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Nov. 11th, 2015

my cat roommate

(no subject)

it's only that damn i looked good when i was on the verge of death. maybe i looked to everyone else like i was dying because of some small animal trapped behind my eyes but i didn't see it and i don't still when i look back. my advisor told me when i first came to see her again after my hospitalization that i looked like i was doing better and i didn't understand what that meant, or was it--that i looked like i was thriving? she said? i think i look thriving in these pictures of me being barely more than an animated corpse, maybe because i need to believe it wasn't obvious. or maybe because i am working with a different definition of thriving. i think, well, i was still alive and that was something, wasn't it? a way to thrive is to obstinately still be hanging around.

i don't feel like i have a body so much anymore. i see my body and i think, oh, huh, this again. it's like seeing the same squirrel over and over. a curiosity. in my school library, there's a selection of curio cases full of books of dubious value, and one of them was no one may ever have the same knowledge again, which is a funny kind of museum book to put in a smaller museum. my copy is just in the museum called my closet. i'm just in the museum called my body which is in the museum called our apartment which is in the museum called this town et cetera. do i not feel like i have a body anymore because of the dissolution of my relationship? because it's winter more or less? because i'm not running or anything? because of the endless memories of rape? oh, this again. oh the red-speckled stretchmarks like someone dug his fingers in just moments before. oh, an arm.

each morning, it's a struggle to drink my coffee. it tastes like a solid object.

if i keep feeding myself books, maybe i'll again be obstinately still hanging around, forever and ever. that always used to be the hallmark for me of depression, the dwindling of reading ability, so i gotta keep to it, because if you erase all your symptoms? i forgot to take my pills, oh. maybe one day i won't be on all these pills. that is the goal, i think, with ptsd. it is theoretically one of those things that can be worked through. the pills are a stopgap, a way to let you practice being okay until you actually are. or. did i make that up? i'm afraid to check. i don't know which way i want it.

each morning, i identify for myself the shape of the day. today i am half-asleep. today is nice. today is a bundle of nerves and fear. today, i awoke from thick-throated dreams of visiting melissa, of dancing with darrian like we were both mechanical-legged ballerina dolls, and she asked me, "are you a boy or a girl right now?" and i said, "darrian, i missed you," and some kind of bald man somewhere had somehow cut his nothing into blonde bangs. today, i checked the weather widget on my phone and it said today is green + rain. that sounds real. my head sounds soft. my pillow head knocking around on my shoulders. there's still coffee pooling/cooling in the mug. i still haven't taken the pills. i need to leave in less than twenty minutes. i typed that i need to live in twenty minutes. also true. leaving is entering into aliveness whether wanted or not.

it feels bad, yes. 

Nov. 7th, 2015

left alone with my abandonment issues

(no subject)

I talked to my dad on the phone and now I'm sad in a vague, shadowy way.He had to hang up to figure out where my mom was because they were supposed to be going out and he said, "Hopefully we'll talk again soon," and everything felt far away. I wanted to tell him about the book I'm reading about transhumanism and literature and ethics and Christian understandings of love but I didn't get the chance. I have links open to info about it to post on his Facebook maybe but that feels weird. Distant & fake. I would just mail it to him when I'm done except it's a library book. I should work on making another chapbook and mail him one. I'm always engaged in this desparate apparatus of movements to stop anyone from forgetting about me. Obviously he won't, and yet. I almost never call him because he's almost always busy with work. When I was back home for a little bit this summer, we watched all the Girl with the Dragon Tattoo movies together (the Swedish ones). We still need to watch 2001. Where am I going with this?

I went for a run yesterday and I slipped on wet leaves and gouged my knee on a branch or maybe a rock. I kept running-walking-running-walking with blood oozing down my leg & spreading into a fine red river map in the whorls of my skin. Today I tried to walk to a cafe and got far off course, had to double back and make the little blue dot take me by the hand.

What would I like being? A Private Eye for Hire. A comic book artist and writer. Question mark? Question mark? Question mark? I'm beginning to suspect I don't want to write for television after all and that's terrifying. Thinking I knew I wanted that was kind of an essential guidepost. What will I do? Go to L.A. Become a P.A. Stockpile spec scripts. Work my way up. Now? Question mark? I only want to live by the beach and feel capable of breathing easily. Safety & love & et cetera. I would like to work for a moving company, still, I say over and over, or be a personal assistant? And have time to pursue my lesbian Y.A. author dreams. My dad told me that his work doesn't matter to him. It's the projects that matter, the pursuits of the soul or heart or whatever. The small strangenesses and persistances.

I'm wearing red white & blue. I do that too often without meaning.

Honest to god I am afraid of all of life. In the sequel to deleting Tinder, I deleted the OkCupid app. No need for any of that, please & thank you. I just need to breathe.

Oct. 13th, 2015

every arrow that i aim is true

(no subject)

i deleted tinder from my phone again. i told myself i was going to focus on making my own stuff work out for my own benefit instead of making myself feel beholden to anyone else and i'm not holding true to that when i spend so much time obsessively tryna on my phone. it's not an authentic presentation of self anyway. i'm not really a person who's tryna outside of my head and i'm not a person suited to actively seeking a relationship. it doesn't sit right with me. the world happens and happens and sometimes it happens to you but there are a lot of places and people and things for it to happen to the rest of the time so you just gotta chill. is my very strong feeling that doesn't mean anything at all. but i'm too private a person to be hooking up with strangers, at least in a place as small as this. i can admit that now. anyway i was getting not that many matches because i fundamentally Lack Mass Appeal/am resistant to putting my least offputting face forward. such is. i'm young and alive and every time anyone talks about sex on yik yak i clutch my pearls. i mean, mostly w/r/t the heteros. but they can really put a girl off the idea of ever acknowledging that she has a body. i need to delete yik yak too. checking out on my phone all the time makes me feel sluggish, staticky & poisoned.

Oct. 5th, 2015

protect me from what i want

(no subject)

the self i keep insisting died was never all that real. a two month fever dream in the uncertain summer interstice between high school and college, whipped into a volcanic shape with the promise of newness, new skin, smooth and red, not yet marked with a fingerprint (or a plum-sized hickey, or the acne i tried to burn from my body with garlic like it was unholy). i made her up for nyu. a college student barbie. she had a new body and she had new dreams. probably a new laugh. new burbling feelings. she got played with a couple times and then put back in her box. now here i am. i liked her, but she wasn't a Me. she wasn't sustainable. i've never been a me that didn't cause me pain.

i was not made of mud and cannot dream of returning to dust.

when i read something i like now, i feel myself rupturing, all the parts of me leaking dams. my heartbeat skidding into home. this dull ache circling my skull. there's a lot of movement. a lot of feelings shifting around. i'm trying to build something new, not from mud, not from dust. what from? i don't know. i don't know. my arduino kit. all my words will be muffled like my malfunctioning piezo element. i love always the scene of cameron peeling apart the skin of her forearm like the bloodless unzipping of a dress, and all the wires are there, and each has a designated function defined by what it touches. define me by what i touch. i've been chasing a real solidity for twenty-one years and i haven't caught all the way up to it yet.

Sep. 22nd, 2015

weak and docile

(no subject)

being in this electronics course is making me feel good about myself in an unprecedented way. not that i've so far proven myself to have any natural skill for it, and i am concerned about working with small wires and ports considering the shakiness of my hands, but it's a thing that i am uncontrollably excited about doing.

i just cleaned out my wallet and found an ihop receipt from december.

i'm excited looking at the site i ordered my starter kit from and imagining owning all of these tiny parts and knowing what they are. i like having actual skills. practical skills. acadamia is trying to kill me. not like it's hard, but like it's very much crawling into my chest cavity and diverting blood from my heart into its own amorphous body. i forgot the emotional labor of school. the having to make everything a personal endeavor. for what, exactly? my personal feelings are my personal feelings. they're between me, my therapist, my best friends, my blogs, and my journal. no one else. end scene.

i want to be of use. i want the world to make use of me. good use, positive use, a use where i build. the day of the ihop receipt, i ordered a spicy chorizo omelette for the first time. it was a nice day. i understand why i hung onto the receipt. 

Sep. 14th, 2015

protect me from what i want

(no subject)

after bolting awake at 5:30 a.m. yesterday, today i bolted awake at 4:30 a.m. both times, i was asleep by midnight. both times, the waking was so sudden i didn't know i was awake until i was already sitting up in bed. i downloaded a sleep tracker and it tells me i entered r.e.m. way earlier than all normal sleep cycle graphs say i was supposed to, and then i never returned. there's a lot of light sleep. i forgot to turn the microphone on to see if i made any noise. i hate this. i want something that counts my heartbeats aloud for me. when i try to get back to sleep by doing it myself, i just get angry.

why am i so keyed up lately. why has my whole body been thrumming with a hornet's nest of push and need. nothing is happening. nothing is happening. nothing is happening. nothing is happening. nothing is happening. nothing is happening. nothing is happening. nothing is happening.

should i fill a whole notebook up with those words. will it make me believe them. will someone find it and know i'm a crazy person. maybe, possibly not, probably.

i used to do that in high school. write the same thing over and over in my diary. i miss having a diary. that was good practice. i am bad at good practice. we begin exposure therapy this week. i need to practice.

it's so late now; i've been awake too long. i should get dressed. i should work on my reading for class. i already read it and made notations but i need to read over it again and organize my thoughts more. i'm trying to be a good student this time. i want to be a good student. i don't want to fuck everything up anymore. 

Sep. 13th, 2015

left alone with my abandonment issues

(no subject)


  1. i'm awake at 6:30 in the morning and the crows are cawing intently. nothing makes me feel safe in quite the same ominous way as cawing crows. the crows of here, of our old town, of a neighborhood in los angeles encrusted in celebrity minimansion masterpieces & dense webs of tree, my running sweat & a labrythine glamour.

  2. we--we, the societal collective--need to socialize me more. i frantic; i skitter.

  3. using okcupid here makes me nervous because if i fuck up a message there's a very real threat of encountering its recipient in person and being in-person judged, which is not a form of judgment i typically mind but the whole landscape of acceptable judgment gets altered when i can be seen actively trying and failing.

  4. a worry: that my desire to prematurely dress for cooler weather is depression-indicative.

  5. what am i going to do with this tulip bulb. can tulips be grown hydroponically. is that even the correct word. i want to eat the hell out of some tulip petals.

  6. my ideal part-time job is working for a moving company. thinking about most jobs makes me feel like i'm dying but i fucking love to pick stuff up and then put it down somewhere new.

  7. i come to with my heart feeling quite literally physically immediately heavy in my chest, a lump of clay in my chest, and the kind of urgency that speaks to a ghost having only recently vacated my body, and maybe all my dreams are is ghosts seeking warmth from my stillness until they get spit out in the dawn dark and i unplug my phone and unplug my urgency to swipe through a few dozen women on tinder.

  8. detaching is a struggle when you want to remain attached somewhere. not whole heart--left atrium? shoulders, knees, all the body is a throbbing heart, a plumber's dream; the liveable heart has one particular hole you stick your head through to scream and startle whoever's rounding the blood-throbby corner. i think between texts, will we never share feelings again? some intimacies have an obvious need for abandonment but others remain indeterminate. on my birthday, we sat on her bed with the door open. we ask before we hug each other. look, tmi, i miss touch. every time i hear a song she covered for me, my chest is a pit (family feud question: name a pit, and i honestly feel repulsive for having thought, "mosh," but it's not like i find any joy in mosh pits, so fine). feelings are dumb. love is dumb. was dumb. has been dumb to me on repeat for years.

  9. in class, people talk. i hate their talking mostly. i have two more years of pretending i don't. i hate my fucking traitor brain. i use my purple pen. i try not to slither out of my chair and onto the floor, screaming, "let me have been a biomedical engineer!!!!"

  10. i think my pain is coming back. insert emoji of the OK hand here.

Jun. 29th, 2015

why don't u ask my therapist

(no subject)

i had a childhood recurring dream set in my church. i was always with another girl, maybe a year or two older, and she lacked defining characteristics other than this magical sparkling murk that surrounded her like she was suspended in one of those soda bottles full of glitter and water that magazines tell you to make as an art project. she would take my hand and lead me through a secret passageway in the church's side--one time construction work had knocked a hole through the stonework and we wore flashlighted hard hats to illuminate our crawl into its depths. but no matter our exact point of entry, we always came out in the same space, which was as simultaenously undefined and captivating as i found her: blue, soft, cavernous, protected. we would tightrope walk together along a railing above it all and i would tell her how happy i was that we had come back. that this was our secret. that everything was good here.

i honestly honestly can't believe i was nineteen before i knew that i was gay, but.

lately i've been having recurring dreams about the same church but everything's flip-turned-upside-down. there is no secret room. there is no beautiful girl whiterabbiting me. there is no sensation that i am safe. the whole dream is about finding ways to protect myself there, to catch some villain who chesirecats in and out while everyone else blasely eats ice cream, to set up barricades that will cause thunderclaps and wake me if anyone intrudes upon my sleep.

it's monday. i used to do tarot card readings for myself every monday, one card, to hone my focus for the coming week. but maybe i need to be doing past-present-future about this. what kind of cards will i draw. what tumult is going on around the ocean floor of my brain.

i was an anxious child. i felt safe only with other girls, in the secret worlds we constructed between us in unsteady rushes of orange-soda-sickly-sweet words. what do i have now. what more elaborate emotional spiderwebs. my "resources." and should i let myself keep setting up barricades, even as i wake up unrested, alert, too precise in my knowing of fear.