August 16, 2015 § Leave a comment

Curled up into my body. I fall asleep on the couch because it’s uncomfortable. It wakes me up in the night, so I remember my dreams. The notebook I write all of them in. There should be a reason, what am I using them for? Am I trying to understand myself? I think too much about myself already. Knowing the reasons why you feel like shit doesn’t┬ástop you from feeling like shit.

I have a dictionary on the coffee table downstairs. Highlighters, pens, why are there so many of them? You were over, the lights were out, I tried to hide it from you, but you found out. I love words. Reading certain sentences, paragraphs for me is so intense and I’ve loved them since I first learned how to read.

When I was little I used to curl up under my parents’ desks around the house with boxes of saltine crackers and margarine, making little sandwiches out of both, squishing the margarine through the cracker holes, reading my books all night. Scholastic book orders were one of the most exciting times of my child life.

My ability to read is the only marker I have of when I end up very sick. The only thing that really bothers me. I can end up in a corner of my apartment, in cold sweats, crying for days, too terrified to make it anywhere past a few feet around myself, but as long as I have my books it’s fine. When I end up unable to concentrate on those words though, I’m scared. Danger, Will Robinson.


Chuckin’ Eff

August 16, 2015 § Leave a comment

There was this urgency to write something. I haven’t in a while. I should be more dedicated to this, to be honest, but I start getting crazy perfectionistic before I actually post anything, editing and editing away. I remember one night in university, trying to write this essay on Mao II and literally writing introductions over and over again, crazed and broken backed, bent over my laptop, not realizing the time gone by until the light started coming through my window in the morning again. I had all these intros, no essay. That’s one of various similar incidents of me getting obsessive and sleepless trying to stay afloat.

I used to get anxious and tell my first year friends that I looked like a reptile. I barely slept and was stressed all the time for a good few years before I really went off the deep end. When I was still hanging on with my fingernails, I was just paranoid about how ugly it was making me. I spent hours in front of the residence hall mirrors staring at my face. It wasn’t vanity at all, but wondering if I was a human still. Transparent skin and not having eaten or slept for a few days, takes its toll.

The fucked up part is that I kind of enjoyed it. I wanted to be sick and broken. I still feel like I have to really fucking SUFFER for anything I’ve done to be worth it, to be good. I was greening at the gills, pulling my hair back around my temples, where the veins would be surfacing, my entire hairline just looked blue/grey to me.

The next year I wrote a series of stories, surreal and increasingly disturbed, about a woman transforming or finding herself chipping, breaking away into pieces, crumbling. There were various incarnations.

I am supposed to be getting better but I still want to be the sick, dying artist. Why am I so ill inclined?

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