Rough Morning.

          As an introverted former substance-abuser and spirit-crushing perfectionist, doing life alone for 3.5 months is not an ideal situation. I had a plan when I came to New York - be better in every possible way: work out and get strong, eat well and get healthy, spend time with God every day and share the gospel, read all the books on screenwriting, make huge strides on my screenplay, get A's on every assignment, impress my bosses with my hard work and creativity. Be ye therefore perfect. With a list of requirements like this, maybe I shouldn't be surprised when I feel like a failure, but I still won't let go of the list. I beat my body into submission. Paul said that, right? So I can do it too. Except that I can't. But I know I'm capable of it, so the fact that I'm not meeting my requirements hangs a 50lb weight around my neck and tells me to fly.

          I turn on worship music, take a shower and cry and make myself finish my shower. I look at myself. "god you're ugly." I throw on some powder and look a little better. Then I sit on the bed and lay my head down. Lots and lots of tears. I contemplate calling my mom or sister, but I don't want to. I text Nigel and ask him to pray for me, I tell him what I feel.

"I'm not a ..." tears. A few more verses of a song.
"I'm not a failure." tears and tears.
"I'm not a failure."

          It lifts a little. I lay down and let the music sing to me and close my eyes. I feel Nigel's prayers. I feel the peace of God come over me and inside me. The evil goes away. I know I'll be okay today.

I need a place to do this

wednesday - finish the trend report, put my ideas together. have a headache most of the day and feel overwhelmed by a variety of emotions clouding my mind. when i spend too long without authentic human interaction, my mind starts collapsing in on itself. I've been keeping myself sane by spending time with God every day and talking to my boyfriend most days. today i didn't spend time with God. too much weight on me to open the Bible and let the words help me. i feel like crying at random times all throughout the day. it feels like i'm climbing a mountain and it gets really steep and i want to give up and cry and go home. but there is no mountain, i'm just sitting here in the office, in this chair. i feel dizzy for a second, like i'm losing it. it - the control i maintain over my mind.
people say let go. they don't know what that means for someone like me. i've let go before. but not fully. if i let go fully, i would be in a mental hospital right now, my consciousness ripped away from me, my only reality, the mesh of blood and thought inside my head. floating in bloody cloudy sky. no beginning or end. only the terrifying unrelenting taste of being lost and scratching at the cloudy prison to find reality.
there's a real place in my mind. my mind is a real place. others don't spend much time inside their own brain places, but they're real. maybe these pockets only exist in some people. maybe not all have brain pockets in which to hide or be lost, depending on the weather.

i wish i could paint. spinning, boiling red thought and emotion sit in the stomach of my mind. it searches for ways to get out. through the ear, no it sucks at music. through the hands, no it sucks at art. through the mouth, no it sucks at language. through the eyes, no it sucks at seeing. through the heart, through the mind, stuck in skin. these hands won't work. dead drooping chunks slam against beautiful machines and make noise. and scratch against my face wondering why they're dead branches and hard leaves. these eyes won't think. they see a puzzle and 

but these hands and this mind. my body knows a rhythm that sings the world to peace. with broken hands and stupid eyes, it can't this song release.

Lost

          I don't remember my life, any substantial part of it, no matter how distant or how near to the present. I only remember random scenes of my life. Sometimes a scene is called to mind and I play it over and over and over and over again in my head, all day or all week, sometimes for months at a time. The scene today is my mom standing at the staircase with a suitcase. I walk in and she tells me she packed my stuff. I take the suitcase and walk upstairs my heart aching and my body wanting to collapse on the floor and cry. I don't let her see that. I go into my room and shut the door.
          If I asked my mom what happened in this scene, she would probably tell a different story. What details I can't remember, I fill in - like her standing there and my taking the bag and going upstairs. I didn't even remember this scene until a year or so ago. She reminded me of it.
          When I feel the call to write, I have a point and an end goal in the writing. Tonight, I don't. I'm only writing to ease my mind and "confess" something I may not tell anyone in real life. The other night, I drove around for over an hour looking for a liquor store that I wasn't terrified to enter. Going to HEB or a gas station is one thing - if I see someone I know, I grab some peanuts and a soda. But a liquor store... no hiding my intentions with that. Even so, I concocted a lie just in case: my friend needed me to grab some Malibu for her birthday party, she doesn't have a car, so I told her I could. Not a bad lie. I didn't have to use it. I found a shop where I knew I wouldn't see anyone.
          Saturday night: me, a bottle of whiskey and Netflix. I guess I lost.
          I usually write about how I was strong amidst the torrents of heart ache and unrelenting cravings for ungodly substances! I FUCKED UP. And guess what, I'M NOT DONE fucking up. I KEPT that bottle. It's in my closet right now. And when my sister goes to bed, I'm going to take two or three shots and go to sleep. I'll wake up and feel bad about it, but I'll do it again because I can't escape the loneliness. I can't escape the scenes that play over and over and over. Scenes that are bad enough because they happened to me, but worse because I CAN'T REMEMBER them fully. I carry with me the pain, the fear, the humiliation, the guilt, the longing of every tiny thing of my life. I carry it in feelings that I can't express because people need proof of a broken heart. It's not enough to say my heart aches - I must prove it. I CAN'T.
          Truth weaves in and out of my head while the scenes play, but it's like a flaw in an otherwise flawlessly tragic movie. I'm not sure if I should pull the truth out and make it more than an interruption from the main event. Is this self-pity? No, it's self-hatred. If I pitied myself, I would be kind to myself. I would listen to myself, be patient with myself, give myself room to grow.
          I don't have a happy ending right now. I'm just waiting to stop typing so I can go chug-a-lug.

Papa, please help me. I do want happiness. I want to love myself.

I need Love

          Every day this past week I've wrestled with cravings for alcohol and cigarettes. Every day I thought through how, when, and where I could get alcohol and cigarettes. Some days I decided cigarettes alone would do. Other days I thought I could grab a beer from CVS and that would work. Every day I thought about the consequences, the smell, who would find out, what people would think of me if they caught me or if I told them the truth. For 3 days straight, I went to school and planned to go by a gas station after for cigarettes. I went a different way home to come across a gas station where I wouldn't see anyone I knew. The turn came and I passed it by. With a well of pain throbbing inside me, I decided to go home.
          On Friday, I thought the cravings had passed. I figured I had struggled enough... surely it was time for a break. No. Afternoon came and I wanted alcohol and cigarettes and I planned. All night I sat at home and thought about where I could go, what I could drink, what I would wear. Finally I ended the night with Netflix, a little reading, and browsing Craigslist.
          Saturday I spent the day at Six Flags. I wandered around the park and saw signs for beer and signs for designated smoking areas. I enjoyed the rides, but all day I wanted more. I went home and resolved to watch a show and read my book.
          Today, Sunday... Easter, I slept late. I woke up and tried to journal and talk to God. I used to audibly talk to him all the time. Now, whenever I thought about actually speaking, I couldn't. I realized I'm angry with him, but I don't know why. I closed the journal and opened my book - a fantasy novel, the last one in the series. I finished it and felt like trash afterward. The book is full of demons, evil, corruption, lies, death. It did not have a happy ending. I threw some clothes on and decided to go to Starbucks and work on my screenplay.
          My mom calls right as I'm leaving. She asks what's wrong. I don't know what to tell her. She calls back when I'm in the SB's parking lot. I still don't have anything to tell her, then I find out that she called to tell me something cool she learned at church. I start crying while she talks about a revelation she had, not because the revelation is so cool, but because my mom knows I'm struggling, but called me back because she needs to share something that happened to her with me.
          When the phone call is over, I'm crying more. I don't know why. All I know is it hurts. Everything inside me hurts. I drive around and cry. I talk aloud some - how I can't do this anymore, I can't, I can't, I can't. It hurts too much. I sense God say to turn on worship music and just sit there - don't try to make anything happen. I turn it on and mostly ignore it. He wants it to wash over me, not me try to self-medicate, self-soothe, or learn anything. Halfway through the journey, I sense him say that all I have to do is tell him what's wrong - it's his job to fix it.
          I go back to SB and work on my screenplay a little. I write a sweet scene with an abused teenager being loved on by her young cousins. She sits in bed with them and they hug her and tell her it'll be okay. It ends in laughter. I know I will have to write the scene where she leaves her cousins and enters into a scary world with no one she can trust, no one who can comfort her, but I wasn't ready to write that scene yet.
          I go to my sister's house and hang out for a while. I get up to leave and finally share what's been going on with my sisters. After saying a lot that probably didn't make sense and I felt really stupid sharing, I say how I've never felt like God gives me anything to help me through cravings. It's sheer willpower. And I have no way of knowing if it will ever stop. I go through every day with every part of my body longing for something it can't have. It's exhausting. I tell them how I love feeling thirsty because I know a simple glass of water will make me feel satisfied. It's the only time I feel satisfied.
          Annabeth looks up at me and says "It's chemical." I feel something loosen inside me and all I want to do is cry. She says how their adopted daughters are the same way - that's why they act so crazy. It's a chemical imbalance that happens in the womb. I can't remember everything she said, but eventually I can't hold back tears or choose not to. I start pouring tears and my sisters come to hug me. They both pray over me for healing and for satisfaction, for everything in my brain to work right. Annabeth says it's nurture. I need nurture and for whatever reason, God wants to be the one to nurture me. He doesn't want other people to, he wants to.
          Driving home I think about why that made me break down. IT'S NOT MY FAULT. I felt so relieved to hear that there's just something wrong with me, not because of anything I did. And furthermore, I haven't failed. It's not that I haven't done enough, haven't opened up enough, haven't said no enough, haven't pursued God, church, whatever enough.
          Ever since I can remember I felt like something was wrong with me. I felt an emotional or mental cancer inside me that people couldn't see. People encountered me, tried to befriend me, and eventually got hurt by me and assumed I just didn't like them, even hated them. All I ever wanted was to be loved by people and all I've ever done my WHOLE LIFE is push people away.
          Tonight I learned that it's not my fault. I just need help. I need love. I still want cigarettes. A whiskey sounds like fucking heaven. But I'm going to sit at home and work on my screenplay and probably watch more Warehouse 13, and even though it may not look like it, that's what belief looks like for me. Belief that the cravings will stop and I will be 100% free and 100% satisfied. Wow. That's a hard thing to write down. I don't feel it, but I choose it.

Only You

     

          Yesterday, I worked all day with people who seamlessly chat and badger and joke. Every time someone passed me, they'd make some comment to me and I never knew what to say, so I usually just grinned a little. This gets exhausting. I live in a world where everyone knows something I don't. I sit and watch every conversation, every interaction and wonder how they do it, how it's so normal and easy for them. After 12 hours of this, I get on a bus with everyone that takes us to our cars. I sit behind two people who chat and laugh hysterically - they're both genuinely funny and I know they're enjoying it. Then my heart aches and I want to cry and all I can think is "You're worthless. You're worthless. You're worthless. You're worthless." I stare down at the ground and listen to everyone laugh and talk it's all I can think. "No one will ever like me or know me. They don't see any good in me. I'm worthless. I'm worthless. I'm worthless."
          Then I think of how I can escape this. It's still early enough to go to a bar. I'll plan on that - I got a tip tonight. I can use that. How can I make sure no one will talk to me? I'll dress in my less attractive clothes and look pissed off and tell them to piss off when they try to talk to me. No, it won't work. People always fuck with me. I couldn't go to a bar. I'll buy some wine and cigarettes and get fucked up at home. I can use that tip money. Do I really want to do that to my lungs? Do I want to wake up hung over? Yes. I don't care about that. I do, but I can't feel like this all night. I can't go home and spend all night alone. There's nothing I can watch that'll make me feel better. Every fucking movie involves more than one person, and those more-than-one people usually know each other and talk to each other and chat and laugh just like everyone in the real world. It'll only hurt more. I'll only ache more.
          I cry on the way home. Little spurts. I can never cry for long. I think it's because the pain goes deeper the more I cry and I become more and more aware of the fact that nothing I do can change what's going on inside me and around me. I get home and let the dogs out. I sit on the floor and tell Taaka that no one likes me and I don't like me and I don't want to be lonely forever. I hug him and he licks my face and looks up at me with pitiful eyes. Then I lie down and browse my phone for an hour.
          OK. I can't do this all night. I'm going to CVS - the one that no one goes to, so I won't see anyone I know. Wine and cigarettes. I drive past CVS. Walmart - I have some money. I'll buy something fun. I like buying things - it helps me feel better. Nothing at Walmart. CVS. I'm at the light. One way is wine and cigarettes. One way is lonely horrible night at home. I go home. I don't cry anymore. I distract myself with stupid apps until I'm too tired to keep my eyes open. That doesn't sound like victory, but when you struggle with addiction, you see victory in lots of weird things.
          Church today. Sitting between roommate and her friends. I want to leave as soon as I get there. I don't. Sermon is pointless, irrelevant. Ross. I buy a beanie and a phone case that I'll have to take back because it doesn't have plastic on the front - only the sides - your phone will get destroyed with that shittiness. Driving home again to an empty house. Better empty than my roommate there. I listened to Sam Smith all the way. Then I park in front, turn off the engine and a new song comes on by The Platters called Only You.

Only you can make this world seem right

Only you can make the darkness bright

Only you and you alone

Can thrill me like you do

And fill my heart with love for only you

Only you can make this change in me

For it's true, you are my destiny

When you hold my hand

I understand the magic that you do

You're my dream come true

My one and only you

Only you can make this change in me

For it's true, you are my destiny

When you hold my hand

I understand the magic that you do

You're my dream come true

My one and only you

(One and only you)

          Jesus sings me funny songs sometimes. I pictured him in a black and white shadowy room, dressed like Sammy Davis Jr. and holding his hand out for me to take. He'd dance a silly waltz with me and tell me that everything's gonna be alright and that he's sorry it's hard.

          Having a relationship with Jesus didn't change my life; it just gave me this tiny tiny seed in my heart that makes me think that even when everything falls apart and I hate myself and I hate the world, I'm really not alone and I have a friend who adores every part of who I am and doesn't mind telling me so.

Closer

          Saturday morning/afternoon: I wake up late because I don't have anywhere to be, anything to do. I know I do not want to sit and try spending time with God, so I don't. I know I want to drink, I've been seeing it everywhere - watching shows with excessive drinking, hearing people talk about it, going home where I used to do it all the time. I go to my sister's house and she sees how mopey I am - says I can use their truck, because I didn't have my car (brother borrowed it). I finally agreed, but still, all day I think about whether or not drinking is a possibility. I think of how I could make it happen, where I would go, what mode of transportation I could use, what I would tell everyone about where I was, how I would cover my tracks, how I could guarantee not get too fucked up, not get pulled over, not get arrested, not get in trouble. I thought about buying some beer and drinking at home... by myself, that would be pointless - the whole point is to get out of feeling alone, but if I had no other option, I could at least get out of feeling in general.  But... these days when I try to do that, it doesn't work. I'd have to get so fucked up that I'm out of my mind in order to stop feeling, in order to ignore God, his Spirit in me telling me over and over "I love you. You're not alone. I'm so proud of you. You can make it. I love you. I love you. I love you. I'm enough."

          Saturday evening: I go to the mall to exchange a shirt and spend a couple hours finding the cheapest of the cheap so I can spread the store credit as thin as possible. It's awesome - I like shopping, like walking around looking at stuff, like buying stuff... especially free stuff. Then my brother-in-law says his family's going to Chick-fil-a for dinner and asks me to join. I meet them there and thoroughly enjoy dinner and hanging out. He says we could catch a movie if I wanted to, but I didn't respond with much enthusiasm because I knew that would squelch any possibility of going out that night. I feel bad, but it sounds like he doesn't have time anyway. So I go home, feed my dogs and think. I can't stay here.

          Saturday night: it's always weird when I'm craving alcohol. Every time, I get in the car and drive around for an hour or so. Part of me is trying to make myself have the courage to actually go to a bar and drink, and the other part of me is telling myself to wait it out, just drive around, as my mind searching through nearly empty databases thinking of some kind of sober fun. I text a friend, she doesn't respond. I ask my roommate if she wants to get coffee with me, she can't.

          I keep driving. I drive around Baylor, past a bar that I've driven past probably 20 times and never entered. I have my phone playing Pandora, and I click to change the song, but accidentally click "shuffle stations." I see the title of the song coming on and know I need to change it if I'm going to be able to drink tonight, but my heart starts aching within me, craving something besides alcohol, craving affection.

          The song is "Closer" by Bethel. "Draw me a little closer, take me a little deeper. I want to know your heart. I want to know your heart, because your love is so much sweeter than anything I've tasted. I want to know your heart. I want to know your heart." AH! it aches. My heart aches so badly; a tender, deep, thick ache, almost soothing, while deeply painful, but the words and melody draw ties from my soul to my emotions. I cry, knowing what I really want - not alcohol, but friendship... I want not to be alone. As it plays, I feel I have a choice to make, and if I make the right choice, I can draw from this well of love. Then I hear my Papa say, "You can go drink and I'll keep playing my love song to you. The song doesn't stop if you make a bad choice." I cry some more. I don't want to take advantage of his crazy grace for me - I want to use it to be better, but I'm aching and still longing for a taste of the world's remedies. "Woa-oh-oh. Woa-oh-oh. How great your love is for me. Woa-oh-oh. Woa-oh-oh. How great is your love."

          I keep driving...  around downtown, past tons of bars, tons of possibilities, but in my brother's truck, I'm afraid of someone seeing it. I park far away and decide to walk, but then I'm too embarrassed to get out and walk by myself down the streets of downtown Waco. I start the engine up again and drive down Austin Ave. "I'll go to Dichotomy." It's a place that has coffee and "spirits." I figure if the setting is right, there's a possibility of getting a drink there, but if it doesn't feel right, I can get coffee and sit there for a while. Then, if I feel like it, which I knew I would, I could go to a bar after - just walk down the street a couple blocks.

          When I get there, I probably still look like I've been crying, but I order some drink I'd never heard of from some cute guy. I sit and look around, feeling a little stunned, a little on edge, afraid of what might happen later, whether in drinking or not. I think I'm more afraid of making the right choice, because it meant going home to sit under a broken, gushing dam of loneliness soaking through every fiber in me. I get my drink and download the NY Times crossword app, and work on it some, look around some, wait for my coffee to cool. The cute guy walks up, "How is it?"    "Haven't tried it yet. It's too hot."  He says something and smiles. I go back to my crossword puzzle. A little later, he walks up, "Whatcha doin?"    "Crossword puzzle. It's the NY Times one."   "Ah. I can't help you with that." He smiles again and walks off. Another guy asks how my drink is, I say it's good. I listen to a conversation happening in front of me, none of which I understand, because it's all in coffee-expert language. Nonetheless, I enjoy being with people and watching them. Later, another guy walks up, tells me his name, offers his hand, which I don't shake because I say I've already met him, which I have, but I still feel bad, because I didn't mean to be rude. He then says he could help me with any words I don't know, but I say there's like 80 I don't know so... Then he laughs and walks away.     Obviously, I'm not the best at being friendly, but it was a rough day/night.

          I stay for about an hour, sipping coffee, looking at all the people, smiling at their differences, their interactions, conversations, styles; the gentle flirting, the friendly gestures, the awkward responses. Then I start to feel like I've been there too long... so, while cute guy is occupied, I scoot my coffee to the edge of the counter and take off. I'm thinking of what I'll do next.

          Again, I'm driving around. I drive all over Waco... down Washington, left on Waco Dr., left of Valley Mills, back to Baylor area, past that same bar I've passed 20 times, back to downtown, back past Dichotomy, down a side street, and I park, turn off the car, grab my stuff, then think, "Am I really gonna go drink right now?" I stop. I put the key back in, turn on the car, back up, and take off. As I near Waco Dr, I feel a release, like the craving, the weight, the longing, the aching stopped suddenly. Suddenly, I feel content to go home, get in my PJ's, turn on soft music, break out my paints, and add to the sloppy mess of a painting that I always add to when I'm craving alcohol. And that's what I do.
       
          I hope that one day, it'll turn into an actual picture, an actual piece of art. What I really hope is that one day, it'll be beautiful; after layers and layers of ridiculous shapes and smears, one day it'll look like it had a purpose from the start.

          This morning as I stand in church, the first song they sing says, "Mighty is the one within us. Mighty is the one who calls our name. He will make a way. He will make a way. For your love endures forever. Oh, your love endures forever. Open up our eyes. Surround us with your light. Your love endures forever. Our God is fighting for us always. Our God is fighting for us all."      I stand and try to sing it, feeling like I just came home after war, victorious but tired. I feel sad, like I don't want to keep fighting. I don't want to go into another war, just after this one finally ended, but I know the song is true.   After the sermon, my sister tells me she's been praying for me, feeling like it's so easy for God to give me everything I need. She prays for me to have belief in God, in who he is, in what he promises - that everywhere I place my foot, he has given to me. I thank her and hug her. It's exactly what I need.

          I'm so weak, but what I keep hearing is, "When we're weak, He is strong." So, I guess it's OK to be weak, maybe even good, if I let Him be strong, and I think I'm learning how to do that.  I want people to know my struggle. I want people to know that addiction is hard, and if it's been hard for a long time, and keeps being hard, that doesn't mean you're doing something wrong, or God isn't as real to you. It just means it's hard. Another phrase God always gives me is, "In this world, you will have trouble, but take heart, I have overcome the world."

          I hope that one day, it'll turn into an actual picture, an actual piece of art. What I really hope is that one day, it'll be beautiful; after layers and layers of ridiculous shapes and smears, one day it'll look like it had a purpose from the start.

worship

        What do you want to teach me in this?
-I'm with you. I take care of you.

        Satan makes stupid things happen every day, then we turn to God and ask, "Why did you do this?" It's not fair. The blame goes to God and not to the author of all chaos and pain. What we should ask is, "Why did you allow this? What do you want to teach me?"

        I've been increasingly upset about the fact that my car is all crunched and hideous from hitting a deer, upset that there's nothing I can do about it, but feel ashamed, embarrassed. I try really hard to take good care of my things. Then yesterday, I dropped and shattered my phone to the point where shards of glass will stab me if I try to use it. Later, I went to the gym and got $80 stolen out of my wallet. It was my business money, so now I have no more to invest. I borrowed the money because I thought I could multiply it, and now it's gone. I feel like I failed.. like everything I try to do fails. I can't take care of myself, can't get or keep a job. I need a dad. I'm so weak.

        Is that ok? Is that ok, Daddy?
-You are safe. I won't let you fail. You can let go.

         I go to brunch today after church with my sister, Cassia and my parents. At one point I say I should've spent more money at a garage sale I went to since it got stolen anyway. I hadn't told my parents about the money yet, so I did. My mom says, "You must be getting attacked; you've been so happy, then all this." I agree and start tearing up. Cassia is tearing up, says she wishes she could do something to help. I can't stop tearing up, holding back a storm. My mom gives me $30. First I say I don't need it, but she sets it down and I say thank you through subtle tears. My mom prays for me, that God protects me.

        I tell them it's been really hard to not drink lately, and I think that's why these seemingly little, but difficult things are happening, then I start crying as gently as I can. When I look up, my dad's eyes are red and teary and my mom's face says that she wishes she could make it all better. She asks if she can get me a soda. I say no, but it's a sweet gesture. Cassia says, "It's ok, Mom."  Mom says, "Well, it's good to bring it out to the light."

        I agree. Then I fight for a few minutes to hold back violent tears, awkwardly folding and unfolding my napkin and taking multiple sips of my coffee, trying to think of something funny to make my body stop its autopilot into a sobbing mess. There's a reason tear and tear are the same spelling, the same word.

        I am so loved. It's worth all the pain to know that. It's worth all the pain to know that. It's worth all the pain to know that. This has been quite a journey. In church, I thought back to a few years ago when Annabeth was crying out to God for me to be rescued from the world, looking around at people I know prayed for me while I was lost. So much victory. I've seen so much victory all around me. How could I not believe for more?

        Thank you God for rescuing me, believing for my life, healing me, taking care of me. Thank you for your unfailing love and endless faithfulness. Thank you for every victory won and every victory yet to be won. Thank you for loving me.

-Keep dreaming, baby girl. I've got a lot in store for you, more than you could ever imagine.

        Worship is a beautiful duet. Perfect harmony between God and man.

wtfu

I often have dreams where I'm cussing out people I know from church.

        Last night, I had a dream of that nature. I let a few people (whom I know in real life) use my phone for something, and when I get it back, the glass is shattered, pieces falling off in my hands. I tell them it was just a scratch before - how could they be so reckless with it?! They don't listen to me, don't even look up at me, they respond with some kind of "Oh I'm sure it was already like that."
        WELL, I get enrAAAged... even now I can feel the rage surging through my heart (just from a dream!?). I'm in a group of people all sitting at tables, listening to a speaker make a presentation. I stand up, phone in hand, press my lips together firmly, grit my teeth, clench my jaw, flare my nostrils, and violently chunk my phone at the front of the room where the presentation's display shows. It breaks into pieces and I walk off as people finally acknowledge me and try to usher me out of the room.  I have embarrassed them, apparently.

        After that, I'm in a different room full of tables around which people sit, but these are different people. From what I gather, they are sororities and fraternities. I sit at the end of a table where a fraternity sits. A whole row of attractive young guys sit in front of me - I'm still unnoticed, but I don't mind it in this setting. After some time, I stand up, feeling a little scared without having my phone, since I destroyed it in the previous setting. I walk over to one guy with dark hair, a plaid shirt, and some wide-ish rim glasses. I tell him I want to go to NYC with him.

        After that, I'm in NY without a phone. I look at a map to see that I'm in Brooklyn. I keep telling myself that it will be fun to be on my own, to couch surf and meet different people and find my own way in life, but inside, I'm a little scared.

        Later on, I'm traveling with some people, a girl is driving, and I suddenly think "I'm usually nervous when other people drive. I wonder if she's a good driver." Then she starts swerving and I start telling myself to wake up from the dream I know I'm in.  I think to myself of all the ways I could try to wake myself - I pinch my cheek, but nothing happens, I can't wake up. The road just kept going into the dark night. Eventually I did wake up, but not because I made myself. I was trapped in that dream until it would release me.

RAGE. I feel it every day. Apparently it makes me feel like I don't belong in church, among the churched, but I do belong with God, and I don't belong in a dark world, trying to find my way without anyone. I want everyone to feel my rage. I want them to wake the fuck up, honestly. Wake the fuck up. Life is perfect for a lot of people, but they don't know it. They think that because they got in a fight with their significant other about paint colors, life is hard. DAMN. wtfu people. wtfu.

to the end, through the end

Dream I had last night:

        In a plane with prisoners who will soon be executed. The plane drops everyone off at a platform where the prisoners will receive their injections. There's 4 of them - 3 guys and a girl. One guy is older, maybe in his 50's and a little country; the second guy is younger, maybe 34, Hispanic, tall, skinny, buzz cut; the third guy is even younger, late 20's, blue eyes, blonde hair, a little pudgy, but attractive; then there's the girl, who I can picture, but cannot describe, it is too vague an image in my mind.

For the sake of clear storytelling, I'll give them names:
Older guy - Randy
Hispanic guy - Nick
Younger guy - Sam
Girl - Sarah

        First, Randy gets the injection, then Nick, then Sarah, then Sam. Nothing happens initially, as they all wait for the effects, then Randy says, "Hey! Did someone turn the heater on in here?" in all seriousness, with the sound of paranoia. At the same time, I watch as Nick waits for the drug: he sits and waits, nervously babbling about something, trying to not be scared, and it hits him. His expression chokes as the realization of death sets in - he can feel his body shutting down. He pulls a white blanket over him and settles himself into what's coming next - his face sweats beads, and then shouts, "Yo, y'all turn the heater on?" with the same serious, paranoid, terrified tone as Randy.

        Randy chuckles at Nick's repeat of his exclamation, but we don't laugh because this means he's getting closer to death. I turn to Sarah, who's sitting back with a white blanket. She says she doesn't feel anything, that maybe the drug won't work on her. I look sympathetically into her face and shake my head; it's not possible for her to escape death. She looks down at the ground, mournfully accepting this fact.

        Then I go to Sam, who's sitting at what looks like a picnic table, staring off ponderously. He decides he wants to get right with God, so he says something like, "God, I accept you. Take away my sins." then repeats it at least once more. When his injection kicks in, he sits back in a chair with a white blanket draped over him and talks to me, about what, I don't know.

        Randy and Nick are there for murder, something awful - they know their guilt, but Sam is there because he exposed someone of sexual behavior, someone high up in the justice system. It's like he had a website of gossip and this guy became a target. The guy didn't want his image tainted and sent Sam to prison on some BS charges.

        I look into Sam's eyes as he talks about what he did. I'm attracted to him, but I don't feel heartbroken for him, which is what I would expect myself to feel in that moment. I knew I was comforting him until the end. I was comforting all of them by just being there with them, listening to them.

        Then 3 people in suits and lab coats come down a hall, outside the room with the dying prisoners, carrying tubes of something to stop the poison. They say they're from the Food & Drug Association and they don't say it, but I know they're there for Sam. He may have done wrong, but he didn't deserve death for it. They set up all around him and connect a caulk-like tube to his arm; they begin juicing him up with something that will stop the poison and restore his body.
 
        I watch it happen and think that maybe I can get together with this guy now. I picture us kissing, like in movies, after he gets his strength back, his life back. But that doesn't happen, and the dream ends.

        I could tell I was trying to make it happen, trying to wake up enough to change the ending of the dream, make it better for me, but I couldn't do it. The picture wouldn't change. Thing is, most of the time, I do change endings or create endings, and can do it easily. Certain dreams just won't take my meddling.


Later, I dreamed that I told my sister about this dream while we sat at a picnic table next to the chain-link fence of a prison. There was a female guard standing in full gear and a huge pit-bull barking at anything moving. I told her that my conclusion from the dream is that I should be a prison guard, but said I was joking. In my mind, I considered it though. I thought that maybe someone should be there for these people as they die.
                   And maybe someone should be.

Maybe when I'm an old woman, I'll do it - visit death row inmates. There's something so heroic about loving to the end, through the end. I wish I could do it now, but I'm too pretty to go to prison. Something inside me longs to love people who are dying - people with terminal diseases, AIDs, cancer, or people on death row. I want them to know they're not alone, that they're worth loving even though they have nothing to give, because it's true. I hope some day that will be my life. I want to love so badly.

Louis Louis - Teitur

          If I could chain myself to this room every night, I would, I should. The set sun, close of day evokes a being in me - one that's possible or impossible, depending on the day, to control.

I'm so fucking sad. And, so fucking hungry.

IT'S ROARING. Its roaring hurts.
Its roaring aches my insides.

what would a little drink do?
what would a little sip cure?

If I didn't hunger, would it stop hurting?


I don't want to be hungry forever. And I don't want to be numb, unless that's the only option. I have to believe that's not the only option. When I don't, the being in me destroys the roaring sip by sip.

GOD! It hurts


I want a Daddy.    I want a Daddy!
All I've ever wanted is a Daddy, and look what I got for wanting one: addiction, abuse, abandonment, rejection, pain, sorrow, pain, sorrow.

"I get to love you through whatever comes.
    What a privilege."         He sings that to me.


The pain subsides, soaks back into the ocean of sorrow weighing my heart.

                      I'll never have a Dad.

My chest physically hurts right now. I'm sure it's a coincidence.

Now I'll go to my device-ive distractions.
There's no happy ending to this story.
Not today.


"Before I formed you in the womb, I knew you."

Somebody at church today had a word from God, a song: "Louis Louis."   My heart jumped when I heard the two identical words, connecting to a song I've loved since 2007, a song by Teitur.

I'll listen to it and see if God speaks anything to me. Maybe it has to do with that verse: "I know you."
Oh well, let's listen and see.

-I'm a delight. I have a lot to offer the world. This word from God, this song is an invitation out of hiding - the world needs my "music." The line says over and over "Come play us a song." I'm unique.


My mind and heart are ships with rudders and wheels, but then there's the wind.
I forget the wind. I forget my sails.
My tools maneuver well only when they work with wind and water.
A ship does more than turn; it sails.

I was born a doll in a microwave

       

          Maybe I do have an “addictive personality.” I can't seem to do anything in moderation – anything that makes me feel good, at least. I live for the ultimate high in everything I experience, and if I don't get there, I feel unfulfilled and crave anything and everything that will take me there, take me to the highest high. It's like everything I do is in the mindset of masturbation. That may sound disgusting, but let's be real here... you don't do it for the process; if there was no orgasm, no one would do it. It's the end that makes the process enjoyable. How frustrated everyone would be if they tried and tried and tried to reach orgasm and it never happened, and then someone told them that they're supposed to only enjoy the act of masturbating, the process, they're not supposed to do it for the end result; “there's no climax; you just have to learn to enjoy the act – the act without the result.” What is the result? Relaxation, contentment. If it was sex... ya know, with another person who you love or whatever... I suppose the result would be different – the result would be love, connection, closeness, a deep bond. Maybe that's where I'm off. I view life as masturbation when I should view it as sex. It's not just a view I have though, not just something I can choose whether or not I want to believe it; it's part of my brain, my thinking, my feeling, my reactions, my actions, and whatever else there is. So, life is sex.

Sex is something with an awful reputation. Life has the reputation as being a bitch.. pretty awful too.

Sex hurts, humiliates, confuses, degrades, emasculates, terrifies, abuses, incriminates, takes away innocence, identity, individuality, confidence, security, self-respect, hope, peace, freedom, love.

Life hurts, humiliates, confuses, degrades, emasculates, terrifies, abuses, incriminates, takes away innocence, identity, individuality, confidence, security, self-respect, hope, peace, freedom, love.

Difference is, people can hate life and love sex. Sex guarantees some amount of relational bonding; life does not. A life can go from beginning to end without any relational connection. Sex is relational connection by physical means.

Maybe it's an awful analogy, but it resonates with how I feel in every social situation, or anytime I try to do something fun. I walk away going, “Was that it?” feeling totally empty, unsatisfied, unfulfilled. Maybe things that fill normal people don't fill me. For them, there's a relational need to be met, and it's met by being with people. For me, I don't consciously have that need, and I've never known it. My engine stopped running on fuel a long time ago, and now it runs on air. It learned how to move around like a car, but if you pop the hood, nothing is on, nothing is running. Is it still a car if it doesn't have a working engine?

My brain rewired itself into receiving fulfillment from strong feelings, emotional highs, physical highs. A man showing interested in me, a drink or smoke, a friend telling me how I'm the most awesome person ever, or the construction of radical, abstract, creative thoughts or theories (like this one): these are the only things that make me feel alive, fulfilled. Without them, i'm running a race without a finish line. This is why I feel that I have to go crazy deep with people – crazy deep and radically real, because my relational radar only goes off when strong feelings are expressed. I receive so much fulfillment and life in arguments because I feel connected to the person or people with whom I'm arguing. They walk away thinking I hate them and I walk away initially exuberant, then learning how they feel, I feel so sad, to put it plainly. I feel sad that my heart was alive and happy in the conversation while theirs was growing colder and more distant with every word.

I'm learning about normal relationships from Melanie. She doesn't go deep or share her real, unveiled feelings, but she does consider me a friend and I think she cares about me, though I don't feel it. I watch our relationship, I study it to understand how people do it. They all think I'm on top, I'm confident, I'm the leader... but I'm studying their every move, trying to discover what friendship is. Maybe I don't want them to know that I'm the car whose engine is off, my feet sticking through the floor board propelling my car forward with all my strength, trying to stay at the same pace as them. If I thought it would help, maybe I'd let them in, but my feelings tell me that nothing will help. And it's too tender a subject to risk being laughed at or misunderstood. I'm very sensitive. I need to accept that. I need to stop acting so tough... but being so sensitive, it feels impossible not to have a tough outside. People are so harsh and I'm so tender. I don't know if I want to be, but I am.

I wonder if all their engines work.