harsh truth

i need to get out from under you.

ripped up

i have a hundred reasons to stay here, and a hundred reasons to go.
this is all i can think about these days.



the after-graduation living choice is now stuck between the twin cities and detroit.

there are so many factors going into this. making this decision is like some sort of intricate project, like gluing a fragile vase back together, like writing on a grain of rice. i want to make sure every piece lines up right.



the first step is admitting you have a problem, right?
but right now it feels like trying to take a single step over a gaping chasm.

please, build me a bridge; give me a few hours and the chance to put my feet in front of one another a few more times. then, perhaps, i can get to you.

i have not been screaming at night. i have been tensing up, letting out a nervous "oh," but leaving the frightened exclamations somewhere else. (maybe it is because i know nobody can hear me; maybe it is because i am in my mother's house; maybe it is because things might be getting better; maybe it is because i am gaining control)


spring break 98

i'm back at my mom's house.

i'm not entirely sure that i want to be.
somebody please convince me.

(i am sleep deprived and restless;
i am upset at the loss of a grocery list;
i am becoming obsessive and consumed;
i am making a bad decision, writing about my personal life on the internet.)



i didn't scream last night. i could've; i felt one; i didn't.

lessons learned: no more caffeine (at all, probably), no screens at least a half an hour before bed. more decaf/herbal tea, more books.

i'm writing a fifteen-minute song suite on eating disorders. i've been doing research to make sure i get things right. it's beginning to consume me. books, tv shows, articles...most things say the same thing, but i always want to know more. right now i'm reading a book on how to talk to a friend or family member who is hurting themselves.

all i've been writing about lately is mental illness. the song suite on suicide, a recent tune i wrote from the perspective of a mentally ill inmate, and now this. but that amount of internal torture and conflict is compelling. i don't care as much anymore about pop love songs, about the conversations between two people that we've heard before. i care much more about the conversation within a person, as well as the conversations that we are afraid to have with other people. i care more about depression, anxiety, fear, pain, struggle. i care about working through that and finding some answers at the other end, or at least figuring out when i have answers or when i don't. maybe a lot of this is taking aspects of my personality, blowing them up to an extreme, picking them apart, and them working through them. (i do feel much saner, much more put-together when i write about mental illness.)

i was just going to make a small note as i ate my breakfast, but this turned into a few paragraphs. oh, well. better i said something than nothing, i suppose.