5.05.2015

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. 

4.21.2015

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. 

4.14.2015

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. 

4.07.2015

29.03.15 :: 04.04.15

1.
I think I'm developing an addiction to spearmint.
Cheaper than cigarettes, at least.

2.
I had to banish my computer to an entirely different room to actually get any work done.
So sad.

3.
I have the whole story in my head, but I keep putting off writing anything down because I'm afraid of making the wrong decisions. I don't feel like I know enough to pull it off. I wish I could write like I did in my early twenties. I wish I could a lot of things like I could then. I think I was a better person than I am now. I think I've made all the wrong choices.

4.
I don't think the meds are working anymore, but no one's keeping track, so...

5.
Week 2 of this not smoking thing. Ish. Not smoking-ish. I've realized something interesting about myself. If I get a craving for a cigarette, the stubbornness kicks in and it's no big deal. I'm easily distracted.

If Brain decides I should have a cigarette (it does, whether I actually want one or not) because... Well, who knows what little formulas it uses to decide what has to happen and when. But if that happens, I can't shake it. It's the completion loop thing. I just go around with it nagging at me; you haven't done this yet.

I spent all day yesterday trying to go against it only to give in just so I could go to sleep. So when Brain started up today, my first reaction is to give it whatever it wants so I can get on with things.

It makes me wonder how many other things I just do because Brain has conditioned me to appease it.

Also: I severely underestimated how hard coercing an obsessive mind to give up something would be.

I know, right? How dumb was that?

I live with this thing all the time, and still think it's just going to let go of something because I want it to? I mean. If I could accomplish that... Well, that's kind of the central problem, isn't it?

6.
And yeah. I'm going to give it what it wants because I can't be bothered trying to keep it occupied all day.

7.
I can't even describe the amount of joy I get from being wrapped up in a duvet with all my pillows. If I could just stay there forever I'd be happy all the time. It's like being in a marshmallow. Except not sticky.

8.
I have a genuine fear that I'll get stuck in England after an apocalyptic event. I also worry about getting to my parents. And Bast. Pets usually don't survive apocalypses. Especially stubborn, toothless, brain-damaged elderly cats who don't realise their measly 7 lb selves can't take down any foe.

9.
Back to square one. No reason. Just here. Fed up with how many times I get lost in the NHS (like it's practically standard protocol) and not having the energy to badger them into caring for me. I really don't think Therapy Lady put my referral in (she is a liar, after all, and a little incompetent). I'm probably never going to get my stupid tooth taken care of. I need to follow up about the plastics referral, meds, toe... I need to write my fucking novel. Clean my room. Post last week's blog. Probably other things I'm forgetting about.

I just want to sleep.
I want to hit the reset button.
I want to not exist (not die, there's a difference). I'm just so fucking tired. Physically, mentally.

I feel bad about talking to my friends because how honesty do they want me to be? I'm not okay, but no, I don't want to talk about it with you because 1. there's nothing to fix and 2. I can tell you what you're going to say 3. I know you mean well but your attempts to cheer me up are a little pathetic. Sorry.

I don't even need cheered up. I'm not sad. Just so very unbelievably tired of doing.

10.
I suck at follow-through. I start things, get all excited about them. Run around getting everything I need for it. I get almost obsessive about it. And for a little while, I stick to it. Then it's like a switch goes. I suddenly just don't have any interest in it anymore. Sometimes even overnight. Yesterday I'm all excited about X and today it's just... meh. I can't even force myself to do it. There are about 4 things I can think just off the top of my head I started this week and lost interest in by the end.

I don't have anything that I've consistently been passionate about. There's the frequent commonality of all my passions being creative in some way, or involve making something. I really like making things.

Sometimes I feel like an Etch-A-Sketch that's been shaken. There's nothing there but the faint lines of what's been erased and the potential of new lines to be drawn.

11.
Caleb needs to go to Atlanta. Towards Atlanta, anyway; whether he'll actually get there is still up for debate.

Ben and Carys go with him because they need more airtime and you need to care when Ben dies (spoiler. not really. he has the look of someone created to have a significant death) and Carys needs to teach Caleb about being... whatever they are that doesn't have a name yet (seriously, suggestions for what to name a telesthetic race needed) -- they have to run out of time because the encounter with Roland freaks him out - maybe he knows they can't be killed? Anyway, later. That's way in the future.

Atlanta. Carys drives because she's magic and mysterious so we don't ask many questions, like how she has money or a car.

#1: Their mission is successful. I don't want them to find Derek, though. I don't know where he is yet, but he'll complicate things if he comes in now. For some reason, they also don't/can't go home. Which leaves Justin and Ren at loose ends. Unfortunate for Justin, but Ren is a main guy. Or. Maybe he's better in cameos... So. Option 1 they make it to Derek's dorm. He's not there and something (what?) stops them from going home.

+ what problems would 3 people who can control other people run into? They need a flaw. Besides that two of them don't really know what they're doing.

#2: They don't even make it to Atlanta. Someone wrecks their car or it breaks or they just can't get through with a vehicle. So they're wandering and... Who knows.

They can either join the army willingly or they get coerced. Baz dies around this time. Ben would be motivated to fight, or at least follow a sense of duty and responsibility. Caleb will do whatever Ben wants.

Carys leaves them at this point. Maybe after not finding Derek and not being about to get back to SAV (something with the military?), she convinces the twins to go back to her home (need another name, or find where I wrote down the name) but Baz dies, Ben decides to join the army and Carys goes her own way.

I really like the hurricane scene but I don't think there's a home for it anymore. Oh well.

So then it's whether Carys comes back when Ben dies, or after Caleb kills Roland. I can't see her being okay with a killing spree so that leaves after Roland. (Having her in earlier would mess with whatever I'm doing with Joshua which I haven't decided yet.)

Alternatively, the three of them try to survive on their own, and Ben gets killed while they're doing something. Caleb runs off and Carys has to find him, which leaves a gap for Joshua to make an appearance.

For any of these to work, things have to go from not-so-great to really shitty very quickly. Like overnight. Which is much harder to do in fictional reality than real reality.

I don't know. This boy needs to hurry up and tell his story. I'm tired of moving around puzzle pieces.

12.
I've been carrying around three pens for days because I keep not throwing it away when I find the one that doesn't work, so I foret which one it is so instead of finding out, I take 2 backup. It's safer having three pens anyway. You never know what might happen. Those could be the last three pens you have in an apocalypse. And one of them doesn't even work. Good planning.

13.
If I have the car just break down (flat tire, overheating, etc.), is that too deus ex machina?

14.
I moved my bed 2' closer to the window and before I always felt I had total privacy. I know for a fact how much can be seen of my room from various angles (yes, I did that) but since I moved the furniture I've felt really, really exposed, even in the far part of the room (which definitely cannot be seen from outside unless someone is standing on the train tracks with binoculars (there might be). It still feels like someone's watching. I'm hoping I just get used to it because I really like this arrangement.

(This is me not working.)

4.01.2015

22.03.15 :: 28.03.15

1.
My dreams are my own again, only to have you strolling through them now. I don't know who you are, or where you'll come from, but I'm looking forward to meeting you. Though if history is anything to go by, it'll be weeks or months before we cross paths.

2.
The universe is not big on pats on the head, but every so often it does toss me a bone and say, Look. See? You were entirely right.

The destructive impulse in me wants to cause trouble out of spite, but I won't.

3.
I've always been fixated with duality. It's the single constant in my writing from the stories I concocted at 6 to the novel I'm working on now. Always two. Mirrors. Opposing. Complimentary.

It makes me wonder.

4.
Today is a restless day. I'm seeking something, but I don't know what it is. None of my usual distractions are working. I want gummy bears, but if I go to Morrison's I'll get cigarettes.

Still. One cigarette in three days. That's not bad. And getting them doesn't mean smoking them. Sometimes I just need to have things. Like diazepam. I haven't taken it in months, but I like having it. I know I can take it, if I want to, and that's the essential part right there. As long as I'm able to do something, I may or may not. More than likely I'll probably get around to it eventually. Maybe. But tell me it can't happen and all of my energy will be put into making sure it does.

See what I said about giving myself an inch?

But I really want gummy bears...

5.
I never remember that things close early on Sunday.

I never remember that it's Sunday.

6.
People want so badly to belong somewhere. A majority of the people who follow my interests are like that. That specific type of person who wants in so bad they go way overboard. Everything becomes about that one thing - a belief, a lifestyle, whatever. There's a fakeness to it that immediately turns me off, and I end up avoiding resources for things I'm otherwise inclined to just because I can't handle being around that type of person. Well. Being civil around that type of person.

Logically I can say they have some deficit in their life/identity that pushes them to over-identify with any group or organisation that offers them a sense of fulfillment and purpose, and that this is a normal human drive, and really I should take pity on them and just let them get on with whatever makes them happy because, ultimately, they aren't hurting anyone.

But they get in my way I have no patience for that.

7.

8.
I read it as fake because they whitewash the shadows. Not a hint of darkness. Everyone is good. Everyone is benevolent. Everyone is positive.

It's all bullshit. At the very least, there is an equal balance. More realistically, there's a constant state of flux because the universe isn't stagnant.

Everyone has darkness. Everyone has negativity. Everyone can and has/will be selfish. If you ignore your monsters, they will eat you.

9.
"Speaking to Ren is decoding a language no one else speaks."

10.
There is a brief moment when I first wake up when I can think clearly - one thought without the cacophony of all the other processes in full gear. If I lie quietly enough, I can drag this out for minutes, and this is when I do most of my writing. It's amazing how much you can do in five minutes when nothing else is jostling for attention.

I use sleep and sound to escape the noise in my head. Sleep is best - quietest - my dream self only ever thinks clearly, but I can't spend my life asleep so instead I surround myself with films, TV, music, anything so I don't have to focus on how much is happening inside my head.

11.
Dream: It's raining and I'm in Pittsburgh, but the bus station looks like Montparnasse. It's late so I can't call anyone, and I don't have anywhere to go. I think of S., but I can't remember the address.

(I think: it's on my driver's license. look at my driver's license but it doesn't change the plot.)

Riding in a cab after too long trying to remember which bus to take to vaguely where I think the house is, I realise I could text N, and wouldn't that be a surprise? But I know I'm not really in Pittsburgh, and I can't just go see him. I keep having the thought, though, because I see the city, I feel it. I try to get the address for S. again but to no effect and that's how I know dream me isn't me. I'm just a bystander here, watching the scene unfold.

I wake up still wanting to text N. and say: I'm here! Let's go play! and I have to remind myself I'm not home.

12.
What compels someone to open a curtain shop? Obviously, people buy curtains, but the individual who decides that is what their life's work will be. How does that thought process go?

From an early age, Garrett always had a passion for curtains...

13.
Some days I have to remind myself I don't have to answer to anyone. I can lay on my bed all day if I want. I can read a book. I can go out or stay in. It's all up to me. No one's going to come along and tell me to stop or that I should be doing something else, or whatever. I don't know who I actually think would do that, but very often I have the sense that any minute someone is going to come in and yell at me for being lazy or self-indulgent or too slow or just something.

I feel guilty for using my time the way I want.

I don't know where that comes from.

14.
I've been asked to write an afterword for "Between Universes".

What do I say about a story I wrote for(about) someone I no longer speak to? 

3.24.2015

15.03.15 :: 21.03.15

1.
The crows speak. I turn my back on the town, the people, civilization and look at the stones crammed side by side in what would have been neat rows but 200 years has worn their order. In the winter trees, the crows speak words I almost understand. I want to unfold my wings and fly up among them but people are waiting for me and I'm cold and sore so I put away my wings and limp along the cobbled path to the town.

2.
My dreams are of betrayal. Not the cinematic overtures my subconscious usually performs, but less nuanced. More basic, standard tropes.

3.
I told someone once that home is wherever I'm not, and that is very true. I always look forward to going to my parents', and I like being there. It's a break, in a lot of ways, but I also look forward to going back to Canterbury. It's different lives. I don't know if I'll ever be able to stay put. I know I need stability - familiar people mostly - but six months and Canterbury is already beginning to chafe.

4.
I dreamt of New Orleans, except sometimes it looked like Paris. I was visiting, but decided to make it permanent.

5.
Do I send Caleb to Atlanta after Derek? It's not far. It makes sense for him to go. Though, could he afford it? Does he even have a car? Who would he go with? Would he tell anyone, or would he just go?

6.
I would like to get a job, for a lot of the same reasons I'd like to have a car. Feeling a little more independent, a little more in control of my situation, would help. I have a thing about control. And I feel so restricted now. Tied down. Confined. But I'm worried I won't be able to handle it. That it'll turn out to be too much and I'll end up right back in the hole I just climbed out of.

I have a tendency, I know, when I start feeling better, to jump in headfirst and sign on to all the things I've been wanting to do but couldn't, and inevitably it blows up in my face. Even a normal person can't do everything, and I function best at a more relaxed pace.

I don't want to make the mistakes I've made before. I want this time to work. I want to stay better. Maybe I should just give myself more time instead of running off at the first sign of light (literally and figuratively). Summer doesn't last forever. Especially in this country.

7.
I should call N. It's hanging there in the back of my head. Has been for weeks. Call N. But what would I say? From thousands of miles away I hear you, and this is the only way I know how to say, I'm here. I'm listening. I see you.

Be careful.

8.
Today I decided to quit smoking.

9.
The people of England need to learn to appreciate cinnamon in candy. Or at least gum.

10.
I miss the fire. The soft little cracklehiss as the paper burns down.

11.
Just before bed and just after breakfast are the hard parts because it's wired into my rituals and I don't deal well with change. I've considered giving in to myself just for those times, but my stubbornness balks at any leeway. I've made a decision so I should stick to it. Besides, give an inch...

12.
A long time ago something in me split in two, and it never quite readhered. So now it's me, and the Other. Sometimes it stays quiet, so I only feel it sitting just beneath my skin. Sometimes we talk, like friends who leave nowhere off limits. Sometimes it rages so wild and strong it takes all of my will and focus to just not let it out.

Sometimes I hate it. I want to be rid of it. Everything about it seems horrible and wrong. Other times I wrap around it like my only comfort, my oldest friend, my constant companion.

But it's always there in the back of my head. Waiting. Shifting. Watching everything I do.

3.17.2015

08.03.15 :: 14.03.15

1.
If I really wanted to be authentic I'd date each of these. Map them out over the week so they could be lined up with events and circumstances.

2.
Slightly rearranging the furniture disrupted my going to bed routine enough that for a full minute I didn't know what to do until I reconstructed all the steps.

First you take off your socks...

3.
I do not like the new Marlboros. Saying they taste the same doesn't make them taste the same.

Don't fuck with people's cigarettes, man.

4.
There was a thought, which I forgot, because my flatmates started talking about the letting agent showing the flat and the end of the lease and I'm not optimistic enough to believe I'll be granted two random equally cool people again. I think I really am just done with goodbyes.

5.
"It was something like the word 'it' in the phrase 'it is raining' or 'it is night.' What that 'it' referred to Quinn had never known." (The New York Trilogy, Paul Auster)

There's no answer to that question. But now I can't stop thinking about 'it' and all those words we put in that don't mean anything in that context, or adopt a different meaning for that moment, and we generally never acknowledge the strangeness of it.

6.
Why people sit where they sit on public transportation, and what determines which strangers they'll sit with.

This was #4.

It interests me. I make a study of the people who sit next to me, and how long before I have to deal with a stranger in my space (when there are only seats next to people left, I tend to be among the first to get a neighbour, though there is little to no commonality between them).

Based on my own preferences for seating partners, I presume that means a wide demographic finds me approachable and/or unthreatening. Or believes I won't invade their personal space more than required by circumstance. (I won't; being in their space means they're in mine and I don't like that.)

7.
I don't like that they're showing the flat when I'm on the other side of the country. Not that I have control over who moves in anyway. But it still bothers me. There'd at least be an illusion of control if I could spy on the potential new people.

8.
I wish I had not forgotten my meds in Canterbury.
Or my razor.

9.
I'm excited. I have no idea why. But it feels like that moment right before you get to do something - go on a trip, have a party, go to a gig - something fun and happy. But there's nothing. I'm just bouncing around the house. Literally.

It's kind of inconvenient.

10.
What would the world look like if we "resurrected" neanderthals? How many would we make? Would they be people or animals? Where would they go? Who would "own" them? (You know someone would claim ownership.) Would there just be a few, or a colony, and then what?

They'd make a male and female. There'd be a circus over whether or not they could breed in captivity. School children would be paraded by to learn about this lost part of history. The birth of the first pure (not cloned) neanderthal would trend on Twitter, along with prospective names for the primordial bundle of joy. Neanderthal rights groups would protest the labs, and religious groups would claim this a sign of the end of days. Public interest would wan as the more unpleasant realities came to light, and a soft-hearted tech would sneak the experimental family out of the enclosure.

And then...

11.
"We've got the tools to do it, so we might as well do it."

The major flaw of human rationale right there. 

3.10.2015

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. 

3.03.2015

LLAP

1.
I don't read enough.

I don't know when it went from something fun - the height of luxury was staying in bed all day with a pile of books - to something to be avoided. But that's where I am.

2.
I have to see Therapy Lady tomorrow. I want to confront her about last week, but I go quiet when I get angry. I wish I were one of those people who could express exactly what they're feeling as they're feeling it, instead of having to step back and think it through.

3.
I appreciate the people I live with, and thinking about that - the fact that I didn't know anything about them before the day we all moved in together, I feel very fortunate.

4.
I am envious of Paul Auster's words.

5.
You can't have an emotion without a thought, even if you're not aware of the thought, she says.

But if you're not conscious of a thought, is it actually a thought?

I don't know if that's true.  I feel things all the time without thoughts attached to them. I feel things that contradict my thoughts.

Maybe that's the problem with this scenario. She doesn't understand the separation of thought and feeling.

Also: I don't trust her.

It also became clear in the exercise that I can't differentiate between physical sensation and emotion. Aside from the basics, like anger, I had to keep asking if something was an emotion.

She didn't notice I struggled with that.

This is a waste of my time.

6.
There are days - the good days - when I think, this is all just in my head. I'm imagining the problem, that there is a problem. And all this other stuff - the meds, the appointments - it's just playing into that. I'd be totally fine without it. I'd be better without it.

7.
The crux of my problem with the NHS is they keep asking me what's wrong with me and how to treat it, and it's like, well if I knew that, I wouldn't need you, would I?

That, and that everyone has to go through the system in the same order, regardless of how many times they've done it before, or how useless it is for them.

Like, seeing a counselor 8 times is going to be no help to someone with a long term anxiety disorder. But they send me to them over and over, and then they decide they can't help me but need permission to send me on to someone who might be able to. And if they don't get permission?

So often I just get fed up and discouraged and stop pursuing it. Who does that help?

Where are the diagnosticians?

The more I think about it, the more I realize the only benefit of the NHS system is affordable medication (and even that is beginning to get tight as they keep adding things to the list). There is no care, as such. There is no relationship with my doctors, not trust that they know what's best, or even listen to me. There is no trust that someone with the knowledge and experience is keeping it all on track and making sure I get what I need.

Well, there is, but that's just luck of the draw. The fact is, if my parents didn't have the skills that they do, I would be royally fucked.

And that's a seriously flawed system.

I shouldn't be relying on my mother for therapy, or my dad for medical advice. That's the doctors' job.

8.
I worry that people don't know I'm enjoying myself when I am.

I'm not very expressive.

There's a concrete worry for the Therapy Lady.

But then she'd say, how do you change that?

I don't know. You can't. Not something like that.

You could fake it (sometimes I do, but it's obviously faked expressiveness, and usually at the demand of someone else). But then you have to know when it's expected of you.

And there's the problem.

Maybe I should wear signs and switch them out as appropriate. Happy, sad, sleepy...

9.
Language.
Or the lack thereof.

My thoughts aren't actually thoughts in the way people normally think about them, or at least what I've come to understand about the way people normally think. My thoughts are... experiences. Things come with colours or textures. Feelings. Sometimes a picture. Sometimes all of the above.

It takes time to translate, and sometimes there just isn't any verbal equivalent so it takes... awhile. And I have this thing stirring in my head that I'm completely incapable of communicating to anyone else for weeks, months. They'll pile up until I'm afraid I'll start losing track of them all. And that's where the panic comes in. That I'll be stuck holding all these things in without ever being able to get them out just the way they should be.

It's the only time those breathing exercises actually work, because of the conscious mind is putting all its attention on what the lungs are doing, it's not going to give a shit what the subconscious mind is up to.

10.
Leonard Nimoy gave me a character I could identify with who wasn't a murderer or obnoxious or cruel or just a total ass.

It's strange missing someone you never even met.

2.24.2015

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.


2.17.2015

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. 

2.10.2015

Playing by the rules

1.
Creating encourages all my bad habits. Sleeping less. Smoking more. Forgetting to go outside.

2.
I want to be brave enough to run into the wild without tripping on all the what-ifs first.

3. Back to square one and the momentous effort required for the most basic things. I want to sleep and sleep and sleep but I'm afraid to stop moving in case I never start up again.

4.
I don't know how to make the words take me from point A to point B.

5.
This is what I should have told the therapist woman:

It's not about confidence. It's about people being unpredictable. I don't know what they're going to do so therefore I can't adequately prepare for the social demands on me.

It's that I forget to keep in regular contact with people. Because I forget about them (sorry, guys. It doesn't mean I don't love you.)

I have to think about so many things when I interact with people.

Maintain eye contact, but not too much.
Ask questions, but not too much.
Show interest, but not too much.
Share, but not too much.
Don't stay too long.
Don't leave too soon.

I can't stop thinking about it because it never just comes to me.

I need a formula for when to speak. When not to speak. How often to talk to someone so they know you like spending time with them, but you aren't suffocating. What their expectations are.

It's so much work. So, so much. And tiring. Some days - a lot of days - I just can't pull together the resources to manage all that thinking and being aware.

It's not about a lack of confidence. It's about not knowing what the rules are. 

2.03.2015

Breathe away.

1.
After three days of feeling like some very small but pernicious creature was gnawing through my skull and even the word "food" made me want to never eat again, I woke up on Day 4 with an unfamiliar sense of purpose and focus. I even managed to get some work done. It took me ten hours to write 600 words, but that's still better than no words, which has been my recent daily average.

2.
Day 5: The creature is back but I almost got pancakes for breakfast. I wasn't quite up to breaking that morning ritual but the thought was there. We'll work up to it. But I'm also thinking, I'm not me. It doesn't feel like me. Is it me? The real me, or just an artificial approximation? But if the "real" me can't function without outside intervention, is the approximation such a bad thing?

Is the thought itself just a side effect? 

3.
My heart is beating because if it weren't I'd be dead. 

But what if it isn't?

4.
Accept my limitations and be honest about them. All my life I've wanted to just be like other kids, but I'm not, and no amount of wanting is going to change that. I can only do what I can do, and at least if other people know why... It's something anyway.

5.
Allowing myself permission to buy one notebook resulted in purchasing two.

I blame my mother.
She led me astray.

6.
I worry that one day I will (or have already) reach my quota of words. What then?

7.
There is something about superheroes and secret identities that I want to explore, but I can't pin down what it is yet.

8.
It's so hard for me to go out with people. If I have too long to think about it, I'll back out. If nothing is planned, I'll drift in my own world. It feels unfair to put the responsibility for dragging me out of my cave on other people.

9.
I'm not good at juggling. I can plunge into the deep end of one thing, and rock it. But I have to do just that one thing. Add two, three, I panic and freeze. Do nothing.

10.
I spent time with people and it actually felt good. For the first time in a really long time. As adverse as I am to this whole medication thing, it seems that, for right now anyway, it's what I need.

11.
I'm excited again. 

1.27.2015

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.)