They haunt us

With their silver lies-
What flesh angels we see!
Atrophy– an outline of inspiration!

Fading into the dusk
On the shores where Venus lay
Our ghosts remain beside us

The reassurance of a soul…

Fri, 25 Oct 2002 21:39:10 GMT

'ethical foundations' today was really spifty.

teacher - some people are taller than others. others have different shoe sizes. girls all have different lengthed va...
maya- OKAY, THATS ENOUGH!

my daddy just called me. he apparently started having chest pains and just admitted himself to the hospital. he couldnt make a long distance call to my mom. I just called her at the manicure place...

i feel kind of bad. i'm too calm about this all. i was typing this entry while on the phone with him. last words - i love you very much.

mom just came home. her nails are still wet. she keeps telling me that she 'had a feeling something was wrong'. she just left to go visit him.

i think im beggining to understand what emily means/meant about not wanting pity.

i feel pretty optimisitc about this situation...

its strange, thinks have changed so much in the fifteen minutes ive been writing in here. ive heard from my dad three times. and my mom twice. and to think, when i clicked on 'write entry', i had no clue that any of this was happening...

we had to weigh ourselves in 'newtons' during physics. tres depressing. brought me down for a few hours.

my mom just called again. shezz...

im pretty calm right now. i just...dont feel like babysitting. bleh.

Thu, 24 Oct 2002 21:51:13 GMT

In your endless summer night
I'll be on the other side
When you're beautiful and dying
All the world that you've denied
When the water is too deep
You can close your eyes and really sleep tonight
Your beauty blinds

xxx

I miss the summer so much already. Not the whole I'm-at-camp-and-being-insanely-horny summer that certain people are always bragging about in school, but the 'summer' summer. you know - the perpetual sunlight. the comfort generated from the sun. I was looking through the pictures I posted- I looked good this summer. I was tan, I was stress-less. I was indepentant. My eyeliner would constantly run because of the heat, giving me this whole spooky glow. I think back to the nights I took those photos - I was so free. I remember going to the 'fair' thing with Liz and Krissi. In all reality, just eating icecream and pizza by a church. Something I have yet to do again.

...i had you

Winter is a bitter reality.

Winter equals endless physical pain. My lips have already began to swell up. It hurts to sing or smile. My body is blowing up. No matter how long I spend getting dressed in the morning, something is always out of place. I'm just...bleh. And...I know it only gets worse from that.

One of the reasons I love Hole so much is that they are always using these metaphores for childhood and redeption. ~~crash and burn...rose white, rose red...void~~ I spent the entire summer and my innocence wallowing in self-pity. But...at least I did it freely.

I hate so many people right now. I've began posting on the AOL Punk board - the people there are so much less pretenious than the goth boarders. The regular coffin-dodgers will get into these huge arugements over the influences of a band, or off thier correct classification (along the lines of synth-pop vs. gloom-glam-rock). I hate a few certain students who, for privacy's sake, shall remain nameless. It's always stabbing me in the back. Do you know how much it hurts?

I'm sick of being told to do my schoolwork. I'm sick of living my life on edge. I'm sick of coming home straight after school because im petrifyed i will get an F. I'm sick of ranting out my life to complete strangers. I'm sick of pretending these awful 'entries' make any sence at all. I'm sick of wasting these nights for fear of the morning.

I'm sick of fear.

my class writing...

Sat, 19 Oct 2002 02:11:28 GMT

i guess its much better here. reality is blurred, but im still alive. the dark cloud is now just a silver lining, and i can feel my own reflection. i have a constant headache, but there is no need to release the pain. ~~some people weren't meant for normality. they have thier own sence of originality that clashes with that of any culture.~~. I will never be goregous, and i will never be hidious. i am my own breed. when i look in the mirror, i no longer see a bulges or bloating. im not ugly - im seperated and can't be judged by yoru society.

Everything is very small. I have child’s face and body. I look down and don’t see flesh. I only relate to my bones. My eyes are ex-rays! I can crawl back inside the skin and lie in fetal position. My thick curly hair is now fragile and fair. My breasts and hips diminish, I have taken upon the role of an eight year old. I’m liberated. I can no longer read or write. Words like ‘pretentious’ are out of my range. Maybe, for just this instance, I have turned over a new leaf. I guess I can just smile, sit back, and enjoy god’s gift. But I need to analyze all the happenings. Writers are like drunks – they write what ever is on their mind without any conciteration to its effects. A writer’s phylosophies are always correct, there realizations are brilliant. I can release myself through imaginary and fabricated characters. Writing leaves me bear, cold and lonely, stripped of privacy and, at times, emotion. Writing leaves me free.

old entries

Sun, 13 Oct 2002 15:03:50 GMT

Went out with Lindsey, Samantha and Dillion (lindsey's friend). Together we smoked two joints (bleh, i was careful) by the East River...which was beautiful. I was somewhat tempted to just jump in and go for a swim...im such a loser. i accedently burned my finger. Which, of course, hurt like hell. Lindsey went back to her house to get her ciggerettes (to increase the buzz). Bleh, i rarely smoke and don't do pot. We ate at this cool place with dip n dots and mini-burgers. The mini veggie burger ruled. We rented Girl, Interrupted. <333!
I had a shot, which probably wasnt very smart. *sigh*

I loved how i was all knowelageble about the movie and mental disorders. i kept on explaining why everything was happening...

On the way to FDR drive, Samantha told me that I worked harder than anybody she knew. Or something to that extent. ~~that if i was a genius, id be in college or something~~. that really made me feel great. I hate my reputation as a slacker...

Holy shit, my computer just dropped. And the hedges broke. I'm so fucking screwed.

--------------
the doctor just called to see how my dad was doing. i stayed on the phone because he always finds ways to lie to the doctors. or he just forgets. anyway, the doctor asked if he has been back in the hosptial since last December. He told them he hadn't - that he was perfectly fine. I had to interupt and tell the doctor that he had last been in the hospital on July 19th. I only remembered that because it was the day after MTC ended. *sigh* He's not always responcable for himself. He keeps old food in the fridge and will land up making roted eggs for me unless i make him check the date (or throw out the food without him looking). I dont know...i dont really mind any of that. It makes me feel important or something.

-------

It feels like its been an eternity since I wrote one of my long ranting entries. I've been so busy lately - school, homework, ~~dance, bass, guitar~~, and just keeping my sanity. everything exhausts me to the point where i have to work to let out one last breath. but again and again...those endings transphorm into new begginings. my morals are slowly slipping away, and im loosing my ~~stable~~ ground. i have lost touch with reality. ordanary tasks are perpetual chores. ~~just reading my friends list drives me up the wall~~.

Chorolab should mean hell in Italin. They like to tell me I'm talented. But the steps are so forrigen and my body remains stiff. ~~When I saw Evan's audition piece, I was close to tears~~. A home - a mirror, spandex - a vitality. My personal dream has always been to chorograph. ~~stevie nicks- edge of seventeen, radiohead- creep, the cruxshadows - deception, hole - gold dust woman, nin - la mer~~. But just the thought of me teaching a class is disturbing. Imagine -one two three, one two three -NO, FUCKER, YOU GOT THE MOVEMENT WRONG...one two three, one two three...and yeah, thats it. go improve now...

You are becoming complicated, and I am no longer alone. ~~Insanity is a one woman world!~~. There is only so much chaos for the both of us, and when neive children take our visions, we start to fade away. rot or die - what are we now? ashes to ashes, dust to dust ~~my hate for you defines my lust~~ I have nothing left to fear but fear itself (or fear of insanity). Make me clean, make me clean! I'm already so innocent, so untouched by the world. You have created a manmade shelter to hide me from this world, but eventually i will be forced out of this cage. This santuary.

I am content. Things have never</b> been better. I have friends, people are complementing me! I am smart, dammit! I love this...i love everything. But...what do i really want?

I really should stop writing in here. It just makes things worse.

------

http://www.eatingdisorders-toledo.com/cgi-bin/Results.cfm?Score=38&Q=Yes&BMIResult=24

i took the eating disorder test and got a 38. which means that i have an eating disorder and need to seek conseling. i didn't take a quiz to figure that out...

its strange, cause i dont look at all ed...

girl interrupted. dispite this writing, im actually in another good mood. please comment.

Tue, 08 Oct 2002 14:50:19 GMT

An except from Girl, Interrupted, by Susanna Kaysen

Velocity vs. Viscosity

Insanity comes in two basic varieties: slow and fast.

I'm not talking about onset or duration. I mean the quality of the insanity, the day-to-day business of being nuts.

There are a lot of names: depression, catatonia, mania, anxiety, agitation. They don't tell you much.

The predominant quality of the slow form is viscosity.

Experience is thick. Perceptions are thickened and dulled. Time is slow, dripping slowly through the clogged filter of thickened perception. The body temperature is low. The pulse is sluggish. The immune system is half-asleep. The organism is torpid and brackish. Even the reflexes are di-minished, as if the lower leg couldn't be bothered to jerk itself out of its stupor when the knee is tapped.

Viscosity occurs on a cellular level. And so does velocity.

In contrast to viscosity's cellular coma, velocity endows every platelet and muscle fiber with a mind of its own, a means of knowing and commenting on its own behavior. There is too much perception, and beyond the plethora of perceptions, a plethora of thoughts about the perceptions and about the fact of having perceptions. Digestion could kill you! What I mean is the unceasing awareness of the processes of digestion could exhaust you to death. And digestion is just an involuntary sideline to thinking, which is where the real trouble begins.

Take a thought--anything1 it doesn't matter. I'm tired of sitting here in front of the nursing station: a perfectly rea-sonable thought. Here's what velocity does to it.

First, break down the sentence: I'm tired--well, are you really tired, exactly? Is that like sleepy? You have to check all your body parts for sleepiness, and while you're doing that, there's a bombardment of images of sleepiness, along these lines: head falling onto pillow, head hitting pillow, Wynken, Blynken, and Nod, Little Nemo rubbing sleep from his eyes, a sea monster. Uh-oh, a sea monster. If you're lucky, you can avoid the sea monster and stick with sleep-iness. Back to the pillow, memories of having mumps at age five, sensation of swollen cheeks on pillows and pain on salivation--stop. Go back to sleepiness.

But the salivation notion is too alluring, and now there's an excursion into the mouth. You've been here before and it's bad. It's the tongue: Once you think of the tongue it becomes an intrusion. Why is the tongue so large? Why is it scratchy on the sides? Is that a vitamin deficiency? Could you remove the tongue? Wouldn't your mouth be less both-ersome without it? There'd be more room in there. The tongue, now, every cell of the tongue, is enormous. It's a vast foreign object in your mouth.

Trying to diminish the size of your tongue, you focus your attention on its components: tip, smooth, back, bumpy, sides, scratchy, as noted earlier (vitamin defi-ciency), roots--trouble. There are roots to the tongue. You've seen them, and if you put your finger in your mouth you can feel them, but you can't feel them with the tongue. It's a paradox.

Paradox. The tortoise and the hare. Achilles and the what? The tortoise? The tendon? The tongue?
Back to tongue. While you weren't thinking of it, it got a little smaller. But thinking of it makes it big again. Why is it scratchy on the sides? Is that a vitamin deficiency? You've thought these thoughts already, but now these thoughts have been stuck onto your tongue. They adhere to the existence of your tongue.

All of that took less than a minute, and there's still the rest of the sentence to figure out. And all you wanted, really, was to decide whether or not to stand up.

Viscosity and velocity are opposites, yet they can look the same. Viscosity causes the stillness of disinclination, velocity causes the stillness of fascination. An observer can't tell if a person is silent and still because inner life has stalled or because inner life is transfixingly busy.

Something common to both is repetitive thought. Expe-riences seem prerecorded, stylized. Particular patterns of thought get attached to particular movements or activities, and before you know it, it's impossible to approach that movement or activity without dislodging an avalanche of prethought thoughts.

A lethargic avalanche of synthetic thought can take days to fall. Part of the mute paralysis of viscosity comes from knowing every detail of what's ahead and having to wait for its arrival. Here comes the I'm-no-good thought. That takes care of today. All day the insistent dripping of I'm no good. The next thought, the next day, is I'm the Angel of Death. This thought has a glittering expanse of panic behind it, which is unreachable. Viscosity flattens the effervescence of panic.

These thoughts have no meaning. They are idiot mantras that exist in a prearranged cycle: I'm no good, I'm the Angel of Death, I'm stupid, I can't do anything. Thinking the first thought triggers the whole circuit. It's like the flu: first a sore throat, then, inevitably, a stuffy nose and a cough.

Once, these thoughts must have had a meaning. They must have meant what they said. But repetition has blunted them. They have become background music, a Muzak med-ley of self-hatred themes.

Which is worse, overload or underload? Luckily, I never had to choose. One or the other would assert itself, rush or dribble through me, and pass on.

Pass on to where? Back into my cells to lurk like a virus waiting for the next opportunity? Out into the ether of the world to wait for the circumstances that would provoke its reappearance? Endogenous or exogenous, nature or nur-ture--it's the great mystery of mental illness.

I first read Girl, Interrupted in the seventh grade. I remember those chills down my spine when I first saw the commercials for the movie. I needed it to be real. I knew that I must relate to the story- it was my duty to relate. I half-forced myself to make it into my favorite movie. When I read the book, I tried to convince myself that I shared many of the same experiences. That I understood. But I couldn’t fool myself – her writing was beyond my range. For the first time, this chapter has just began to make sense. Madness does come in two different forms, and I have experienced both. Mental disorders can be classified into both categories. Velocity – anxiety disorders, schizophrenia, obsessive compulsive, over-analysis, or just plain hyper-activity. On any given day, I will find myself paralyzed by an over-active brain. And I cannot escape! Chris says I should just stop thinking all together, that it drives me insane. I agree. Any normal task becomes a question of philosophy – completing an assignment. I will need a pencil. How many times must I sharpen it? How long will it take? I use my mom’s electric sharpener – what is it made of? Razors? Plastic? Could a sharpener cut your skin if placed at just the right angle? Imagine- your parents finding you on the floor, cause of death – a sharpener. An accident – the sharpener broke while your delicate wrist was pressed against the plastic sides. A conquicedence or fate? And plastic – how long has plastic been around anyway? My chemistry teacher once told me that plastic is one of the few completely artificial materials. But wait- what teacher was it? How does she know? Did she read it in a student textbook? Who actually wrote the primary source? I am way too creative for my own good. The thoughts just continue, and a simple math problem can take an hour. And as I tell you – I’m always working. Just distracted by my own insanity. Only a true genius can specialize in velocities’ unique form of madness. An average person is not capable of thinking such thoughts. Which is why I am so damn narrasitic.

And viscosity – depression, cationic woman etc. The oncome is slow, like the disease, yet powerful. A numb form of pain – like a knife with no sensation, being thrusted in and out of your soul. I can no longer walk, talk or feel. I’d get up and discover a way to release the pain – but I am paralyzed in my chair. Somebody sends me an instant message – I type, but cannot feel my fingers. Or my forearms. My forearms always go numb in times of need. They are light and disconnected – given any normal circumstances, they would be floating to the sky. But this is not a typical situation – I am not your typical female. All the lighting becomes different awkward shades to cover up the now-perpetual darkness. It’s as though somebody toned down the sun light, or turned a volume down, changing all noises into a unusual brand of silence. The world becomes dull, but there is no way to end it.

Bipolar – purphaps that’s the correct diagnosis. I’m constantly switching off between the two extremes that, like Susanna Kaysen wrote, have all the same symptoms. So I no longer randomly fall on the floor in uncontrollable laughter, sounding more like a doctor evil panic attack. ~~but wait that happened yesterday. Shit~~ The bipolar attacks are internal and invisible to the human eye. Which might just be the reason why I am compelled to share them with everybody. Especially over the internet. What they don’t realize is that I don’t want help, just…compassion? I don’t really know what I want. I enjoy insanity – it gives me an edge. I should really stop.

I was excited that a mild form hit me again last night.

Sat, 05 Oct 2002 18:59:51 GMT

So yeah, I haven't updated lj for a while. More like a couple of days. I have, of course, been posting pretty much everything i feel on deadjournal. and i often just get to lazy to re-write it here.

Emily's father died yesterday. Emily - the person who you would least expect. He died the same exact way my dad was suppose to this year- same hospital, same everything. I spent my night crying with her. And, for those of you who dont know, it's so rare for me to actually cry. I was suppose to be me, ~~it should have been me~~. I depend on Em so fucking much. If it wasn't for her, i would have never gotten myself the help i needed. She was the one who forced me to tell my phycologist about the whole cutting-ordeal. Delicate cutting. In retrospect, i think it was more about anger and attention. I was so fucking mad about having to go through another ana meeting.

But back to emily. I don't want this to happen to her. I don't want change- i cant take change. i just want her to live a content. she's the 'peachy perfect' one. i cant let HER fall apart too.

a lot of people are using me as an interperator to find out what happened to her dad. apparently, its gone around the school by now. and they all know that im 'her other half'. last year, were were known as the during and after high - she was constantly a 'during high' because she was so hyper, and i was constantly an 'after' because i was so crazy and imaginative yet exhausted and slow. there was a rumour that we were dating...it was great. shes my 'insexually active lesbain lover'. she is one of the best friends i have ever known, and i love her so fucking much.

i dont know what else to say. i got into a BIG fight with nikoma, which i posted privatly under dj. He imed me and asked 'whats'up'. I almost killed him - my best friend's father just died, and you know that perfectly well - what do you think is up. We fought for a while. He said that he had just woken up, that he was high when i told him or something. That the death is all relitive. He called me a 'poser nark'. I love how all "punks" think that poser is the ultimate diss. They use it with no context - "dude, i hate that artsy kid's ass, he's such a poser". A poser for what, being creative? It's like those kids who call random people fags - BUT THEY ARENT GAY! i dotn know, im ranting again.

*sigh*

it been another really hard week. i have work to do but i cant concentrate. ive been crying a lot. its just not fair.

Tue, 01 Oct 2002 12:52:11 GMT

molly got mad at me last night for complaining about my weight. (for those who dont know, i had another breakdown about hitting 120 pounds).i dont know exactly why i did that to her. i hate it when people complain to me about such silly problems. but being thin just means so much to me. the past means so much to me.

i didn't eat breakfast this morning. my mom, however, had me take a sip of juice. id overestimating - 50 calories. purphaps i will go on an all liquid diet. i use to live off of diet coke. that will work, right?

i think sam murko might have overlooked me writing in this journal, because he asked why the fuck i would read other people's diaries. *sigh* but i no longer really care if people know about this journal, im too emotionally exhausted to hide it. i spent so much time getting dressed this morning, finding something that didn't make me look bloated. i am so jelious of lindsey, who gets all the guys. i dont even like most guys, i find men in general to be hideious. but. yea, whatever.

in my dream, tif from mtc came to visit me. apparently she got some job as a radio jock. we hung out, and i realized how much i missed her. *sigh* id like to think that tif saved my life this summer, that she saved me from doing something that i would !really! regret. but i know that, even if it wasn't for her, id still be alive. i dont have the guts to actually harm myself. i love myself way too much for that. *le sigh*

in my dream, i was also kissing some other person. i dont remember who. but the kiss was more like a power struggle, we were strangling each other. ~~every dream kiss i have ever had is like this~~. i spend the whole time keeping a watch for my parents.

i dont know what any of this is suppose to mean.

mtc people - i miss you a lot.

i got a blister from touching everything i see, the abyss opens up, it steals everything from me

~~i need you tonight~~

ive been writing in here a lot more often lately...

Sun, 29 Sep 2002 23:15:46 GMT

what do you feel when at rest? exhausted? content? plesant? purphaps im just one of those people whos basis is meloncolia. purphaps any other feeling is just a cover for what lies bellow. when there is nothing to contemplate, everything just goes back to silence. i couldn't expect for that good mood to actually last...evenutally it, like all things, fades away. and im stuck in this state, wanting to cry, trying to cry...unable to cry. or excape. and im stuck with the opinions for an instant uplifter. a bubble bath...all these baths are eventually going to crinkle my skin into one giant rasin - tecture that wont go away. gym...no im lazy, plus i dont want to let others see me this way. drugs, sex, alcohol...so overrated. i guess some would call me sXe...~~although i dont completely fit the profile~~. Cutting and burning myself is all too cliche. Plus, I still have that nieve reaction of disgust towards sterotypical problems. I have close to zero tolerence towards ignorence, however i am the most shallow of them all.

It's true, I really do love myself. I am a perfectionist, and I believe that I am worthy of some superior destiny. At Rodeph they once told us that some Mishna says that there are thirty-something people on this world whom none of us could do without. That the world litterally does revolve around them. I was convinced for years that I was one of them. That I was too important and gifted for my peers. I need to think this way, or else I have a severe panic attack. Am I not good enough? Am I still unclean?

I wouldn't call myself depressed. I don't pick apart at my skin. I don't breakdown and cry. I don't attempt suicide on a weekly basis. i'm really a pretty content teenager. I love music, kissing, cheesy magizines, gossip, makeup and making friends. I ski, play guitar, am learning bass. I have made a lot of new friends this year. I can smile, dammit!

I'm just...out of place.

sings i walk the line between good and evil...

Sun, 29 Sep 2002 18:59:41 GMT

have you ever looked in the mirror, and been scared off by your own reflection? i remember one time in second grade, when i was up at my friend's house in the country. i looked at myself in the mirror...and screamed. it was just too much for me. there are times which i think that i am beautiful and worthy, and times that i just want to hide. my hips are giant, and full of fat. no clothing fits me correctly. my one pair of regular jeans are tight and the waste and loose in the thys. They go up way too high, and make me very self-contious. My hips seem to grow overnight...

I am way too self-contious. I wear the same pair of pants almost every day because i feel that they are the only ones that look good on me. im way too pretenious. it's not that i care about material possesions, but i care about my apperence. i need to be the pretty one. i need to get sexual attention from both males and females.

anyway, today im dressed in hippie form, which is a change from the typical hot topic/st. marks shit i usally put on. i went into the *gasp* gap and bought myself some tee-shirts, a few black-like-my-soul ones and a brown "earthy" tee, which i am currently wearing. i feel so awkard in color, im not sure if i like them or not. ive been concitering myself a "perky goth". i like colours, switchblade symphony...all that perky stuff. i enjoy wearing glitter and jumping around to aqua. alien sex fiend rocks. i dont know...

i took my first electric bass lesson...and loved it. it just felt...natural. purphaps i will become bass-obsessed. ~~i seriously doubt it~~

my face is beggining to hurt again. i feel it cracking off. this always happens in the fall. dang-it. i miss mtc. *sigh*

bleh.

for once. an entry that is not filled with suicide.

Sun, 29 Sep 2002 04:03:32 GMT

just another waste of a day. i went to the gym, slept, went online, watched tv and did homework. i spend my night with sarah, who has coconut wrapping paper. her dealer was going to come over, but didn't. im not into the whole drug thing, but coconut scented paper rocks! so yea. we spoke about a lot of personal stuff, and i realized that i must have a knack for smelling suicide.

and yea. thats about it. im not sure if i like my poem bellow. it reminds me too much of sylvia plath. ~~but then again, sylvia plath IS my favorite poet~~.

i have came to the conclution that i fall under the catagory of a perky goth. and that siouxise and the banshees complete rocks my socks.

slyvia plath takes effect

Sat, 28 Sep 2002 17:39:13 GMT

The Virgin Suicide

And the tulips now blossom in autumn
The poppies bloom in the warmth of July
The summer sun only let out a ginger illumination
Don't take a breath, please remain obscure

And my child - stare - she has no scars
Is she lying face on the kitchen floor
is she skitsophernic, or is she just plane absurd
can she laugh or can she cry?

Can she be repaired?
like a blacksmith saves a shoe
Or does his hammer just ram her down?

And you've done it again
One year in every ten
I heard the door slam on the callous hallucination

Bluebird, take my soul
Take me above, into your sky
Let me fly, pure and free
Just don't let me die
Please, don't make me die