saturday, october 26

All of a sudden something happened and I'm feeling crazy and confessional. I want you to know how fucked up I have been and what the inside of my skull looks like. It's embarrassing and disgusting this level of agonizing, pretty much, yes I know, but I feel like no matter what I do I must write this and show people and tell them and I don't know why. Maybe it's the feeling of strangulation I get when people look at me and see a well-adjusted intelligent college student on her way to success and independence, because it's only part of the puzzle. And it happens all of a sudden like this out of nowhere. Either flashbacks or something else, one of the few disorders I haven't been diagnosed with, who fucking knows, but I feel like I need to show this to you.

[Just a note; if you're not in the mood to be disturbed or grossed out please read no further. I warned you]

I have 34 individual scars on my shoulders: I counted. Some fainter than others, some deeper, some longer and wider. They're quite an interesting patchwork. I did it in high school, sophomore year mostly, some in my beleagured junior year when the pressure was greatest. I would do it with at home in the bathroom at night so I could hang over the sink and let the blood run down the drain without it falling all over the place and making a mess. I cleaned them meticulously with a surgeon's precision. I'm still not sure why I did it. It certainly didn't feel good. I think I was angry. I felt I deserved the pain. Either way, I wear their impressions like badges of some shameful honor, like uniform epaulets. I remember the dull ache they provided during the school day as the fabric of my shirt rubbed over the open wounds. I remembered the dull ache in my throat and the taste of copper in my mouth as I dug into my skin, the chilling rush of adrenaline through my body as it was injured in a way it was not meant to be. The unnaturalness of the act. At the root of it, I had no reason. My head spun afterwards with the meaninglessness of it all. I did not do it like other people; I had not their justification, their motivation. It was the ultimate expression of existential choice, a drama acted out with x-acto knives and that same blank smile.

I remember in those moments as the metal entered my flesh how I seemed to become metal myself. To this day I still don't know what it meant. [11:46 PM]

The Writings section is now complete. Please, go visit, laugh if you must. I have some vague hope that my ramblings are not entirely pointless. [6:30 PM]

My right contact has been bothering me lately. My mouse is being a pain in the ass. I need to feed my fish. I need to feed myself. I'm getting a web cam - NO, I will not be putting it on this site. The world has enough sorrow without me inflicting my unkempt visage upon the web community. The camera will be used solely for communication with my significant other and for whatever naughtiness ensues.

But back to the food thing, I could really use a muffin...

Addendum: I now have a muffin, a coffee, a yogurt, and a tangerine juice. I'm also listening to Daft Punk. Something is wrong with this picture. [3:08 PM]

On a clear day, I'll fly home to you...

I'm sitting here late at night, it's raining outside, and I'm listening to Zero 7's "Destiny" with none of the usual pangs of grief and nostalgia. Thinking about winter and closed blinds, little shafts of sunlight filtering through, lying in bed all day just holding each other with the smell of cranberry and spice in his tiny little apartment. Treading gingerly through the unusual North Carolina snow, slipping on the ice and having him catch me. Seeing movies, walking through the mall, dancing under strobe lights in our sexiest clothes. And every night soft flannel blankets, wrapping us up like a fragile package, making jokes, making love, making hope and love grow in each other's hearts, little red flowers opening to the morning dew.

It was a good time, precious time, sweet and unhurried. I burned popcorn on his stove and sat on his lap as we watched DVDs. Resting my head in the gentle place where his neck meets his shoulder and feeling like this was just the way it was supposed to be, the way it was always meant to be. And everything was right, and I felt no pain or worry. And now, almost a year later we talk and tell each other we love, we love. He tells me "you are the only person I love or want to be in love with" and I know it's true. Because this is the way it's meant to be, as inexorable as those little red flowers.

And they will flourish in spite of themselves. [1:39 AM]

friday, october 25

Mmmmm. General Tso's chicken.

Yes, Stuka once again has a new look. The black, while appropriate, was getting on my nerves, as were my disappearing navigation links. White is the Oriental color for mourning, anyway. So, please don't think me too much of a lunatic for changing layouts in less than a week's time. Thanks, peace and happiness... [6:38 PM]

I am awakened this morning by two maintenence men banging on the door. Our sink is clogged again. My roommate, being the helpful individual that she is, put in a service request last night. In addition, my roommate, being the helpful individual that she is, neglected to mention to me that they would be arriving at a time when I would most likely still be in a state of undress.

I have a huge craving for Thai food but I can't find a place that does takeout in my area. I am sad.

I'd like to change the layout of this site again. But maybe I won't. We'll see. [3:46 PM]

thursday, october 24

There's something about this song that blinds everything out in my head like staring at the sun, burning off the mist and the grey over and over again in endless loops. I listen to it for hours on end: it was there this summer during those endless hours behind the counter staring into the dead eyes of bored housewives, and it was there during those hot August nights when we managed to be together and drove around the mall in circles as the sun set behind us, speeding across the highway and down the wooded hills like an echo of last year. Japanese food mixed well with our tears at midnight, when our time came to leave.

So here I am again with my head in my hands, eyes closed and letting the West Coast drone of these mysterious entities fill my consciousness, feedback and distortion and white noise: it's so cathartic. And at the same time it's that blackness you feel in the core of your heart at times just like these when the pain is rising up in you and chewing at your throat with rodent razor teeth, it's neverending, just like that. And repetetive, circular, dizzy. Standing up and twirling round in circles just for the hell of it. Those few little words like a flood in your head, "Now s/he's gone and love burns inside me," it's like drinking some bad liquor or some wine or some poison, a thousand shots of tequila, lying stoned and wasted on your bedroom floor and feeling the narcotic haze descend over you like a morning fog, it's loneliness and hollowness, feeling that part of you ripped clean away, aching for them, bleeding for them, getting drunk and stoned and high for them and crying yourself to sleep at night holding their jacket in your arms.

It never ends for me, in a way. My life is a complex patchwork of concentric sorrows and cyclical ecstasy. Like that song you can't get out of your head, it repeats itself into infinity, and nothing really changes. One verse substitutes itself for another.

The song, in case you're wondering, is "Love Burns" by Black Rebel Motorcycle Club. But ultimately it doesn't matter: you, like me, can fill in the blank. [8:59 PM]

I love crying for no reason.

No, actually, I have a really good fucking reason to cry. [5:29 PM]

I am now officially a Journalism major.

I finally managed to download a highly-illegal copy of "The Ring" so I could watch the scary bits without covering my eyes like I did in the theater with Luke. It's really not that bad, although I guess nothing is too scary on a blurry 1-inch screen on your computer. Someday I want to see the original, I'm getting tired of hearing about this "infamous last scene."

The last few scenes in the remake are pretty fucking scary anyway though. Dun dun... static... blink, and... SHE'S HUGE! Aaaaaagh! Enough to make you want to jump out a window. Sort of. [2:39 PM]

wednesday, october 23

The professor that guest-lectured in my Abnormal Psych class last Monday was just on Nightline.

The thrill, the thrill. [11:45 PM]

My roommate needs to get off the fucking phone. NOW.

In addition, she needs to stop making this snorting noise when she laughs. In addition, she needs to stop making these disgusting hawking sounds when she brushes her teeth.

Others have to listen to you, you know. [10:11 PM]

Well, Luke is in Rochester now. He called me last night and I did a pretty good job at not breaking down over the phone and felt stupid for feeling jealous of his pit bull because he was cooing at her and not me. "Hewwo Mabel. I wuv you. Yesh. I wuv you." Etc. He says she's the only other girl I have to worry about. I think I would only be worried about her if her jaws were anywhere near my extremities.

My Writing instructor commented on one of my response papers, "Wow. A good, honest critique of ol' Levine. You attended to his strengths and his weaknesses with the same thoroughness. I think you could have a strong career as a critic or book reviewer if you wanted - you discuss books sincerely + openly, with a good amout of wit. i.e. you make the review interesting. Thanks."

Despite their infrequency, these little bits of encouragement make me feel like everything is not completely hopeless. It's started to make more and more sense to me to head towards the writing-oriented professions rather than psychology or anything like that. Everywhere I go the only thing people seem to say is "Are you a writer? Are you going to be a writer? I think you should write. You're a fantastic writer. You should do this." I should probably listen to them. Now (ha ha) if I could only follow through... [4:56 PM]

tuesday, october 22

I can't fuck up. I cannot fuck up. I have to get this right. This is for everything now, everything is at stake.

I have to nail this fucker. [11:20 PM]

It isn't the sadness that gets to me, it's the happiness. Remembering how fucking happy I was all those times, and remembering how little it took to fill my heart to bursting. A little hug or a smile across the table, or the way he gets in between me and the traffic when crossing the street or the way he holds my hand when we're driving. Those little things made me so happy, and I felt it, like the way you feel in water, you feel lighter, less burdened. And I can deal with the memory of our sad times apart but it's the memory of the way we were together that rips me apart and makes me feel like I can't bear this anymore.

I can't, I just can't. It's too much. [8:41 PM]

I have an Abnormal Psych exam tomorrow, and I can barely think straight. I have all these windows and emails open about internships and jobs and resumes, and I can barely think. I can't concentrate. Nothing is going to get done in this state. At least I did laundry and gave Rusty James clean water. And I dissected a cow's eye in lab. Other than that...aaagh, I must force myself to think, think think think think be productive. Please, brain, be productive. I need a job. How am I going to get a job like this? agh... [6:08 PM]

The guy in the bagel store where I got my lunch looked at me today and asked if I had an exam or something.

No, I always look this miserable. [2:30 PM]

monday, october 21

I like to stand sometimes by my window at night and look out to the east at the high-rise apartments that loom like mountains, only several blocks away yet somehow quite distant. Hundreds of windows glow with inviting warmth, and I look at those identical points of light and wonder how the lives embodied in them compare in terms of insanity in relation to my own.

Comforting. Sometimes. [8:30 PM]

Just believe
Just breathe
Another day
Just believe
Another day
Just breathe... [8:20 PM]

After watching a documentary in Abnormal Psych about a system of psychiatrists and psychiatric facilities that, in the late 1980s, conspired to convince several innocent patients with unusually large insurance plans that they were both victims and perpetrators of Satanic ritualistic abuse, thus depriving them of their families, their sanity and (of course) their money...I feel I grow further alienated from the mental health field with every article I read, every show I watch, every person I talk to. I can't even stand to look at these disgusting, derranged Christian fundamentalist individuals that sit on their intellectual laurels and point the finger at undeserving individuals who have placed their trust in these "established experts." No wonder our world is so fucked up when the insane are leading the insane.

Though the field is certainly worth the inquiry and effort that's expended on it, I would feel a little too much like Alice in Wonderland if I spent too much time wandering through the endless grey nebula that is Psychology. It is too new, too primative a science for me to put any real faith in it. I wouldn't inflict these dubious methods on myself, much less a person in the throes of mental illness. The unending cry of the intrepid behavioralist who says he's discovered the Perfect Drug or the Irrefutable Explanation just sounds too much to me like the voice of those scientists from the 15th century insisting the world was flat. Too little information, too much at stake to fuck around. I'm opting out. [5:31 PM]

Playlist section added and Writings slowly being uploaded. Just in case you were bored with my endless blatherings. Have fun. [2:28 PM]

And it goes on like this, it's so familiar. That emptiness, that knot in the pit of your stomach. First the creativity, the attempts to find hope and comfort in a comfortless situation, clinging on to every memory and every memento in the hopes of briefly forgetting your despair. Then the crushing reality sets in and you know there is no comfort except the one you can't have: his hand on yours, his arms around you, the smell of his skin, the warmth of his body, that calm reassurance. But those hands are soon far away, unreachable. And it is not blood that is pulsing through your heart but sorrow, inescapable sadness that has no end except the temporary escape you find in sleep and dreams, and in those brief hours where you hear his voice through the bland miracle of technology. This is all there is, and all there will be for weeks upon weeks, and it's up to you to adapt. To grow used to the silence, the absence. To go on and do the work you have to do to make it better for both of you. It's cold and unhappy, but it's not entirely hopeless. It's your life, what you've chosen, and you go on with the day. Waiting for his hands to return. [2:21 PM]

sunday, october 20

It's over, once again. The nights and the midnight dinners and all the fear and suspicion and paranoia, and endless trips to Starbucks and Blockbuster and movie stubs and blank receipts and too much caffeine and too much nicotine. And open windows and open hearts, and the endless road, and every stupid joke and every shared glance, and the look in his eyes when he smiles and laughs, and the wind in your face and the inexorable freedom of existence and that feeling that makes your heart break into a thousand pieces over and over again. DVDs and the radio and books and soft fabric against your skin, pressed against each other, holding hands and breaking the speed limit, breaking all the rules, laughing in everyone's faces, laughing at the world and giving it a great big fuck-you raised finger. Doing what you want and doing what feels right, wandering around with no direction, wandering around with no hope except the hope you have in each other. A thousand goodbyes and a thousand dry tears you never let fall until it's too late, and he's standing on the platform with the tiniest sad smile waving slightly to you through the window as the train rolls slowly away from the station, for the last time, in the dark, and you're left with nothing except his jacket that he gave to you, clutching it like your broken dreams and those still intact, and it still smells like him, and eventually your eyes sting and get wet but it's always too late and there's nothing outside the window except the black night, and you just end up looking like an idiot when the conductor comes along and gives you a funny look. But it doesn't matter, because nothing matters anyway except holding fast the memory of his face in your mind and hanging on to the possibility of happiness in the future, hanging on to it like the last ticket out of oblivion on the rush-hour train, and believing in it, and believing in him, because that's all there is. That's all there is in the whole wide world. [8:54 PM]