Adolescence (Again)

I have a cold.

"It's a funny 'ol world, inn't?"

I managed to crawl into bed around eleven -- and I fell asleep just a few minutes after. I've been so tired from all the recent health woes that I just can't go out and piss around all night like I used to. I guess it was a godsend that I couldn't find anything remotely interesting to do last night; I left my little moon-and-stars light on (like I used to do in the summer) and I set "Thirteenth Step" and "Sing the Sorrow" on perpetual loop...and then I slithered under the covers. And died. Well, it was close in approximation -- I listened to those albums I knew the best (and whose lyrics managed to describe in disgusting detail my position), I watched the shadows quiver on the walls of the room I knew best, and I huddled under blankets that (strangely) hold more memories for me than photographs.

I got a haircut yesterday, too. Hallelujah. I look different, now. I look sleeker, now. I like how I look, now. In fact, screw modesty. I look studly, now. Studly! Har har! Oh, don't let the cheery pirate facade fool you. I'm wondering what to do today, hoping that I'll sleep easier tonight (as me and Mom are apparently taking a shopping trip tomorrow morning), and wishing that this convoluted and painful situation I so suddenly find myself in (what happened this week? I'm so bewildered...) will resolve itself before too long. I start a new job Monday, I have doctors' appointments coming up...and I want to be held. Heldheldheldheld.


"I cannot leave here, I cannot stay;
Forever haunted, more than afraid.
Asphyxiate on words I would say,
I'm drawn to a blackened sky as I turn blue.

There are no flowers, no not this time,
There'll be no angels gracing the lines,
Just these stark words I find.
I'd show a smile, but I'm too weak,
I'd share with you could I only speak,
Just how much this hurts me.

I cannot stay here, I cannot leave;
Just like all I loved, I make believe.
Imagine heart, I disappear...seems
No one will appear here and make me real.

There are no flowers, no not this time,
There'll be no angels gracing the lines,
Just these stark words I find.
I'd show a smile, but I'm too weak,
I'd share with you could I only speak,
Just how much this hurts me.
I'd tell you how it haunts me,
I'd tell you how it haunts me,
(Cuts through my day and sinks into my dreams.)
I'd tell you how it haunts me...
(Cuts through my day and sinks into my dreams.)
You don't care that it haunts me.

Oh,
There are no flowers, no not this time;
There'll be no angels gracing the lines...
Just these stark words I find.
I'd show a smile, but I'm too weak,
I'd share with you could I only speak,
Just how much this hurts me.
Just how much this hurts me.
Just how much you..."

Leadshot Variations

Dear Jessica:

"Recall the deeds as if they're all
Someone else's atrocious stories.

Now you stand reborn before us all --
So glad to see you well.

And not to pull your halo down
Around your neck and tug you to the ground,
But I'm more than just a little curious
How you're planning to go about
Making your amends...to the dead."

Yours,
Jessica.

Though you've assured me that you are not dead to me, I'm unsure of my own position on the checkerboard. I feel like I'm teetering on a precarious edge. I feel like I'm a plastic pawn in some game you've devised in order to teach me a lesson -- or worse, to instill in me the feelings I burdened you with a month ago. I'm not sure where to go, what to say, or how to do the things I desperately need to finish. I'm attempting to figure out the parameters of you-and-I, though I'm not entirely sure there is a you-and-I, and I'm struggling to keep my head above waters completely devoid of self-possession. How do I make someone who's not "got it all figured out" speak on that same incomplete-puzzle subject?

This is not an entry grossly vague and inexact. This is precisely the type of contemplative swamp I labored through when I left your house Friday afternoon. I nearly gave up on coming over Saturday; it was too sudden a liason, though I'd wanted it more than anything. Your words after "peg me up and tear me down" were too shocking, too wanted, too heart-seizuringly surprising for me to adequately digest. I'm still having trouble accepting as fact that you still love me; I thought you too much like stone, in all honesty. The last thing I expected you to say was the word "love," and when you uttered it -- I was both terrified and thrilled. It was almost as shocking as the first time you told me, though summer has now passed and we weren't standing in front of a sleeping apartment complex.

Where does this leave me, then? I want to me there, in your room and in your arms. God, do I want to be there now. I think I do, at least. But what good would it do? If you're not sure whether you can trust me again, and if you're not sure what, exactly, comes next -- where does that leave us? I have...backed up a dozen steps and retreated into my shell. I have withdrawn the ease with which I used to call, with which I used to talk, with which I used to behave. It's absurdly late for me to be up on a Wednesday night, and yet here I remain...typing useless, voiceless, maybe invisible questions...in a manner entirely too weak for my tastes. That's how I feel, however -- "we've taken medication so we can run away from another day." I want to call you, solve something, put an end to this unsurety that, like the fish in the tank at eye-level now, continues to wriggle no matter the pressure put on it to stop. But I won't, because I have nothing to say. I have nothing new to add to the equation, really. How far can "I love you" take a conversation?

In addition: Apparently, nothing I've managed to say can take a conversation very far. I didn't call for pleasantries, I didn't call for the pathetic lump of exchanges born into existence five minutes ago, I didn't call to see how you were doing. I called because I want to put an end to the sadly juvenile way in which both you and I are handling this. Both of us have not the slightest clue as to how to handle this, that, anything. Anything! You cannot possibly fathom how utterly confused I am right now -- and it's my fault as well as yours. Though your terseness and avoidance of the subject calls into question the validity of your admission, my unwillingness to say the things I want to say doesn't speak much for my side of things, either. How do I say, "tell me what you want from me" and "tell me what I want to hear" simultaenously and in ways you'll understand? How do I admit that I only want you to love me -- but that I only ever really wanted it after you told me? How do I tell you that I wanted to forget you then as badly as I want to forget you now? You can't do this again; you can't bat me around like you used to -- the "does he really like me?" versus the "I can't stand the boy" cannot coincide in me again. Not again. I thought we'd passed all that when things grew serious...when things grew to the point of emotional maturity people our age aren't even supposed to possess yet. "We vaulted over the bullshit," remember? Now we're stuck in it. Tell me what I'm supposed to do, and what you're supposed to do, and that you really meant what you said.

"I was just kidding all the time. How can I have really died...?

Put my hands to the sky and pray for a sign if I believed in a god."

Ecstasy-induced death...

I saw HIM last night. Live.

I just finished writing a massive narrative recounting (detail by detail) the entire experience. When I get the drive, I'll post it here.

It was too intense, too beautiful, too spine-tingling for words.

As was this whole weekend.

"What a wicked thing to say...to make me feel this way. What a wicked thing to do, to make me dream of you..."

Sign out

(Warning: the contents of this message were constructed while said creator was doped up on a triple-shot of prescription medications.)

"I'm two quarters and a heart down, and I don't want to forget how your voice sounds...dance, dance, we're falling apart to half time..."

"So give me all your poison, and give me all your pills, and give me all your hopeless hearts, and make me ill. You're running after something that you'll never kill -- if this is what you want, then fire at will."

Tripe! Yes! I know! But such good tripe, the likes of which no other tripe-finder has ever found before!

I'm excited. Is it obvious? This weekend was so very far from what I expected...I simply don't know how to deal with it yet. I'm cautiously ecstatic, I think. Worriedly blissful. Getting over this illness with a sudden, whopping dose of wonderful-surprise is...too, too lovely.

I'M GOING TO SEE HIM TOMORROW! *Dies* I'm going to see Ville live. LIIIIVE! Oh my LORD, I'm going to see that darling Finnish band live and I can't WAIT! I'm spazzing now...so I wonder how bad it's going to be tomorrow. I even bought a new dress and earrings to wear...I don't know why. Because I had to signify this life-changing experience with new clothes? Maybe? I love clothes. I love HIM. Perhaps the two go hand in hand. Mwuahaha. HIM! LIVE! WOOP!

Autumnal agonies

"Somewhere inside my evolution,
Karmically I seek retribution,
Looking for love in physical beauty...
Desire is the drug of the bourgeoisie;
And now I try to intellectualize,
Like a glimmer of good in a bad man's eyes,
I am consumed by the flesh haunting me,
I know temptation taunts the empty..."

I'm beginning to wonder if perhaps I am empty -- if I'm nothing more than a skinbag topped off with disease, infection, and a pretty image of who-I-want-to-be. Alright, just a minute -- that last sentence absolutely reeked of self-pity; allow me to reiterate in a less abrasive manner:

My doctor called this morning with the lab results of last week. The end diagnosis was something of a shock (an unpleasant surprise wrapped in the trappings of a cold, silent house), and I'm still reeling...just a little. Apparently I have infectious mononucleosis, complicated by acute viral hepatitis and dusted with some of the most severe symptoms a patient suffering from aforesaid illness could have. Oh, yes -- I'm not kidding. I have mononucleosis and hepatitis all at once...and I'm ready to close my eyes and go to sleep for a long, long time. Is there going to be an end to all of these sicknesses? In all honesty -- are they ever going to end? Am I going to be perpetually sick for the rest of my life? If this is a "rough patch," I'd rather dip down into a comatose state than weather whatever else is in store for me.

"...So douse yourself in cheap perfume, it's so fitting of the way you are -- you can't cover it up."

Oh, yes. I know. In a few months, I'll probably look back on this and wonder why I allowed myself to get so upset. However...when one itches all over their entire body, loses ten pounds due to intense nausea, and watches her store of energy trip out the door...well, it does a number on sanity. At least I'm not skinning myself alive, I suppose -- though this itching is making said option look more and more enticing. And at least I'm not leaving lyrics from "I'm Not Okay (I Promise)" on my away messages, along with cryptic half-phrases suggesting I'm out to kill myself ("fer reel ths tyme!").

I love life a little too much to go and do away with myself, I think. "I'm two quarters and a heart down...and I don't want to forget how your voice sounds." Dr. Ahmed recommended that I start taking over-the-counter Benadryl in conjunction with the prescriptions I'm already taking. Well, he didn't specifically tell me to keep taking the medicines he prescribed last week...but he didn't tell me to stop taking them, so I'm assuming I'll be okay taking both. If not, I suppose we'll just have to wait and see what this medical venture does to me. It had better be a hell of a lot more interesting than what I'm shouldering now, or I'm going to go absolutely insane.

"...So give me all your poison,
And give me all your pills,
And give me all your hopeless hearts,
And make me ill.
You're running after something
That you'll never kill...
If this is what you want,
Then fire at will.

Preach all you want -- but who's gonna save me?
I keep a gun on the book you gave me (hallelujah), lock and load...
Black is the kiss, the touch of the serpent son --
It ain't the mark or the scar that makes you one...

You'll never make me leave,
I wear this on my sleeve,
Give me a reason to believe."

"Serpent yellow deadly lemon"

Sometimes I wonder, in no particular terms and for no particular reason, why I was blessed with you. Sometimes I wonder, under no particular circumstances and during no particular instance, why I dwell on my trangressions, my loss (of you), and the things I did afterward that soothed (partially) the pain self-inflicted and perpetuated through the "I was wrong, and you won't forgive me" line of reasoning.

Sometimes I wonder why I remember. Sometimes I remember why it hurts to visualize the lines of your face, the timbre of your laugh, the deadpan style with which you speak. Sometimes I recall that I still love you. Sometimes it aches, the void left by no-arms-around-me, no-eyes-on-me, no-you-with-me, no-domino-fiend-for-me.

Sometimes.

And then there are times when I realize that I can apologize forever (and perhaps I should), but you won't change your mind. There are times when I realize the horror of my actions, the hurt it caused you, and the things I destroyed because I wanted the path of least resistance; there are times when I remember these things, and I shake. And I close my eyes. And I burrow beneath the blankets.

Sometimes.

There are times, too, when I understand that humans are human -- that errors are made despite best intentions and in opposition to rational thought -- and I sigh. I sigh and I breathe and I realize that although I've made it so that we cannot be the "greatest things to happen to each other," I will learn, and I will grow, and I will change. The journey back to the top of this pit that I've fallen into is treacherous...it's deep, and slippery, and lined with a thousand razor-lipped whispers that threaten to bring me down, step by struggling step.

But it won't happen.

I've been gifted with forgiveness and a persevering love from the only friend who's stood with me for a decade. I've been gifted with the realization that my sister (my best friend, my confidante, my hero) has far more strength and wisdom that first I thought. I have been gifted by a once-caged darling (watching for Venus) who now has more wit and life than I do, by a family who cares for me unlike any other, and by a new spirit that has slowly (but surely) mended itself in the absence of self-destruction. I am healing, growing, learning, loving...slipping back into a glittering skin that, before my fall, had sloughed off and slithered out of reach.

I am becoming me again, and I am thrilled. I am trudging through health problems without the aid of self-medication, self-mutilation, self-inflicted sorrow -- and I am winning. I no longer dwell on death, no longer writhe in that dew-damp yard and cry for an end, no longer whisper to you that I want it all to stop, and that I'll make it better...swiftly, violently, shockingly.

I love you. When you surprised me that night, I thought it over -- and when I told you, I meant it. Narcissist, hypocrite, sophist...yes, I am. But that's who loved you, and that's who you loved.

And it's okay. And I care. And I'm living life just fine...

Treefingers

It's eight o'clock in the morning, and I am alone again in an empty apartment...killing time and killing thoughts and killing aches that refuse to leave without substantial medication. I can't sleep. Again. I am not happy. I am not "if this isn't nice, what is?" -- I am not, contrary to popular belief, without fear or doubt at this odd hour of the morning.

"You're the lord,
Feel desire;
Feel the lord,
Use desire.
See your lord,
Take you higher;
Steal my soul,
His eyes caught fire."

Everyone in this entire apartment complex must still be sleeping. I don't hear a single murmur, a single thudding footstep, the echo of a door swinging shut. Usually these noises all come together to form a single symphony of astounding domestic proportions. Now nothing intrudes on this eerie peace that blankets the five-room cluster. Nothing cuts the clicking of the keyboard. Nothing reverberates, fades, swells, or snaps. I am alone. My hand's bleeding. And where were you when the world went down in flames?

"Disaster in a halo.

Nothing even matters,
Nothing even matters,
Nothing even matters,
Nothing even matters,
Nothing even matters,
Nothing even matters,

Somewhere there’s a girl with thoughts of him --
She makes wishes in a well, then fears them caving in on her..."

I tried writing again. I can't. Even the product of last time was half-forcd near the end. I can't do it anymore, I think. Nothing ever comes out the way I want it to. It started out, "Red-squilled lips and taffeta slips like dusty-aphanous days of summer-gone.../Press-powdered countenance [porcelainpicture] painted all brassy-lights and brilliant-fights and --" And? And then it stopped. I scribbled out a dozen lines that came after, sitting on a bench with yellow leaves falling in my lap. It was supposed to be one of those love poems, even. I'm bad at writing love poems. Does that look like a love poem? It seems suspiciously like a tragedian's attempt at a journal entry. "Still feel you on the inside, biting through and stinging -- will I ever forget to remember?" It's hard to say. I don't think I can do it anymore. Nothing ever comes out the way I want it to.

Maybe sleep will visit now. Maybe. I'm tired from just looking at all the stuff that's spilled from my head.

Non sequitur

"I see the seasons changing,
And in the heart of this autumn I fall...
With the leaves from the trees.

I see the reasons changing,
And in the warmth of the past I crawl --
Scorched by the shame...

I play dead to hide my heart
Until the world (gone dark) fades away..."

I was exceedingly impressed with the new HIM album. It was everything I'd hoped for, actually -- cryptic, emotional, and written from that certain vantage point that I've come to love Ville for. Especially poignant was "In the Nightside of Eden;" I've not heard a song like that from this gorgeous Finnish band before...and I've not heard those certain notes that Ville hits on any other song. Yes, it's on constant loop in my computer -- and yes, it will probably stay that way for months. I love to pore over lyrics, dissect meanings, and ultimately drown myself in the whole album. "Dark Light" is perfect for that...

It's unseasonably hot here. It was 87 degrees yesterday, I believe -- and for this reason and more, Amy and I have locked ourselves in our room. No cemetary treks, no wood walks, no socializing outside the confines of this two-fan-cooled cement cubicle. Instead, I happily subscribe to nights spent studying, playing "Donkey Kong 2," and reading an anthology of short stories that Amy gave me. The book really is wonderful, and I so kick as at Donkey Kong -- except for the bee boss...but Amy took care of that for me. Ph33r mY madd skilzz.

I've stopped punishing myself for becoming a detestable human being in these last few weeks. I've stopped whispering aloud the details of my transgressions, stopped mourning the loss of a beloved boy (though I'll always, always miss him), and I've stopped worrying about making up for lost time in other areas of my life. I'm surrounded by kind and caring people, by a loving and always-loyal family, and now by the only person in the entire world I've entrusted my whole heart to. Life is too full of beautiful opportunities...too full of great and pleasurable things...too full of blissful moments for me to linger in a place full of hurt and anger.

It's a present-tense thing, DF. Get over it -- I'll always adore you. Always love you. No amount of sarcastic, acidic speech will change that. Nyah-nyah, darling.

It's an awe-inspiring thing, Meanie-pants. The depth of forgiveness and the depth of love you've shown can never, ever be forgotten. We're going to be those half-delusional eighth graders for the rest of our lives, you know -- we're going to giggle over Cheese Whiz and old notebooks even when we're wheeling each other down the cavernous, white-tiled hall of some old folks' home.

It's a whole-soul thing, Alandor. You and I have philosophy, pink triangles, six years in obscurity, and that lightning storm in a cemetary. Oh, and that four-letter monstrosity you're still terrified of. I'm listening to 90s songs again and dancing with Amy; remember the Pretenders' "I'll Stand By You?"

Today is beautiful. I bought a giant jade tree and a spiky, darling little plant with white rings around its blades at the campus Plant Sale this afternoon. I've already got a jade tree -- his name's Merton and he's about five inches tall (above the soil); my newest addition, whom I've decided to name Methuselah (har har) is a foot and a half tall. The little spiky darling (who has no legible label) is Nicodemus; Amy bought one, too -- we named it Naga the White. Amy also bought a dracaena plant...who's name is now Malysstrix the Red. YES, we name our plants. YES, we're massive geeks. You adore us for it...admit it. Naga, Nicodemus, Malysstrix, Merton, and Methuselah will one day rule this human world...

Lord, I love life...