I tried to sleep. I did.
My new project has taken hold of my already-fucked sleep schedule and beaten the remains of that horse to a pulp. Plus, Matt is snuggle-snoring. It’s a term I just created for when he wants to snuggle, but cannot stop snoring. He isn’t awake for this, but he either shuns me like a non-believer or won’t let me get three inches away.
I really like that guy. I still feel badly about it sometimes…I never meant to take him away from his life before me.
I’ve been avoiding the page. Not just here, but in my morning pages, in writing back to friends. In Dean, even. I’ve been avoiding phone calls. New Nathan kinda called me out on it today, in fact. My mind drowns, and I feel as if there isn’t enough oxygen in my tank to be exploring.
We got Burger King on the way home. If I’d know I was gonna be up 20 minutes after going to bed, I wouldn’t have dumped out my tea…
Part of it is that I think I’ve run out of things to say…I started reading my work sporadically, and as feared, it has killed my drive to write. I don’t know why I’d bother when so much of it sounds like romantically-tainted, whiny, Tales of the Traumatized. Why does anyone read this shit? Moreover, why do I write it? Solution: stop writing. Sadly, it’s like holding my breath. It’s something I can’t sustain without serious brain damage and the people around me growing concerned. Cue angst. Ugh.
I have been kissing all over sexy women all weekend. It has been fantastic. I also have eaten amazing foods. I went to the closest place I have to remember my Pa-Pa: Cracker Barrel.
Yesterday was the 8-year anniversary of Preston raping me. It always makes me think of Katie Shay and Samwell, who got me through that awful night. I don’t think I’d remember the date if it weren’t also my brother’s birthday. He just turned 25. Like I remember when the pregnancy ended because it was Martin Luther King Jr. Day.
Life is strange.
There’s a new wallflower in my apt, and the place smells grounding. I appreciate that. No flickering flame to guide my path, but a scent to keep me posted is better than nothing.
Frida Kahlo painted her reality. So do I, but normally with words. And my reality right now is thin…a silk scarf dyed with blues, greens, and purples that veils my perception. Shades just dark enough to miss the sharp edges. Accidental injuries could easily occur. For better or worse, I’m not afraid. Though it might be better if I were. Fear keeps me in check, and I may be wandering beyond my pasture. The good shepherd has yet to break my legs and return me to the flock. Maybe he’s looking for me, or maybe he fell asleep in the sun. And really, could I blame him for that?
Blake and Eleanor escaped the castle in my dreams the other night. Since I was twelve and first thought up that story, I’ve always known they’d make it out. I had clear plot for the existence, the entry, and the epilogue, but the escape elluded me, too. Now I know how. It may be time for NaNoWriMo.
I shake my hair loose from the clip that digs slightly into my skull. I’ve recently begun to appreciate my soft curls and the many shades in my hair. I wonder if I’ve been grinding my teeth again…I never notice until my head starts to hurt, and that could be caused by so many things. Like overpopulation.
It’s gonna be too light to sleep in a couple very short hours or less. I think Johnny Depp may rock me to the deep rest of nightmares that aren’t my father. But I’d have to stop typing for that to happen, and every time I look at the “save” button, I feel unfinished….why? What am I wanting to say that’s not been said?
It’s confusing to miss home, and still want to stay in Denver. I miss Jared, Josh, Tina, JJ, and so many other faces and places. I want to hear people yell “Who Dat” when I wear my Saints’ shirt through the Quarter. I cannot fully explain the levels to which I miss the feeling of inclusion I shared with all those who love that Crescent City. It was recently pointed out to me that Denver is collective of amazing individuals, but New Orleans is a united community. They both have their pros and cons, and I am greedy enough to want it all.
My sister had me crying on the phone the other day. I’ve been avoiding her, too, I guess. She supports me, and wants me to do whatever I want to do. The problem is that I want to write. I’ve never been so sure of what I want, and so lost because of it.
I don’t want to harm anyone. Ever, ideally. My writing may well upset many a folk…even people like Annie, who have forgiven me the apostate status I have earned. People in my family may never forgive me. Then part of me chimes from within my head, pointing out that they should be worried that I’LL never forgive THEM. But you can’t forgive the unrepentant any more than you can rape the willing. I’m not big on rape or forgiveness, especially when the two are intermingled.
Maybe I just need more exercise. Or some chocolate. Or a full night’s sleep. Maybe the right combination of sex, drugs, and Jack Black will stop the cycle of feel-nothing, do-nothing in my head. The doctor sees me again in November, assuming I’m still in the state. In the meantime, what I need to do is to stop bitching and go the fuck to sleep.
I am insanely blessed with epic friends, generous lovers, beautiful surroundings, food, water, safety and countless sources of bigger-than-tiny joys. I will not forget it.