2004-04-29 – 12:07 a.m.

I didn’t finish Swinburne and Sappho. But I turned it in. There was so much more to say. I rewrote it three times. I got it vaguely somewhere and I was only 38 minutes late for class to turn it in.

I bit off more than I could chew.

It matters, somehow, or I think it does. But then again, it doesn’t. I don’t think it does. And here I am.

I have to do this again. Another week to do another one of these. Why is writing, for me, so hard? Why does it hurt? What am I putting off, putting on, doing? What I am pretending? What do I doubt? And why do I think everything has to be always perfect?

Took tonight off from research. Read some Anne Sexton. Sad, so sad, I was crying before but I am crying more now.

Therapy screwed me up forever. I have turned my entire life into something to be analysed. Some people just live. Not us, of course, not those of us who feel compelled to simultaneously create and project ourselves out here into a public eye… but some people do. I am sure they do. I am sure life is somehow easier for them. Some people don’t put needles in their own bedclothes, don’t draw maps and encode the directions and forget the key. Some people …. don’t.

Maybe I am so whacked because I stopped therapy in adolescence, when there’s still so much more to say. To see. To get at. Or maybe I don’t have the heart, the guts, to do that anyway, anymore. I don’t think I do. The idea makes me feel weak. Then, there was a mountain to be climbed, a goal to be reached, a place to be “got to.” Out of *that,* whatever that was.

I got out of that. But I never got out of something else. And I never stopped thinking thinking thinking about it.

I have absolutely no idea in the world why I am so sad right now. There is nothing wrong.

There is everything wrong.

There is something wrong.