Category: shards from old journals



I keep pushing because I’m know there’s something under there, I know there is something just out of reach that I can get to, if I’m only not afraid long enough to pull it out. It comes through in dreams, in half formed sobs, in nameless achings. It tells me I belong somewhere I hate, somewhere I can’t understand. This is how it comes out-

In the breathless waking in the morning grayness, sheets tangled and sweaty, nobody there but myself, watching the blood disappear and feeling the pain fade. See, it wasn’t real…

In the realization that I have memories I cannot recall, if there can be such a thing.

In the taste of something that is familiar even though I’ve never tasted it wasn’t real…

I keep pushing because I know there’s something there, something else, even if I don’t want to know what it is.


I’m so fucking cold. Just cold. I’m really tired of being cold. I’m tired of waking up in the middle of the night and being cold. I’m tired of waking up in the middle of the night screaming. I’m tired of waking up in the middle of the night. I’m tired of waking up. I’m tired.

This smart ass friend of mine suspects that she understands something of the nature of what makes me this way, what makes me incapable of feeling my own body for very long, unless I’m asleep, and I’m not sure that counts. I’ve asked her what she thinks, but she says it’s for me to figure out – she wouldn’t dare. She just gets it, she says.

Of course I’m better at figuring her out. I know why she doesn’t have bad dreams. She sees too many things all at once, she sees it all. Her pain comes from not being able to turn it off, to close her eyes. She reaches out and feels the pain of a hundred thousand souls, looking for the one true pulse and touch of the one she loves, who is out there. Somewhere. Unknown to her, but palpable, on a finer level.

She takes her hurt, and rearranges it, propitiates and propositions it, and its all laid out in neon patterns to her eyes.

She looks at it all in the face every day.


I’m sitting here in this sad little space waiting for something to break out. I don’t know what it is. I don’t know if I want to know, but I always feel it there, feel something there, right on the edges, on the sidelines, under the surface, something waiting to get out.

But usually I have it all under control.

But you, you know. Somehow you know what it is, but you won’t say. You have some knowledge you’re not giving away, but it’s not fair, because it’s some knowledge of me. Or not me, but of Things Like Me, of how things like this work. You have a key I would kill for, but you think it’s a key to only pain, and you won’t let me have it.

I can only imagine your nightmares, except you don’t seem to have any. But you should, you ought to. Maybe yours just aren’t as loud, because you know a control I never learned.


Suddenly I’m hungry. Silly really. I woke up, after forcing eight hours of sleep on myself, and stayed in bed as long as I could. I got up, made coffee, drank coffee, got by for fourteen hours on just the calories from the milk I added and sheer stubborness.

And now I’m hungry. I stand in the kitchen and eat crackers and cheese standing up, dropping cheese on myself, like I’m starving. I eat cold meat leftover from last weekend. I drink out of the milk carton. I eat ice cream from the freezer, standing up. I clutch the carrots like I haven’t eaten in days.

I have, but I feel like I haven’t.

I don’t know why I’ve been doing this to myself, this not eating. I like the way the hunger makes me feel, makes my belly curl in on itself, makes my sight strange and my fingers stranger, makes my body further away from me.

Maybe if I don’t feed it it will just go away.


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.

Naps – strange dreams of voodoo houses and boxes of heroin and being left behind.

I don’t know how to stop loving him.  I don’t know how to stop hurting over the whole thing.  I don’t know if I’m still in love with him, with the man that he is, or with the boy that he was the first day I laid eyes on him, blond and tattered and gorgeous in Linda’s living room – with the boy I fell in love with, the man I left years later, dark-haired now and hurt and lonely.  Or if I’m still in love with a  concept, with the idea of loving him, with us… no closure.

And I haven’t let go and I don’t want to and now I carry around the secret of him like I did when I was with lovers, the presence of him always there, making me make myself feel guilty for not being with him, with him, with him who I love, loved, am loving, will love. Should I use the conditional now?  Should I use the past tense?

Past. Tense.