26.04.15 :: 02.05.15

[Note for consistency: Previous week coincided with increase in meds, thus nothing more was accomplished than curling up in bed with crippling headaches and marathon watching mindless TV.]

1.
I keep having to do these things where I rate how I feel on a scale of 1-10.

First: I hate 1-10 scales. It's subjective (who really knows what 10 stands for?). As a general rule, whenever given that sort of scale (for anything) I stay away from 1 or 10 and stick to the middle numbers because they feel safer. Plus, if you say something is the best (or worst) what do you do when you encounter something better?

The most recent one is keeping a week-long schedule and rating each thing on how much pleasure it brought and sense of accomplishment using the 1-10 scale. By the second day, I'd created my own system of smiley faces to make me feel more comfortable about it, but by day 3, I'd given up entirely. Do I get a sense of accomplishment from eating breakfast? How much pleasure is there in brushing my teeth? The answer to both is none. In fact, the only activities I felt anything about were my driving lessons, hanging out with my flatmate and cleaning (all got this face :D).

Everything else is just flat. I don't feel good or bad about my activities; they just are. On average, I don't feel much of anything, except a sense of being empty. Or floating. Drifting. Just kind of taking it all in. And this is what I struggle with the most with this therapy thing. I can go a long time without really feeling anything. Before the meds, it'd get interrupted by the soul-sucking conviction that everything is terminally fucked and nothing will ever make it better (the more frequent path) or bouncing off the walls wanting to hug everyone and take on the world (less frequent, doesn't last as long). In between in just coasting.

Since the meds, I don't get the soul-sucking moments anywhere near as much. It's happened a couple times. It's hard to tell if the highs have been affected because they're so rare anyway, but I've had a couple of those, too. Mostly, though, I'm just living in blankness.

2.
What do you think will happen if you don't do x?

This is the recurring question. I don't have an answer because I don't think anything is going to happen. It's a physical sensation, like little blocks being stacked on me so I can't move - restricted - it's probably similar to a feeling of claustrophobia. I can ignore it for a little while. It's uncomfortable, but I can deal. I'm used to being uncomfortable. But after awhile (like a day, depending on what the environment is sometimes a little longer), but it builds up to a certain point where I feel the pressure digging into my skin. I keep picturing it as Lego blocks. And I can't take it anymore. So then I go on 5 hour cleaning sprees or rearranging furniture until it goes away. The feeling when there are no blocks is euphoric. Like the first time you get out of a car after an eight hour drive. Light. Like there's nothing caging me in. Energy can move freely around again. Because that's a lot of what it is. I put things in certain places because when they're in those places, the energy moves freely. When it isn't in the right place, energy is blocked and everything gets darker, no matter how much light is actually present.

3.
Today was hard. The question of a hypothetical door that may or may not be locked had me twitchy and squirming and really wanting to lock Adam's door just to make the feeling for away. I also had my first cigarette in a week. There's something about the motion of it that calms me down more than anything else.

Diazepam also does absolutely nothing for me anymore. So that's a fantastic bit of news. I'm not sure if I want to mention that to my doctor or just keep self-medicating. At the moment he's trying to limit the number of pills I take because my liver functions have been off for no explainable reason. It's a good thing I'm not a heavy drinker.

I think I can work with Adam, though. I think he's intent on torturing me, but I can work with him.

4.
I really have a passionate dislike of songbirds.

5.
I love the fact that I can have an anxiety attack - and not even a particularly bad one - and over 12 hours later I still can't sleep.

Seriously, my body hates me.

6.
So I looked through the list of people I went to high school with. Hardly recognized most of them. It's weird. Knowing I don't exist for those people anymore. I bailed first chance I got and didn't look back. Firmly and totally shut the door on that part of my life. It's sad, too. Some of those people I really liked but y'know. 14 years later we're basically just strangers. (Shit. I graduated high school 14 years ago. What the hell?)

7.
An inadvertent revelation during a conference panel. Beethoven was the topic of conversation - different regimes that have used it for their own particular (and conflicting) ideologies. Everyone kept referencing the humanness of Beethoven, the passion, the surge of sound and energy, and that's what appeals to people.

I hate Beethoven. Cannot stand it. Bach, however, I adore. To me, it's emotive, sweeping, captivating.

For the group, Bach was the contrast. Universally. They pinpointed him as precise, mathematical, reserved in comparison.

I just found it interesting listening to their descriptions of these two composers. I wouldn't have used any of the same adjectives. It felt strange sitting among thirty or so other people who all praised the emotion and humanity of a composer who, in my opinion, is just erratic and nothing more. It was just an instance of pretty much how I feel all the time: everyone in the room sees something I don't get.

8.
Today I have learned that I miss attending lectures. I am definitely not being stimulated enough intellectually under the status quo. I need to do something about that.

9.
The world frustrates me. Check your facts, people, and say only true things. You damage people when you don't.

10.
I don't know how many times I say, I'm not saving anyone anymore. I'm not going to do it. Then you raise your hand and I do backflips to give you whatever you might need.

You infuriate me like no one else in the world ever.

11.
You know who would be really helpful with my research?

My dad.

I really wish I could talk to him about it. 

12.04.15 :: 18.04.15

1.
This is something I've never shared with anyone. I'm not even really sure how to explain it. It's a little like an imaginary friend (or several), and a little like an alter ego (but not), or a soap opera running for 25 years in my head (it could be longer but that's where my first placeable memory starts). It's a story that runs in the back of my mind from the time I wake up to the time I go to sleep. As far as I know that's where it stops; I've never dreamed about it. The core group of characters has more or less stayed the same the entire time, but some of their names change. Other things get adjusted and adapted but the essential core of the people is the same as it's always been. Nothing really exceptional happens. They work, they socialise. People move away or join in. They develop relationships and all the things real people do, except they only exist in my head. Sometimes it moves in real time, sometimes I time travel and relive certain events. But there are no hypotheticals. This isn't a creative exercise. Whatever changes I make are permanent. No erasing and starting over. No changing my mind. I'm not even entirely sure I am the one deciding things happen.

A lot of times, it's my filter for the world. They process things, they feel things, and if I tap into them, I can feel it, too.

A few days ago, one of the core people died. (He's not the first death in 25 years, but it is rare for one of the core ones to go.) Usually there's a reason when something big changes like that. It matches up with something going on in my life and works as almost a cathartic thing, but I don't know about this one. My internal soap opera is hellbent on my grieving for this guy - and I am. He was important. His death throws the whole set up into limbo. Part of me thinks I should embrace it. Jump in and ride the emotional current to wherever it takes me. But I can't. It's like I'm in one of those glass boxes filled with water, and I can't see the edges so I just go along until my little boat bumps into a wall and knocks me back, and I'm just stuck in here, where, you know, it is calm and okay. There aren't any big waves, just some light splashes when I reach the perimeter. But that's all there is. Just this boat, and this whatever and blank whiteness all around, and I want out.

2.
A smart person would've expected some effect from upping my meds. Me, I was totally shocked to wake up with my head feeling like a weighted balloon.

3.
The bee symbolises productivity (go figure), attention to detail, savoring the honey of life.

Spiders are a connection between past and future, creativity.

Bit on the nose, I have to say, and while I usually appreciate your lack of subtlety, I could do without your messages dive-bombing me at my desk or hanging out by my bed.

4.
I keep thinking about the 10K I need for the beginning of May but between not smoking, yoga and adjusting my meds, my body is giving me a big fuck you.

5.
Today was a day of escapism and avoidance. But I wrote 1000 words I don't hate.

You know that's only going to justify my bad habits.

6.
I wonder if I'd have this weird relation to sleep if it absolutely didn't matter when I was asleep and when I was awake. Every time I go to sleep there's this fear that I'll sleep way beyond acceptable times (and a chance of some sunlight during certain parts of the year).

It's almost 5 am and I'm watching a movie, knowing I should be in bed 'cause normal people. But also not giving a shit because I like the way this time of day feels, except for the fact that the perfect part of the day lasts only moments. Once the sun comes up, it'll just be daytime. 

05.04.15 :: 11.04.15

1.
Today started out so promising. Motivated. Ambitious. I even made a to-do list. Then the realization that my CV is only saved on the hard drive that went missing in the US, and how much other super important stuff is on there that I'll never see again and I've somehow lost my e-cig (there aren't that many places it could go) and I took a break from not smoking (it's a holiday, sort of...) and. Just and.

2.
Alright. We're just going to restart the day.

3.
On the plus side, the meds are making a small improvement. After my crashnburn the other day I did pull myself out of it pretty quick. It just throws me off when I'm walking on what I think is steady ground and land in a sinkhole that deep. It's like there's no middle ground, just pingponging from one extreme to the other. But that's what my emotions are like - no shades, just primary colours.

4.
For the record, at this particular moment, I'm in a pretty damn good mood. Just to break up the whining and complaining a little.

5.
Last time I was home (parents, UK side), my mom asked a question I hadn't really thought about *: what do I do about my spirituality?

*I've thought about it, but didn't tie it to my anxiety, et al issues. I've thought a lot about not having channels to express it. 

Oh, man. There are going to be so many tangents here, but we'll get through it.

Okay. My mom was(is) a pretty unconventional mom, which led me to develop skills I am so, so grateful I have now, even if it is frustrating that no one else seems to grasp them. She didn't tell me who I was; she let me decide that from as long as I remember.

On the other hand, this made things slightly confusing when I had to integrate with the general populace. Being an only child as well, I didn't learn all the social lies people tell verbally (and more importantly, nonverbally). I'm not saying this right.

It's weird believing in things that are totally different. There's no church, no religion, no wise-and-benevolent mentor (humour me) to go to when you need spiritual guidance. There's only absolute, totally blind faith that you are going the right way and you aren't just totally nuts.

So. Being the only kid of a weird mom, this free form interpretation of belief was the norm. Even though the extended family is all Catholic (both sides, but we'll stick with the maternal since they were the ones who were around as a kid), I just that's what Catholic was. There were always imps and spirits and magic and not a whole lot of Jesus, and no one thought it was weird or unusual. Even when my mom bartered me off to God and Sunday Catechism, it didn't really click. There weren't a lot of Catholics in our town to begin with (seriously, at one point the church almost became a parking lot to another denomination before some artists got involved), so I only saw the ones my age on Sundays, and ideas about religion and faith really don't come up much with eight year olds.

The first person I lived with after my parents, Nothing had a weirdly similar belief structure and we easily integrated our different slants of magic. I've never been able to do that with anyone else. Point is, I was in my mid-twenties before I really ran into the whole religion vs. spirituality complication.

I dealt with that by closing it off and sliding by as a lapsed Catholic. Every once in awhile, I'd dip into it again, but always secretly and guiltily, and it never really worked. I just felt lonely and emptier. Occasionally, I'd try to fit in with religions that had a few things that fit around my beliefs, but that never lasted either. The zealousness on both ends of the spectrum are pretty insufferable, and I'm not so good with institutions.

Since I'm my own therapist now (thank you, NHS; this is exactly the sort of care foreigners are flocking to England to take advantage of. Go vote, UK!), I've been thinking a lot about when I've felt best in myself (most stable, happy, etc.) and I keep coming back to that time with Nothing. Now, I'm not painting it out as all sunshine and rose. It was fucking hard. We were poor as shit (at one point our furniture consisted of two lawn chairs and an air mattress we kept conning Wal-Mart into replacing). We were young and stupid about everything. But that's kind of the point. That was way harder than anything I have to deal with now. Things that debilitate me now couldn't affect me then.

And since then, since I started shutting myself off spiritually, I've gotten more rigid, more twitchy. The hardest thing for me to do is watching something with subtitles because I can't do anything else, which sucks because I really like foreign films. (I'm watching Brooklyn Nine Nine while writing this, and if I had more hands, I'd be doing something on the iPad, too.)

So. Mom's question. I told you there'd be a lot of tangents. I didn't think about it much then (things take awhile to process in my head). But then it occurred to me there might be something to it. Mindfulness is supposed to help anxiety and all that.

It might not amount to anything. And it is fucking hard to sit still for any amount of time. I started doing yoga to help with the chill out part. I've been being more adventurous with food, and actually cooking interesting things that take time to make (which, oddly, increases the enjoyment of it).

I still wish there were other people. I'm a community-driven misanthrope.

6.
I am stuck. Every day I try to get somewhere with this behemoth, to write anything, and it just doesn't work. I can't even write crap. There's just nothing there.

7.
I feel like a fraud.

8.
I keep trying to figure out what it is, why I'm stuck. Why I can't bring myself to put anything down even though my notebook is sitting there, ready and waiting.

I read over what I've written already. I do outlines and sketches. I look at maps. I watch documentaries and news reports on YouTube.

I google writing prompts and tips on what to do when you're stuck with your novel.

They don't help.

I meditate. I listen to music. I get bored with that station and change it. This happens five more times. I try to read but I can't sit still and only get through a paragraph or two before I call it quits. I watch funny things, serious things, sad things, weird things.

I google writing prompts again. I look at pictures.

I think about what I need to do and what I haven't done yet (I need to book train tickets, it's time to clean again, call the dentist, etc.).

I lie on my bed and think about my world but I don't know what to do with it. I feel like a failure, like I can't do this, Like I've used up whatever it is that lets me make things up. I feel flat. I'm a cardboard cutout of myself, flimsy and dry and only realistic from a distance.

I think about not taking my meds anymore. Is that really what it comes down to?

I stand on my balcony in the sun and watch the people in the parking lot and think about how amazing the sun is.

I go for walks.

I think, I can't write this story. I think, It's all in my head. I just need to do it. Just write any scene at any point. It doesn't matter. I just need to write something.

I hide from the bee that keeps coming into my room.

I think about doctors and health problems and how all of that just wears me out. I miss people. I scroll through Twitter and Facebook. I think about getting a job. I google jobs in Canterbury and think about how shit they all are and how I don't want to do any of them.

I dodge questions on how the novel's going.

I google writing tips and inspiration and first lines.

I think, I'm just trying too hard. The watched pot and all that so I play games and pretend I'm not looking to see if my subconscious is doing something.

I sit in silence. I sit in sound. I stare at walls.

I wish someone had some truly helpful advice. I wonder how people who sit and write every day pull it off. Where they get their words. I remember I used to be one of them. I wonder what happened. I wonder why it's so hard when I know the story, I know what happens, to just get it out of my head. I think if I could just get it out, it would finally be quiet in there.

Repeat on a daily basis. 

01.03.15 :: 07.03.15

1.
Researching this book has made me increasingly paranoid about ending up on some government watch list.

For example, today's goal: figure out how to take down a power grid.

Hypothetically, of course.

It doesn't help that most of my sources are totally paranoid about the government as well.

2.
I wonder what she's thinking as I talk. What does my internal world sound like to someone on the outside? I recognise the look on her face. Just about every doctor I've ever see has that look: I am not equipped for this.

I struggle when we review my previous therapies and diagnoses. One is the different systems. Two is my tendency to dismiss the ones I don't find credible. Three is the fact that I can put on the act of a very stable, grounded, fully functional human being when I want/need to.

(Want and need are one and the same, you see.)

I've never told any of them that, and I won't tell her. I don't let them know I will lie, scheme, manipulate to get what I want.

No, omit. Omit, tweak, censor. I never outright lie.

Honesty and I have a funny relationship. I won't accept any measure of dishonesty from others. I latch onto minute details, and call them out on the slightest variation. (Yesterday you said he was angry, today it's upset. Which is it?)

Concealment is dishonesty, but it's perfectly alright for me to conceal information, and I'm not dishonest. (If the information is requested, it's given, but it's not my fault if you don't know what you don't know.)

It's a habit I have with people to tell them they have to ask what they want to know. It's like a badge, a key for people that I like: here is how you get my secrets. Ask and I will tell you everything.

Have you ever been diagnosed with bipolar disorder?

No, not officially, but I'm aware how closely I follow it. I'm aware of the highs and lows, and that already because I'm starting to feel good again, I'm thinking I don't need to do any of this.

I have to keep reminding myself of black days. I don't want to have those anymore. They're gone now, but I know they'll come back so I have to do this for when that happens. I have to keep telling myself that.

They'll come back.
They always come back.

3.
As this goes on, I'm having to resist the urge to edit what I've written. Make it sound better, more insightful. Or whatever.

I also do not consistently use one spelling or another. Last week it was realize, today it is realise.

I want this to be authentic. In the moment. It doesn't work any other way. What would be even better is posting the actual pages (I write by hand), but I won't.

I worry about how many secrets I'm letting go. I protect myself by keeping these things to myself and a limited few. How does that change if anyone can know?

This has to be authentic.

I decided this would always be honest, so it will. That's the rule.

4.
I have mad coping skills. Sometimes I wish I weren't so resilient, wish I could be the one to fall apart so someone else can pick up the pieces. Usually when I get worn down from doing that for everyone else. But in the end I don't, because I know I'm better at weathering the storm than most people. I can be bent in half and twisted in knots, but I don't break.

Expert compartmentalisation, maybe.

5.
I feel like such a dork in front of my supervisor sometimes.

6.
I am so tired. Sleeping isn't going great - waking up every hour or so - but I an't miss the sun so I drag myself up to sit in it and feel like a zombie who can't string together even the most basic motivation.

My to-do list mocks me.

There's work I need to be doing - that I want to do, but even if I do it now, I'll have to do it again later because nothing is sticking.

I'm so frustrate with being patient with myself.

7.
I wonder if we'll ever find out way back home again.

Does it even still exist?

I want to say I miss you, but those are just words, and words don't mean anything. Neither one of us believes them.

8.
Lounging in sunspots is not luxury; it's necessary.

I still feel guilty.

9.
Could two opposites be so opposite to each other that they end up being the same?

10.
3:03 AM. Last (second to last; I'm going to have another) cigarette. Standing on my faux balcony (hovering in the six inch space between door and railing), thinking that my creative epiphanies have to come the moment I decide I'm going to bed. An ageless nameless voice cries out, then again.

The sound echoes over the parking lot and I can see the vibrations bouncing off the leaves. It comes from everywhere. And the right. Definitely from the right. Eventually I realize it's not just a sound. Mum. It's not a man, either. A woman or a boy (fourteen, brain supplies). I wonder if I should go investigate. But I don't have shoes on, and we're on the 4th floor (American). Just as I'm putting together what I'd need to do to go out and running through the debate: am I really a good person, or just someone who wants to be seen as a good person? (The answer is B.)

It stops. Total silence.

Now I really wonder if I should go check, but I'm also relieved. Silence is ignorable.

My brain does this:
the word "mum" +
androgynous voice +
slightly lower pitch =
adolescent boy with nightmare.

This is what I choose to believe.

I picture a woman having her head smashed in with a rock over in the park near my flat.
It's to the right.

11.
I need to learn to trust my process. I keep trying to wedge myself into the standard habits: read everything, write every day, have a creative atmosphere - and it just doesn't work. I end up feeling guilty and panicky I'm not getting anything done. Eventually I retreat into mindless television and video games.

I goof off.

I feel guilty about that, too, but it's better than pretending to be doing something.

After a few days, sometimes a few weeks, it all comes together in a burst.

Goofing off is my process. And it makes sense. Pretty much all my behaviours and habits are designed to keep my brain - the thinking part - occupied and/or distracted. Basically, out of my way so I don't have to deal with meltdowns over an overly detailed text message or that object A isn't placed properly in relation to object B.

Except when I work - when I try to work the way I'm supposed to. Think Brain is given permission to run wild, and nothing gets done because Think Brain knows shit.

So it makes sense. While it's distracted with killing radiated humans or doing a sitcom marathon, Picture Brain gets to do its thing in peace.

Think Brain has something to do with the not reading as well. It takes too long to get through the page with my brain jumping off in a different direction every paragraph.

The thing is, I know this. This is not the first time I've had this revelation. I just keep forgetting. It's like every time I start back at the beginning and come to terms with myself, and not what I think other people expect me to be.

Which is something that translates into every part of my life. I hate how much I think about what people's perceptions of me are, more than I pay attention to who I really am.

12.
Keeping this record is terrifying. But it's also useful. Promising to be honest was the kicker. A good 80% of my problem is too many things clogged up in my mind and nowhere for them to go.

That's probably where the fear of voicelessness comes from.

I can't say them to other people because they can't keep up - no, they can't follow is better, because my synapses take shortcuts they (the people) don't know are there. So they ask questions, and make interjections, or want to share themselves and it throws me off track. Because I have to focus very hard to live stream my thoughts. It requires translating these multi-sensory concepts into flat, limited words, and it's always easier to write in another language.

And there's no point saying it to myself, because that just creates loops, and that's not good. Sometimes I write notes that'll never be delivered, but that's just a temporary fix, because I know the thought was never really communicated, so it creeps back.

At some point, every one of my close friends has received a very raw, very honest (usually also very long) message (email tends to be the favourite but Facebook is catching up) outlining all the things I finally figured out how to say. Afterwards, I'm embarrassed and avoid it at all costs. The mental equivalent of drunk dialing. Though I guess it's usually drunk texting now.

But I've promised to be honest here. And accurate. Taking that seriously gets all this shit out of my head so it doesn't build up. Not all of it - for every thought I write down, there are about ten or twenty happening at the same time that I don't catch (though 10 & 11 happened simultaneously). But it gets out enough. 

Stones in my pockets

1.
I wish I could store energy like a cat. It'd come in handy when my brain decides my body doesn't actually need sleep.

2.
My sense of productivity is completely tied to creative output. I've done a bunch of chores, answered emails and typed up what I wrote Friday, and still feel like I haven't accomplished anything today because I haven't written any new words.

3.
My sense of time goes all to hell when other people aren't around.

4.
I get stickers when I do 1000 words a day.
Yeah, that actually works on me.

5.
Does having pebbles wedged in it make a fairy stone defective, or is it once a fairy stone always a fairy stone?

6.
Just own up and say you made a mistake. I can respect that.
I respect honesty.

7.
Watching someone I love go through exactly what I went through with Topher and I can't do anything but scream: Get out! over and over and hope he listens.

I want to say: I will fix it. I will keep you safe. I will make it okay.

But I can't.

I can't even be there in person. I'm just a voice holding up words.

It's the worst feeling.

8. Today was a good day. 19.02.15

9.
I figured it out.

For months I've been trying to puzzle out why Caleb gets out of himself and helps the camp, and she's been right under my nose the whole time.

I knew there had to be a reason she went from a very minor character to a full-fledged personality between drafts.

My subconscious is a sneaky bugger.

Down the rabbit hole.

1.
I'm writing myself in circles trying to catch his voice.

2.
Four hours sleep and I'm wide awake. So tired and so sore. But wide awake. I just can't get it right. I don't know what I'm doing.

3. [manic episode: 12:30 PM]
The more I think about the therapist lady, the more I think it's all bullshit. It's just trying to get everyone n line. If you wake up at the same time every morning, you'll feel better. That's the key to happiness, kids. 9 to 5, go to bed at a normal hour. Make a routine for your day. My problem is my inability to break routine. I can't even have something different for breakfast without my day being fucked (I tried; I had to have two breakfasts to right the world again). More routines doesn't seem like a good solution. And scheduled worry time? Allowing an hour for all the craziness to run rampant unchecked? If I open the floodgates, I'll never get them closed again. The hatches stay battened down because it's the only way out of the spiral.

Liberation.
Liberation from myself.
Freedom.
His word, stuck in my frontal lobe like a brand.
Red hot.

It works for other people, so it'll work for you. What makes you think you're so special?

Because I am.
Average = normal.
Special: better, greater or otherwise different from what is usual.
I'm not average so not normal. Abnormal = special.
Special has a lot of meanings.
It's all about context.

4.
I've been cutting myself a lot of slack. I don't know if it's the right thing to do, but it's what I'm doing.

It's probably not.

5.
I stopped.
And now I'm not moving. No momentum. Just floating. Drifting.
The things I fear have basis in my normality.

6.
It's going to be one of those days.

7.
Dissociation.
I am a twin of myself. A passenger.
There is my body (brain included), and there is me.
A soul?
My brain is an unruly child. For better or worse, we are conjoined forever in one vessel.

8.
I fully believe in a conspiracy of the mental health profession to actually prevent people from getting better.

Evidence: The one thing that does consistently work without crazy side effects I have been told consistently and repeatedly not to do, for reasons that are blatantly untrue.

They could at least make an attempt to use facts.
I conduct my own research.

9.
What do I do with all my lighters?

10.
I do it anyway. I know these people don't have my best interest in mind. They have quotas.

11.
I know my novel is about myself. It took me two years to realise this, and I wonder now if that realisation is what's tripping me up now. Self-conscious.

12.
I build little lighter hoards in my pockets is what I do. Collect the fire.

13.
I am morally opposed to violence. I don't believe it ever does accomplish anything. They say only people who don't know say that. They say in the moment you'll just react. but I am the guy who took 5 punches to the face and didn't hit back. Not because I couldn't, but because I really believe there is never a justification.

I know the only way for there to be no violence, for me to survive, is if everyone is 100% totally on board. Like communism.

I know they're not, but I have my convictions anyway.

Something about change.

I am reading a book by a man who not only thinks the total opposite, but openly ridicules my convictions, so I can learn how to write violence because my novel is violence. My hero is, for all intents and purposes, a serial killer.

14.
I know this is temporary.
I know this will pass.
It's still scary.

15.
The absolute novelty of being able to sit still. It's such a relief you almost want to cry.

[end 2:06 PM]

16.
It's just like when I was a kid. Missing out because I can't get my body to work like the other kids', because I can't keep up. And just like when I was a kid, I push myself beyond what I'm actually capable of because to do otherwise is to accept weakness.

But inevitably, I crash and there's nothing I can do about it.

17.
There's a point right between being fully awake and waiting for sleep when everything is clearest.

Not clear. Chaotic.

Snapshots of scenes and dialogue smashing all out of order but I don't have the energy to chase them down.

Like my brain's last ditch effort to save itself. I can only hope they'll survive 'til morning. 

How do you feel about medication?

1.
GOAL: Talk to strangers.

2.
It's sad knowing a friendship has ended and there's no one to acknowledge it.

So I acknowledge you.
Maybe you were never real to begin with.
But I acknowledge you anyway.

3.
I need a notebook.

4.
GOAL: Give others what they earn, not what you think they deserve, or what will make up for what someone else hasn't given to/has taken away from them, or what you think will motivate them to achieve more. Sort out your own oxygen mask first.

5.
I always need a notebook. Why do I ever listen when Brain says: You have enough notebooks. That's not a necessity.
(Brain is usually right but we won't let it know that. Sh.)

6.
I hate being sick.

7.
Most honest, real advice from any teacher (also same teacher who made 17 year old me miserable): Square peg, round hole, kiddo. You always will be. Just keep them from turning you into a round peg.

8.
Through it all is the worry. Worry that I've made all the wrong decisions. That I keep making them. That I've boxed myself into a corner with no way out. That I've gone too far to turn back and there is nothing ahead of here. How long have I waited to start my life? Have I ever lived it? Is waiting living?

9.
There is too much.

Too much in my head, on the street. Too much to see. Too many sounds, noises, people talking. I think of every person who has walked right here, seen this very thing in front of me, touched that right where my hand is. I feel the weight of every person ever to exist in this space and it suffocates me.

I try to speak but the words can't escape. They trip over each other in a rush to convey the nonverbal experience and so convey nothing but stuttering syllables and choked off meaning. Awkward smiles because the smile is the default position.

10.
FOUND NOTE TO SELF:
I will forever carry the guilt of you.

(I don't know what it means.)