Nothing
How do I feel today? I watch the acid-rain runoff drip into contaminated pools and consider the question quite seriously.
I feel nothing.
I feel neither want nor excess, joy nor sorrow, but a quiet sort of wisdom. I feel uneasy and tired. Actually, to put it better, I suppose I should say I feel everything all at once, and it just cancels out, like the creation of the light color white. You would think that all of the colors combined would create a color more spectacular than any ever seen, but actually it is is bland and boring. It is not emptiness, because the pangs of that void are much more profane and wracking than the quiet-pain I feel right now. That actually saddens me because that means that I have nothing to run from. I sit with my back against this cold, unforgiving wall, and my loneliness does not bother me. Chris Miller walked by and spoke to me for the first time in about a month. He said “Smile.” Fuck you.
I like the way my body is uncomfortable on the cement. Pain is purifying. It almost frightens me how peaceful this feels— like at any given moment I could simply disappear. I do not feel like I still exist here, on Earth. It does not make any sense to me and I do not try to force it. I enjoy that my questions remain unanswered and will never quit asking them. I am slipping away into nothingness and am so grateful for it. I would rather not exist than hurt the way I hurt. I am quite secure in the fact that I most likely will never find out what is wrong with me. I would be frightened, except I can’t feel anything at all.
Sadness
A heavy, thick veil of sadness has settled over my soul. It has replaced the Nothingness. It is not empty or painful. I don’t understand why people cry when they are sad because it is the least painful of all that is painful. It is a relief for me, from agony. Sadness without pain feels like a perfect movie soundtrack. It just fits. It is a quiet, graceful feeling; delicate and soft. The word, itself, is beautiful: sadness, pianga, trista. It is white-gloved and gentle. It tugs at my soul rather than breaking it, and does not elicit tears.
I wonder as I examine this new sensation: What does it want from me? It is like a light in a dark place. We should rejoice in feeling sorrow in the same manner we rejoice in feeling joy. It calms me. I don’t fear or hate it. This sadness is very dreamlike, and everything is hazy yet so utterly unbelievably clear. It is nice. I like it. I decide I would like it to stay. Warm, sweet, comforting darkness. I am no longer falling into an endless abyss. I am the abyss.
What I Said
Thank you for your courtesy and I appreciate your efforts, but let’s not make assumptions about the lives of people we know nothing about. This was never about me or my life. I never meant to imply that one of us has it harder than the other. This is about the laws of nature. Some of us are born to speak; some of us, to listen. I stepped out of my place one too many times. Thank God that you have such hope for life but my perception isn’t as warped as you might think.
My life is as it should be. I don’t see the need to share the secrets that are in my heart. I am not deaf, only silent. I get along quite well alone. I will always be here for you because I know there is much in life that pains you, and while I am not one for giving advice, I always listen. I am good at safe-guarding the secrets of others. You are destined to speak; so speak. Don’t think that you owe me some service. I don’t need it.
When I get weary just leave me be. There is no word you can speak to comfort me, no prayer that will save me. My service to others is God’s plan so I shed my pride and dignity in exchange for His strength and silence. I know that, some day, I will be rewarded for it, but I cannot kill myself and hasten the process. I can only hope to show you comfort if not contentment, patience if not peace, and laughter if not joy. I paid a price for my silence and I’ll not speak another word. I apologize. What burdens could I possibly have? I should not be so selfish as to think of myself.
I would carry your cross for you you conniving little bitch.
Mirrors
We are all afraid of mirrors, not because of what we see but because of what we don’t see. The hidden self of all of us has no shelter from this blunt, cruel glass. So what am I supposed to do? Stand here and cry? Look away? Run away? Standing helpless and hopeless while these feelings ravage my soul with unquenchable hunger. They torture me until I give in and cry out. God rebuilds me until it happens again— writing the script of the role I must play forever. How I long for the truth. To be close, and open, and not have to pretend that I am something I am not.
He will not take me, nor will he accept what I have to offer. He is beautiful in his cynical bluff; broken. I stripped my heart of its last vestiges of protection and showed it to him, bleeding. He did not look. He wouldn’t open his blind eyes to what he was searching for so desperately. My words could never penetrate his deafness as he left me to run back into my shelter of cowardice and comfortable absence. The words rang out, echoing in my mind on the cool clear morning wind.
Let me love you. I will perish if I cannot.
Letter to my Soul
I have made a commitment to keep myself pure— not only chaste, but spiritually pure. It’s not about me saving myself for my one and only love because I think you never know when that person is going to come along. It’s about me being available for whatever God has in His plan for me.
Nothing Again
I think I do not like the Nothing so much. It is no longer a thoughtful, wise Nothing. Everything is completely chaotic within me. I’m not exactly sure how to take that. I can’t arrange thoughts into sane ideas. They don’t float and appear at random- rather, they are spinning and swirling and everywhere and everything all at once. I can’t grasp any of them; they wriggle through my mind like sand fleas. So, after trying so many times, I’ve decided to just let them play. After all, who am I to give them orders? I don’t control the voices in my head. They can play their silly little games and I’ll just sit here patiently and wait. Maybe if I pretend I’m not interested in them, one will become curious and come to me.
I fear that, some day, they will band together and attack me instead of remaining benign as they are now. I pretend to have control over them but am terrified- not that I will lose control, but that I never really had it in the first place. Oh, ignore my babbling. It’s silly. But a disturbance shakes my spirit and very seldom do I neglect my intuition.
No Other Way
The backpack swings carelessly on your broad shoulders, outlining your lithe physique with gracious strokes. A million thoughts run through my mind as you stop in front of me, expecting your usual kiss. All I can do is reach my hands to your face. I turn your chin from one side to the other, memorizing you. Your hard body, strong chin, jet black hair, and lips that just beg to be kissed- but all are second to your coldwater blue eyes. My plain brown eyes soil the dark blue canvas they reflect. My hands retire from their work and fidget at my sides.
“Now walk away.” And tears rush so quickly to my eyes that I close them against the scene. “Walk away.”
As I watched the backpack jar with your steps, I knew tears would not come. This is what I need to see. I have to watch you leave. Again. I have to see it with my own eyes, to punish my lonely heart for being so lonely.
He doesn’t look back.
Transformation
Mouth gaping, gasping a few shallow breaths through the water; colder and harder than the cold, hard tile of the shower floor. I forced myself to get up and then, with no hesitation, slapped my own face as hard as I could. Somehow my hand betrayed me or the sound of flesh sharp on flesh lied, because I felt nothing. Nor did I feel it for my second experiment, nor did I when the razor blade sliced through my skin. I had to check to make sure it cut me; the thin stream of blood barely giving me confirmation.
It was so hard to get off of that floor and go on with life. I would do it in the shower so I could disappear into the walls, the cold water wrapped around me like steel claws. No one would have to clean it up. I want it to be clean, and sweet, and holy, and acceptable. It would not be beautiful; a naked dead girl on the floor of the bathroom is not beautiful. How can I take this act that blasphemes the flesh and change something grotesque into something chaste?
Letter to my Journal
I don’t want this notebook to be like all the others. I want it to be different, but don’t know how or why. So here I am on what? My eighth journal (if you include my two poetry books). Time for a change. So what do we change to? All random thoughts? All prose? I don’t know. My poetry sucks. It’s lost its clean, sharp lines and is not even worth reading. It’s not worth writing. Everything I think or write has been done before; my writing is stale and redundant. I begin to think I should quit altogether but still clutch desperately to it. My journals are the only place safe for me to scream the whispers in my mind. They stand silent as my friends fall. What would I do without them?
Like the Phoenix
My urge to write dwindles like the enigma of sanity dancing in my head. I watch it dissipate into nothing. I cannot salvage the child I now sacrifice, and watch her die in my arms without blinking an eye to this prerequisite to faith. I pay dearly, nodding slightly in the cold, in barely-what-you-would-call ‘recognition’ to the child. And I can see the trust in her eyes as she thinks I am going to save her. I turn away without remorse, and ignore her cries as the flames engulf that which is written in her veins; the death warrant signed by my own hand, and burn the ashes.
Untitled
So many things to say. For a moment, I wish words were obsolete so that I could communicate through touch and wouldn’t need them so desperately. Until I realize that they are obsolete. Maybe I am having so much trouble writing because I don’t need to anymore. I’m open and honest with almost everyone, so why do I still go to an inanimate object instead of a person who will listen? There is a gentle urging in my soul to quit, but I cling to it. My heart no longer bleeds all over the paper in argument to life. It is in heaven in the Hands of God. He protects it from me. I must learn to give my love away without giving away my heart. It makes more sense, but is alien to me. I used to thrive off of pain.
Now I lay in a plane of melancholy sadness; my mind lost in this dank fog that I’m not sure will clear. I feel like a lunatic— too disturbingly, eerily calm. But I laugh and wear capes and goggles and swords to school to make my friends laugh because I like to see them happy. I will not burden them with my troubles. That would be very self-absorbed. So I run into walls, twitch, and make random animal noises; cross my fingers and hope for the best. Still, I feel I am not doing enough. When the laughter fades away, I see a tiny light in their eyes. And their joy flickers like the death of a star in some distant galaxy… so distant.
Random Thoughts
Easily distracted, not stupid, my heart was never yours to break. I got a referral for laughing once. I wonder why they call it a ‘referral.’ You don’t get referred to anything, you just get in trouble, but it was worth it. I’ve never laughed so hard in my life. Yes, he farted, but only I heard it and I couldn't call out my friend like that. Jerome. You know who makes me laugh a lot? The band— Max, Eddie, and Connor. There’s the private school! Hi everybody! Here bird, bird, bird, bird. Max is way too good for me. I’d like him if I could. My back hurts. I remember when we went to Village Inn and on the way home I gave Max a massage. He was ticklish, which was charming. Old people scare me. Someone kill me before I get that old so I won’t go around scaring people. I picked up trash around campus today with a green scrunchie on my wrist and knot in my dirty, sweaty hair. I will curl it. I want some fried chicken or country-fried steak or something else bad for me. I didn’t eat breakfast or lunch, just some pretzels (the little ones) and a granola bar. I wore goggles again, today. It made me think of Johnny. I think everyone is too good for me. Not really but I know that’s what I should think. So I sit on a log and get fat from eating honey and think about it. Raoul smokes and that pisses me off. So does Ryker. I can’t imagine Connor and I having sex which is good because I’m marrying his best friend, Max, who doesn’t like me.
Ryker
I need someone less… good, perhaps. Johnny will never happen and I have to move on. Sometimes I am drawn to the memories, the wretched memories of my past and all those times I broke in the hands that held me. Ryker’s hands, too— beautiful hands. If he weren’t so beautiful in face and body and heart, he would still be beautiful because beauty attaches itself to him out of affection for his exceptional presence. He was the first man to ever tell me I was beautiful. Maybe that’s why I can’t stay away from him.
I got in trouble for having a fork in Mr. O’Rian’s class, today. To be fair it was a distractingly large fork. Tomorrow is Ash Wednesday. Just let me keep my eyes on the Lord no matter what, especially in this Easter week. Let me fully appreciate how profound and miraculous it truly is.
Mr. Sunshine
They say I should let him get to know me. I should let him see beyond the person I’ve created. They say I should tell him how I feel. I should let myself be vulnerable. I fear, What if he rejects me? They say, Why would you think that? Why would he do that? Because I’m so scared of my own feelings. I’m terrified even to feel them. I’ve created this person for a reason. He would not want me. He deserves better than me and, I scream in silence, I wish I could be that person. But I am not. I should stay with Ryker— stick to my own class. I’m only willing to go to a certain extent to humiliate myself. I don’t have much pride to cling to. I’m not sure if it’s worth it. I will pray about it. They say I am afraid. They say that he said I am beautiful. It is not an urgent, fleeting, youthful feeling I’ve had so many times before. He has lovely blue-grey eyes. Oh God, steer me in the right direction because I have no idea what I’m doing.
Crush
I am not good enough for him. I am selfish, greedy, insecure, depressed, conceited; why should I let him get to know me? I mean, I know that no one out there wants to hear my whining and complaining. I am here to serve others. I am to be subservient. I am to listen and not speak, and be there for others and not burden them with my tears. Why would he want me? He is too good for me. They all are. And I suppose I’m scared of being hurt. I’m here to entertain people, not bore them with my problems.
Rick says that after a while you simply can’t do it anymore. In the Bible it says that if I try hard enough to please God He will give me the man of my dreams. How am I supposed to believe that? “Plans to prosper you and not to harm you; to give you hope and a future.” Where in that does it say, “and the man of your dreams?” How can I believe that? If that is true, then he deserves the girl of his dreams, and somehow I seriously doubt that it would be me. I did dream about him last night. He was in a field of bright yellow flowers in the median of a highway and he looked lonely. I drove around him but never went to him, and he has the most captivating brown eyes.
Lies
I can’t think. I haven’t slept for days; there’s just too much going on in my head. They run rampant in a riot, overthrowing my mind and all sanity. My friends are sick and hurt and I can’t sleep. I can’t dream and the lacking taxes my soul. The larger the load I take on, the harder it becomes to convey these feelings. When you are so young, you forget about tomorrow and convince yourself that you can take on the world today. But that’s a lie we feed ourselves. I want your burden.
I haven’t been completely honest with you. I have to wait until you’re ready so that when your heart heals, I can break it again. That’s a really friendly thing to do, but so is lying. I wasn’t serving you as I should have. I was insincere and self-centered, and I do you a disservice by liking you. I am ashamed to think that I have sinned against two of my favorite people. I am a stupid, foolish, petty child, and I can understand if you never want to talk to me again. I can only bow my head and let my eyes scream what my lips cannot. Please forgive me. I have wronged you, and now you know the truth. But you can not have me and I can never allow myself to be with you so we’re even. I am ashamed to be the owner of this sin. The transgressions I kill you with is a double-edged sword; one side to your wrist and the other against my throat.
Numb
I’m tired of feeling nothing. I know I should have patience but it is such a hell of a purgatory. I’ve learned how to not be sad but I haven’t learned to be happy. That’s a little confusing. At least when I was sad, I knew what I felt. I asked myself, “If you can’t feel pain, what is there to feel?” I’m not sure there is anything beyond that. Because this feels like nothing. I mean, is this joy? God, I hope not. I’d rather be in pain than pretend to feel when I am numb. At least, then, I would feel something. No, I must be patient. I will wait for one or the other, and will rejoice in anything but this.
The Question (posed by a certain Chris Miller)
“What’s wrong?”
Well, I could lie and expect you to ignore my pleading eyes. I could smile. I could cry. I could pour out my soul and expect you to help me carry these burdens— these burdens that are not yours. No, I can’t let others sacrifice their own happiness for my sake. I can’t allow that. I’m not worth that. I need to just remain in my own little world. I’m not isolating myself from you; I’m protecting you from me. I don’t want to bring you down. I haven’t abandoned you; you’re just no longer invited into my heart. It’s my prison. I could never force upon you the Hell that I have created for myself. So I will stay silent and accept the cards I have dealt to myself. I gave away my dignity when I asked for it. You don’t want to live in my world. It is a sad, sad place. Self-pity is my biggest enemy, but at least I am done being angry. I am giving up and in to this fate. I wrote, “Anything but this.” Be careful what you wish for.
Explanations and Grievances
I thought that this would bring us closer but he doesn’t care. We grow more and more distant each day. I guess he doesn’t feel the way I do. It’s hard for me to let anyone get close to me and this only proves what I knew all along: that they always leave in the end. What’s the point? Trust is futile and worthless. Happiness is reserved only for the bright and beautiful. I give up. Solitude isn’t that bad once you get used to it. Why aren’t you punished like this? You promised you wouldn’t be like anyone else. You lied. Is there anyone out there who’s not like everyone else?
Letter to Chris Miller
You are full of crap. You don’t care how I feel or what’s wrong! I think we both know how superficial this “friendship” is. I don’t trust you. I don’t believe in your “powers” or your confidence. You lied to me. You’ve labeled yourself a hypocrite, becoming a perfect example of everything you hate. I’ve been hurt. I have scars and wounds, and you can’t expect me to let you burn me too. I am not stupid.
And I don’t know when someone decided that our chemistry and lustful actions are included in the word “friend,” so I’m not going to go back into a “deep friendship” with you. That’s how I got hurt the last time. You’re going to have to build my trust. Assuming that you’re interested. How can I even assume such a thing? Why would you even waste your time on me? Okay, I feel ridiculous. I need to learn to appreciate the solitary life I’ve been given. Let’s face it; I’m just a speed bump on a highway to Someplace Better. Just avoid me, if you can.
Center Aisle
Sometimes I just don’t know how to say… There aren’t words to say… I think it hurts my God to see me like this. He’s the Only One who cares. I can trust Him and only Him. I feel so unsafe in the world. I don’t know how much more of this I can take. I hope God still makes sure He never gives us more than we can bear, because I’m cracking. Overwhelming anxiety and a taste of fear. My mom is sick and Johnny is sick, Ryker dropped out and Chris betrayed me. I fill the air with silent lies and I HATE the silence. And I hate the way we pretend we don’t hear the music. I am sick. I am so freakishly messed up, screwed up like that knife in the drawer that taunts me and calls to me just like I said it never would. Jesus help me because I can’t ignore it any longer. It is too loud and the only voice I hear that makes sense.
Ryker
Depression is not a sin until it makes you disobey or turn from God, which it does without fail. I am sometimes in love with it because it makes me stronger. I theatrically call out to God. Just a little longer… It’s okay for me to live in sorrow. If I pretend that I don’t mind it, maybe I can “change my attitude” and will be able to control it. It’s okay to be sad. It is not acceptable for me to pretend anything else.
I do it to myself. I continue to sin, and God continues to punish me. I just get scared that the only thing beyond pain is that vast empty joylessness I’ve felt before. It makes me shudder just to think about spending my life like that. I’d rather be in agony than be that hopeless. My scar has started to fade. Last night I had the temptation to replace it. I had to tell someone.
I told Ryker, and he listened. All he said was, “You jump, I jump.” I didn’t do it but I felt like I was wasting his time or keeping him from something better he could’ve been doing. It made me feel so guilty and self-pitying. He promised to match me no matter what I did. I didn’t want to hurt him, so I backed down. He is so beautiful; I couldn’t mark his flesh like that. His affection is like a star in the sky for me— not as bright as the sun, but a kind of sun in and of itself.
Living to Die/Dying to Live
We are this tiny speck in Eternity. I didn’t do it last night because I realized that everything I do, Jesus had to experience in His lifetime. Imagine the weight of the entire human race in one lifetime of one man. I love Jesus and don’t want Him to go through it. I fell asleep, which was a blessing. I never thought that I’d battle so much with this. It is a war like I’ve never fought before. All my strength is drained when I hear it calling me. They said I have the eyes of a lunatic. I am so separated from everything else. I will throw myself into servanthood, and deal with… what I deal with. On my own. No more running to Ryker; he has his own troubles to worry about. I will pull my own weight.
Ho voglia di vivere. But then again I don’t, because I know that life only begins when this life ends. I will be born through Death. Intellectual conflict invades my mind and I cannot agree with myselves. Johnny once said, “You reach for its neck, and it turns out to be shackles.” I slept with the blade under my pillow for the fourth night in a row; holding the cold steel and imagining it aflame.
God will free me. Some day I’ll be free of all of this. I am joyful because I know I will die. I’ll die so I can live. I will be with the One I love and trust. I will be with the One who gave His life for my iniquity. Life is an inconvenient pit stop between birth and death. My pain is my comfort. My joy will be so much greater because I have experienced fathomless sorrow. I don’t see how some people do it. It makes me wonder if they just don’t get it. My pain reminds me that I am alive. I will wait on the Lord, and then I will die.
Untitled
There is no word to express the degree of bitterness and anger I feel.
The Crime and The Criminal
I did it. It feels good to hurt. But I feel so unclean and disgusting. There’s always some reason to feel not-good-enough. I find my peace in my pain; that's why I prefer to burn rather than cut. Atonement in the act of a sin— felt nothing. On my stomach where no one will see, unlike those idiots who hack up their arms for display. And only on my evil side. My right side.
God help me; I can’t trust anyone else. Lift me from the rubble or leave me in the ashes. I’ve become this marred, ugly, ruined creature by my own vile, betraying hands. Have you no pity? No remorse? Must you tempt and torture me until I burn up with fever? I feel so violated and filthy. How do I deal with this? Kill me. Please, God, kill me or give me a sign to do it to myself.
I’m not crazy. I burn myself on purpose for atonement not attention. That’s not crazy; it’s holy in some cultures. Oh please don’t think I am. Believe me when I tell you everything is fine. Lunacy would be so much easier. I will not stake claim to that which I do not possess. All of this has been done by a sane mind. Convict me; all I ask is the Death sentence. I need this. It is the only thing I can feel.
Letter to an Anonymous Acquaintance
I’m not asking you to live or die for me. You said you loved me like no one else has ever or will ever love me. That is not love. Your concept of love is warped and distorted; love is loving when things get really bad, too. You promised to never leave me alone. I’m alone and all I have here to comfort me is a knife and a candle.
I’ve been told all of this before. I’ve been told. Everyone who has spoken these words have all been liars, including you. All you have to do is convince a heart desperate to believe anything because that scarred, bitter heart needs you. Stand by my side or leave; I want nothing in between. Kiss me or walk away. I’m tired of the lies. Prove me wrong.
Explanations and Grievances
How am I supposed to explain this to you? If I tell you the truth you’ll think I’m crazy, but if I lie you’ll think me a fraud. No matter what I say, I am embarrassed. You think I want people to know how messed up I am? I have no other way out. I could not bear to see the look on my father’s face if he found out how twisted his precious daughter is. I can imagine it so clearly. You don’t understand. I wouldn’t want you to understand; I wouldn’t wish that upon my worst enemy.
I sit in the ashes, alone. I’ve been burned by the flame but hope still warms me like embers. Someday I will tell someone. And they will not understand, but they won’t need to. God will send me an angel and he will take my hand and raise me from the ashes. If I live for God, He will find a way to give me life. He knows my sorrow. He knows what it is like to be alone; to be alive and not living.
Stream of Consciousness
A day to remember; a landmark in history- today is… Wednesday. It is my favorite day of the Week. Hump Day, though it has nothing to do with humping, so far as I know. Speaking of Antonio Fabrizzi, he said he has sexual fantasies about me. I asked why and he said because I’m so sexy and I said “That’s ridiculous.” I would never be able to atone for all the nasty things I’d like to do to him. I wonder how chickens are related to ravens. He is beautiful and I missed him. I think he was high and I wanted to kiss him which is wrong because I like someone else. That’s why I rejected Antonio and Ray and Mike and Josh. He didn’t call me which makes me feel really dumb when I call him. It’s so subservient and submissive and pathetic. I can’t wait to get my tiara and Fredrick’s of Hollywood stuff for my birthday. Chris Miller was in my dream last night. A dancer in my gym class hit her head on a locker today and I didn’t even laugh until I got outside. Joseph is going to do Music Man with me and he’s a jerk. He plays wall roulette with me though, which is where you open one door, tuck your head under, close your eyes and run at the wall. Liz says that’s not funny but she works at the GAP so she’s a little off kilter. Fabrizzi says I’m weird. Yes, I am. I like to bite people. I smell like dirt and sweat and sweet perfume and the beach, which I guess isn’t so bad of a smell when you think about it. I hate to admit that I’m wrong but it happens often so I’m a veteran. Our dog is pregnant and is HUGE! She’s supposed to have her puppies around my birthday. I can’t wait to go out to dinner with my band. I find myself totally disinterested in other guys, though I am sort of kicking myself for not totally jumping Chris’s bones when he wanted to. I like corn. Well, not really. Luke kind of looks like a very large chipmunk— a monstrously large chipmunk. I can’t stand it when people argue; it makes my eyes hurt. I slept with my contacts in last night and now I’m all blurry. I hope everything turns out well with the movie. It stresses me out. So I smile and get my belt. Antonio Fabrizzi bet me a kiss that I couldn't say "mahogany" without smiling. It took eight tries.
Letter to an Anonymous Friend
What burdens do I have? You don’t know jack shit about me! I’ve never trusted you or believed a single word from your lips. You’re so smug, thinking that you’ve figured me out. If you think I’ll just get over this, you are sorely mistaken. It takes a lot to get me mad but when it happens I stay angry for years. I’ve been broken too many times to be unwary of such treatment. This was never about me; it’s all about you.
Frozen
I pay homage to the dark moon. It does not smile back in thanks, but only bares its teeth in discontentment. He walks backwards so I can’t tell he’s leaving. I question him but he only grins with that same disturbingly casual sneer that the cold moon favored me with. I wish he would just go, so that the sun could finally rise and take its rightful place in the sky— so life will be a little less cold. My lips are frostbitten from lukewarm kisses; my fingers blue from frozen caresses; my eyes are ice because his heart will not thaw. I hate the moon and I hate the frost on my heart. I don’t want to end up like him. The moon snarls grudgingly and shrinks back at the threatening rays of the golden sun. With one great last effort of the dying darkness, the melted ice overthrows the sweet warmth, snuffing it out like a candle in the rain. I am alone with the angry moon. I hate the moon.
Fog
A fog; a definite fog. A definite illusion- radicals square roots, they all seep back into the grainy mist. Myriad things I don’t want to think about. I am almost grateful for the curtain veiling my insanity. I bite my nails when I get bored. Do you ever get mad and then pretend everything is okay? Lying is wrong. I should tell him. If you’re going to say something, then just say it. My stream of thought is broken, inconsistent. I forgive but never forget. My scar grows. I wonder why that happens. I think I need a bigger watch. I can get one that works. Mine keeps stopping but I don’t care; I don’t really wear it to tell the time.
My parents wouldn’t tell me my I.Q. until years after I was tested. All they said was that it was over 150. I always suspected I was a genius, which made me feel like it was okay not to fit in. I’m not a real “genius” like Isaac Newton or Stephen Hawking; I’m just smart and sad and I hate it. I’m glad I don’t have to be like the rest of the world, but if I were a part of the rest of the world I wouldn’t have that opinion. I almost wish I were shallow and stupid because I believe that my chances at happiness would be much improved. When you put it on paper it becomes valid, and I don’t want to see that in front of my face. I don’t need those words screaming at me from the page.
A fog, yes, which hides things from me. It is almost tangible. Last night, I was startled awake and nothing happened. I hadn’t had a bad dream; there was no noise; no demons that I could see or hear. The moon was dark. I think that maybe I make myself miserable, but better to cry than be emotionless. Candles are on the beach. Something withers. Something dies if not protected. I am glad that there is a fog.
Letter to Ryker
We grow more and more distant each day. I frightened you away. I was there when you were committed to the institution. I was there through your addiction. I knew of the voyeurism, your sister’s rape, and many of your vices. I scared you away. I rocked back and forth on my knees in the deep sand, reassuring myself I wasn’t crazy. I’m not. The truth is that you have never met anyone like me and that you can’t handle it. Am I some kind of monster that even a screwed up nutcase thinks I’ve lost it? What a joke. The sad thing is that I wanted to believe you when you said me loved me and would never abandon me. That’s a mean trick to play on someone who is so shattered. So life has become a little harder and colder. Is it really worth trying?
Letter to Johnny
My dearest friend, may God give us both strength to hold the other up: the dying and the dead. Two people, sick with disease, huddling together against the cold of the World. “Disease” is a kind way of putting it. It makes it sound calm, treatable, and acceptable. I think that I might like that term, except that it is a LIE. Oh God, I don’t mean to be so cynical and untrusting. I no longer grieve for you, but grieve for what we used to have. I grieve because my love is dead and cannot be resurrected. I grieve for the lies and the tears and all the broken promises.
Letter to an Anonymous Acquaintance
Just tell me what’s wrong now or shut up and quit complaining. I really don’t care to tell you the truth. I don’t have the energy to put into this relationship without getting anything out of it. Apparently you’re not really interested in the upkeep of it either because from where I stand, it’s pretty one-sided. Let’s not be fake anymore. I am still angry. I think you are self-absorbed, trite, and blind. I don’t like you. I don’t want to be your friend. Just shut up and deal with it like the rest of us do. You’re no different from anyone else. We are humanity and our suffering is great.
Confessions of an Addict
I’m going to perfectly honest with you: I’m addicted. And though I was sure it would never happen to me, it did and I’m sorry. I don’t want you to know. I don’t want you to lose respect for me. I don’t want you to know because I love you, which is the same reason I feel obligated to tell you. Because I love you, I’m going to get help. I don’t know how. I’m afraid they’ll come in and put me in one of those hospitals. Only crazy people go to those places where they strap your arms to the bed. I’m afraid that I must be crazy because I need to be there. I know that’s the only way to get rid of this: to be in a place where you can’t even have pencils or pens because you might harm yourself.
The masochistic addiction is more powerful than the pain, so that even if the pain stops, it goes on. It comes more frequently now, gradually progressing in intensity until I relieve it. Then it starts all over again. I remember that I used to make fun of people like this. We used to call her a lunatic— a psycho. I don’t belong there. Don’t make me go there. Make me go there. I need to be helped; I’ve got to go there. I’m not sure I want to quit. I’m not sure that I can. I don’t want to tell you because it is humiliating to be broken. How can you help if you don’t know? How can I tell you when I know you’ll run away? Funny, I look normal. My God, someone help me. My God, help.
Paper
There is truth in ugliness and beauty in the truth. No matter how many pages I turn, there’s always another waiting for me and I just have to write on it so it knows how happy I am that it is there. Then I look down and it’s ruined. Oh, damn. I’ve done it again. Turn the page.
Letter to Johnny
From your crooked smile to your accent to the fact that you can’t dance— I adore it all. No one has ever looked at me the way you do. I didn’t know that men could be like that. You are my guardian angel. At times, you were the only one I had. Saturday night was incredible. It exceeded my greatest dreams and the hours flew by too quickly. I was nervous, too. I always told myself that I was glad I didn’t have to choose between you and anyone else, because I would always choose you if we lived within driving distance. I feel you would never, ever hurt me.
I’ve prayed a lot about it, and I think you are one of the best things that have ever happened to me but I have a lot of healing to do before I’ll be ready to have a relationship. Please help me heal. You need to realize, though, that there are a lot of things about me that I’m afraid to tell you. Just please be patient with me and I’ll come around. Isn’t it funny how both of us believe we’re too good for the other? Relationships are about serving one another. I am at your feet. You can walk all over me or help me up; it’s up to you. My fate is in your hands and God’s. Let me know you. I will give you everything I have in return for a smile. Even unseen, so far away, I’ll hear it in your voice.
Grievances of a Driving School Prisoner at 2:00 on a Hot Saturday in June
This has to be the most boring day of my life. Are we being punished? I have another hour and forty-five minutes of degradation. This is humiliating and sad, but sometimes it makes me laugh. For instance, the instructor asked what causes road rage. I said, “Men with really tiny…” and stopped. This is like Hell, only less interesting. It’s going to be a long day.
I’m surprised and appalled at the immaturity and awkwardness of those around me. Didn’t anyone here get over that stage when they graduated middle school? I suppose your body can only take so many years of abuse before the bulimia eats away at your brain cells. Idiocy has clearly overthrown all reasonable thought in this country. I suppose I am spoiled at TAHS where intelligent thought is accepted and expected.
What a sad world this is. Half of my generation is responsible and repentant, and the other half is devoid of accountability and morality. It makes me sick to watch the human race deteriorate. We no longer have castes of money and social class, but castes of intelligence— and the ones at the shallow end of the pond are at the top of the order. Even worse are those who attempt to use big words to sound intelligent. I have fifty-two minutes left. I hope I don’t accidentally freak out and kill everyone in the room.
Fat
I look away in disgust (Rather than courtesy) As she clutches her vice between Pudgy hands. They clumsily grope the counter for more And strike gold. Cheetos. They lie between the boards, Shying away As she tries, desperately, To manipulate the small table to her advantage, But her adipose fingers will not fit And she cries out in frustration. People feel bad for her; Clucking their tongues to my ears With bullshit about genetics. She rises, laboriously And waddles to the trash can to throw away The empty pizza boxes; Her thighs quivering in protest. She thumps into the kitchen, Removes a brand-new Half-gallon of ice cream, Studies the label carefully, And, upon finding that there are 24 grams of fat per cup, Proceeds to ooze her fat ass Into the fibers of the couch And eat the whole thing; Drowning her insecurities in Double Chocolate Chunk.
Chris Miller: A Commentary
So often, when we accidentally cut ourselves, we blame the knife for being too sharp and never really think that we shouldn’t have grabbed it in the first place. I suppose, as humans, we are naturally attracted to shiny things— including sharp, shiny things. We don’t think of the consequences, only that it’s SSSOOOOOOOOOO shiny! I think maybe it is not his fault for being sharp. It is not my fault for being sharp. If no one sees me, no one will accidentally grab me; no one will get hurt. It was not my right to snatch him up. I could see the blade but underestimated its edge. I never should have grabbed it in the first place.
Pathos
I should not be here. This is a mistake. I should not be here. I should be home with people I enjoy. It’s okay to not fit in. Ever. Anywhere. With any group of people. Being with people only succeeds in reminding me of how separated I am from them. It makes me wonder: If any of them knew how I really was, would they treat me differently? Would they hate me? Excommunicate me? Pity me? I see no positive reason I should tell anyone. Except that the truth would be known. I know the ‘truth’ about Ryker and yet I still haven’t been able to remove him from that pedestal. Even he was frightened away when I told him my secrets.
They would pity me. I would be like some crooked, wounded animal that they would pet and express their condolences to and do nothing else. Now I know why Johnny doesn’t want anyone to know; he doesn’t want pity. I understand, now that I see how degrading and low it is. Pity and compassion are different. I loathe pity; it is for weak snivelers who are content to rot in their self-made misery.
I struggle so much between my good half and my evil half. Today my evil half almost won for a while. It frightens me to think of how fragile the balance is. If you are honest with yourself, the truth does not hurt. Will it hurt those around me who will know how I’ve lied to them? Or will they look at me with eyes of compassion and understanding— free of judgment? No, the only one who can truly understand his own pain is the person himself. The only one who understands addiction is the addict.
So why say a word? Why get help? Who would ever help me? No mortal. I have yet to turn it over to God. I’ve traded in addiction for addiction for addiction, each one worse than the last. If I give up this addiction, what could possibly be worse that would surely follow? Something I cannot even imagine. Should I tell the truth and be a psychotic freak, or lie and be a liar?
Closing Remarks
The end of an era has come, and yet what words are here that even begin to delve into my mind? I read through these journals and see myself transforming, backsliding, dying. I wonder how many I’ll have in the end. Even these pages do my life injustice, as my hand is incapable of obeying my thoughts properly and words incapable of accurately portraying an image.
Forgive me, all of you who never knew me. Forgive me, those who loved me. Forgive me, those I loved and never told; those I hated and never confessed. I seek pardon for whom and what I am, and mercy for hiding like a coward. Sometimes you have to die just to make sure you’re still alive. I hate to lie, but my lips betray my heart. There were times when I was happy. I was comfortable and joyous on a few occasions, so all was not in vain. I thank you for being a part of this mass hysteria we call life.
I don’t feel pain. I bleed just to check that my heart is still beating. We all know I was never truly part of the human race. I wish I could stay with you but I understand how much of a burden I must be. And just as I don’t feel pain, neither do I experience pleasure. So, as you may imagine, it is a melancholy experience that I’ve had on this earth. I wish I could give myself to you and let you take my emotions for yourselves so that you could see the world in a bright, new, fresh way each day. But the truth is that I have nothing left to give. I’ve given everything and still He demands more. So I’ll sacrifice what is left. I only pray that God will have mercy on my soul. I am sick and nothing can heal me. None of you ever could, and it is not your fault.