Monday. Feb 17/97. 12:25.
Weekend of hell ended, and I renew my sense of self today. Will I? That remains to be seen. By the end of last week, I seriously thought I was dying. Not that that was a bad thing. I just wanted it to end quickly. Being me, it didn't, and it turned out to be nothing serious. I recovered after spending Friday night in a 17-hour fitful sleep and Saturday in a haze of pain and unknowing.
Why can't things end when you desperately need them to? Why am I
stuck in this forced cycle of faithlessness? Only when you are sick,
physically incapable, and emotionally wrecked, do you realize how alone
you are,.... and to some degree, how much you need someone to take care
of the things you have become incapable of.....
Weekend dusty findings
Tuesday. Feb 18/97.
The emptiness lives in me, in a dark chasm. It is an emptiness upon emptiness. I scream often in here, but no one hears. And sometimes, not even me. Closing my eyes and pretending I am someplace else only increases my awareness of how quiet, how pitch black, and how despairing it is to be here.
Later (14:35)Been looking for comfort. The unrest and turmoil within seems to be stirring up a maelstrom of anger and sadness and chaos. Stop. It's gotta stop. But I can't find a quiet cavern to hide in. Where? What? How?
I want to go away from this - how else would I keep sane?
12:50. Wed, Feb 19/97
Today marks another day of my struggle. At certain points, I see myself weakening, giving way to what should not be. I have lost control of this life. No steering wheel, just a wild horse rampaging madly around in its own fear.
Last night, I went home crying. I don't know why and what exactly caused it, but I know I'm scared and welcomed only the drug induced sleep and blessedness. I wouldn't mind going back for seconds. That's all I can say at this point.
Friday Feb 21/97. 1255.
There is so much comfort in silence. Yet silence often threatens to smother the one who seeks its refuge. It is an ugly predator because it presents itself innocently and seeks to pounce for flesh and blood at the first chance. I've been its victim, time and time again. I never seem to learn. No, its comfort, even for a brief moment, is precious to me. Far too precious. Sometimes, I can even say it's worth more than my own life. So will I put my life at stake in a game of cat and mouse? Yes, I will. Chase me if you can. Catch me if you will.
So it's the end of the week, and as I retreat into my solitude, I will cherish it. Love it, and understand it the way no one has ever understood me.
Feb 24/97. Monday 1000.
Life goes on. The seemingly endless flow of lost opportunities, worries, emptiness, isolation and bone weariness. The same old story in an old yet treasured book of tales. No matter how carefully and differently I try to go about telling my tale, it will always sound the same to me, and it will always be told in my same old monotonous voice. It's like watching Gremlins . I've seen it over ten times, and I can predict what will happen, who will say what, and when what will happen. Nothing changes. I don't expect it to, but it's worthwhile watching anyway. Why? Does it make any sense? No, of course not. I don't want it to. It doesn't have to.
So, I've been living my life one hour at a time for a little less than a week now. I feel not much different. But I'm still alive. So maybe that's a good sign. Not that I think it is. It's only a good sign to the standards of this world. And I personally don't like to conform to this wretched world.
On the weekend note, well, it was a relatively pleasant one, and my first weekend in two weeks that I haven't fallen ill from a bug, or virus, or some creature or other. So I used it to the fullest and went running. I am not what I used to be physically, and am beginning to think I may never feel right or the same again. It seems as if with every "outburst" of mine, I end up paying a price with my own health.
Later...Who knew interacting with other human beings could be so exhausting? How did I not expect trying to keep up a facade to be so tedious, if not humiliating? Only Monday, and already, my tail between my legs, and ready to disappear into whatever darkness welcomes and consumes me each night. I want to scream "No more!!!". I want to run as far and as hard as my lungs will allow me to, and collapse at the finish line, just to be able to say "I ran all that distance and it has made me a better person". I want to see results of all the agony and pain and sacrifice I have made. I don't want the finish line rearranged further and further away from me. I never ever had a goal. I only knew of finish lines and approximately where they were, and I never expect to finish my races, just as I never expect to see my next birthday. But they will make themselves known to me anyway. That is how things work in my swirling twirling wonderful Land of Oz world. That is what I face when I get up each morning, as I lie down to sleep each night. Sometimes, the chaos even pays me a visit in my varied landscapes of nightmarish things.
Nothing left in my heart today as I gather what's left of me and return to the emptiness of where I emerged.
Feb 27/97. Thursday. 1435.
Days and nights of wondering how far I've come often leaves me more wounded, more angry at the things that are not mine to control. As humans, we all like to be in control, we all want to know what's to happen and things we can do to shape it the way we want. But after living a lifetime of unpredictability and chaos, one changes their viewpoint. They either become sensitive to this chaos, or they become immune to it. More tend to fall into the category of becoming immune. The shift which comes with having to face unpredictability for a long time, happens slowly, but it builds up within a person silently enough not to warrant one's attention.
Can it destroy us? No, I don't think so. But it makes us shut certain emotions off. The entire network of feelings and emotions become mechanical and the reactions are nothing more than empty voids and chasms. Trained mechanical instruments which react, not respond. I have become that machine. There is a switch I pull off and on depending on circumstances. When I have become too tired to turn it, I will fall into a deep despair which only the thought of blankness and blackness can comfort me. The complete and utter isolation of that which stimulates, of that which makes the world the way it is. I can retreat that way. I will retreat that way.
It is possible that certain things break and can never be repaired. Sometimes things can never be repaired or replaced. But most times, it is the human spirit that does not mend. With things/objects which cannot be mended, we throw away. What then about the human spirit? Society casts them away or ignores them because to look at these broken spirits is to see a reflection of all unmendable things in their own hearts.
It is not an earth shattering claim to say that we are all broken in different ways. Well, most of us anyway. But the question is, what do we do with this brokenness? We kill ourselves. We kill each other. We destroy our own lives. We break off potentially fruitful relationships. We hurt other people. We sabotage our own plans. It goes on..... Most of the time, we never recognize that brokenness. We die with it, even if it is a death not directly caused by our own hands.
Personally, I have seen little broken parts of other people manifest themselves. It is always a sad thing to witness. It not only reflects my own brokenness, it also makes me wonder what the whole damn point is.
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