Shame on me. I didn't write at all through November.

First of all, <a href=http://deadletter.org/go/pets>pictures of the cats</a>.

When I last wrote, I was taking GK to the doctor. On our way there, I asked her if she was going to vote on the upcoming election.

"Oh...well, I don't know, there's no one with charisma to vote for. Clinton at least had charisma..."

I stifled a groan and mentioned some of the issues I thought were important. Charisma was the least of my concerns--I just wanted a guy who was pro-choice and not an idiot, in other words, not Bush.

"Are you registered to vote?" I asked her as she tried to change the subject.

"No...cause when you register then you have to go to traffic school, and plus then they draw your name out and put you on jury duty."

"I think," I told her, trying to not laugh or sound patronizing, "that what you're thinking of is that you can register when you get your driver's license."

But I didn't push it. My head asked me half-jokingly if I really wanted people like that to vote, and the doctor's office, mercifully just up the street, kept me from getting any more complacent.

"Is there anything of mine that you like?" she asked me later as we sat in the waiting room.

"Huh?" I was taken aback.

"You know, anything you'd like to have. I'm giving my stuff away," she said, and stifled a sniffle.

Of course. She was sure she was dying; she had found a lump on her breast a few days earlier, and we were at the doctor so she could get it checked out. There was a time when the thought of my own death made me sad and teary-eyed. I'm not sure what happened; maybe I have no soul, but it hasn't bothered me a bit for some time now.

"Well, you know, you're going to die anyway. The lump probably won't be anything to be worried about, and you could be walking out of here and get hit by a truck or have a meteorite land on your head. On the other hand, it could turn out to be cancerous and you could get it treated and live to be a hundred,” I shrugged.

For some reason, this didn't seem to be of any comfort to her.

[And no, it wasn't cancerous. She's doing perfectly fine now and has forgotten all about dying and giving her things away.]

news brief

I've gotten a second kitten, this time an actual female. Her name's Kumori and she's much mellower than Mafalda (which isn't hard, considering Mafalda is the most hyper cat in the Universe).

ramblings of an oversized chew toy.

I haven't written for a while because I honestly don't know what to write about. I could go on about being depressed, but I imagine that'd be dreadfully boring. And besides, I'm not depressed all the time; I don't feel like a complete failure all the time, though perhaps I should. I do have a pretty nice life, all in all. I've got a nice family, a good place to live, an insane but sweet cat who likes to chew on everything, a good roommate, and a great boyfriend who puts up with my fits of self- bashing and doesn't mind my silliness.

Writing about anything other than what goes on in my head will eventually lead to me telling you about the people around me, and I'm not sure how to do that without bothering them or myself. I could write about some old one-night stand or about things with CJ now or our plans for the future and the things I find myself daydreaming of, but I worry about what he'd think. Ah well.

Tomorrow I'm going with GK to the doctor. GK is a girl I met while attending a program at the hospital for depressed/bipolar/etc people. She refuses to try medication, and sometimes that really bothers me. She is, all in all, a nice person, and never before have I been so bothered by someone I actually like. Everything with her is just really complicated—it’s never yes or no; picking a place for lunch can be an hours-long endeavor—and she likes so many things I despise. She likes hanging out at the mall, boy bands, and wants a traditional family; she's unhappy with the way she looks, but she won't do anything about it because she doesn't have a guy to do it for. And so on. All these things make me feel so smug and superior and conceited and judgmental. I don't think I should care about these things; it is her life, after all, and it's not as if she's trying to make me change the way I want to live mine, but she gets this very strong reaction out of me nonetheless. One of the things that I really really strongly believe is that you should be free to do whatever you want as long as you're not hurting anyone else; so if she wants to hang out at the mall and follow boy bands, I should not only be ok with it but I don't think I should feel superior. Feeling superior, in my mind, shows a lack of respect for her choices. And where does it say that having Sartre instead of Steel on your nightstand makes you happier or better?

And yet, I do think the things I pick are better, there's no denying that; otherwise, I wouldn't choose them. And so it's back to the previous paragraph. This makes me a hypocrite beyond what I'm comfortable with (I'm ok with everyone being a hypocrite to some extent, as long as they're aware of it), and so I feel really uncomfortable around her when I let myself think of these things.

But anyway, I'm going to the doctor with her tomorrow to lend moral support. Later, I'm taking my cat to the vet. Luckily, I have no superiority issues with my cat, and to him I'm just an oversized chew toy who brings him food once in a while.

I'm depressed and a bit cranky. Don't say I didn't warn you.

I did alright for the first week of school, even though I couldn't for the life of me remember any of the old math stuff. Chinese was easy enough, and I even had some hope that I could hammer physics into my head. By the start of the second week, though, I was barely able to stand up I was so dizzy—the people at my pharmacy screwed up my medication refill and the dizziness was part of withdrawal—so I missed class. By the time I was able to go back, I was stressing out big time; I was throwing up and getting sick before school, and I started having panic attacks in the parking lot again. It just got worse, until I was useless. Again.

That's pretty much it. I'm withdrawing. Again.

Hi, my name is Anesly, and I'm a big failure. Nice to meet you.

RF and I went to see an immigration lawyer to see if there was anything that could be done about my situation. He said that basically there was nothing we could do until I graduated. He suggested I take an extra hard load and get my degree as soon as possible. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

I emailed my parents over two weeks ago because I was really depressed. I sent them pictures, and I begged them to email me back, just a short note letting me know that they had gotten my message ok if nothing else. Several days later, my mom called. To remind me to send her some documents. They hadn't even looked at email. She promised she'd look at it as soon as she got off the phone. Nothing happened. To make matters worse, when I went to withdraw money from the bank account, there was nothing there. They have a habit of doing that without bothering to warn me. I suppose they figure RF will take care of me. I don't know.

I have felt very sad lately. I'd come home after school, undress, and curl up in bed with my cat, and try to sleep the day away. But there's only so much sleeping you can do. I don't feel comfortable anywhere; not here, and not at CJ's, and of course not at school. I can barely set foot in the place without throwing up. I was spending some time in the car, driving, and that felt a alright, but I don't have money for gas, and sitting in the parked car in the garage just doesn't do it. It's gotten to the point where I feel uncomfortable in my own skin, like an eternal itch; all I want is to be able to leap out of myself and find some place peaceful.

CJ comes by after school, and that helps, but the problem is me, and maybe I'm broken beyond fixing.

parentheses

I've felt better the past couple of days. In fact, I feel a little too ok with everything--school starts tomorrow and I've made no preparations. My therapist (yes, I have a therapist—bite me) is going to have a field day with this.

twitch, twitch

School starts on Monday and I'm not feeling all that great. I've been incredibly fidgety and nervous. I sleep intermittently until noon, dreaming suffocating dreams, and I wake up tired and with my mouth dry. I lay in bed for a long time, staring at my surroundings, hot and uncomfortable, not really thinking of anything; my brain tries to make small talk and occasionally throws in a thought of all the things I should take care of today, or of what to wear, or of the weather. I finally get up, taking more time than necessary, and I slowly waste the rest of the day; while my movements are slow, my mind is racing, latching onto small pointless things and obsessing over them. That is why, in these past few days, I find myself eating too much and spending too much money on stupid things. The smallest thing--cheesecake, a pair of shoes, a book, underwear, a drink, whatever, anything to keep my mind away from what's really bothering me, grows until there's no room for anything else. In the evening, CJ comes over, and having him around brings me a little bit of peace. At night, after he's gone to sleep, I lay in bed, awake, at first thinking of nothing and only making sure to not cry, until I find something to latch onto, until the silence and my thoughts become deafening and I fall asleep exhausted.

things i've bought lately:

• wire
• knitting needles
• embroidery threads
• goat milk
• rose-ish underwear
• books by gabriel garcia marquez and isabel allende
• cat litter
• fishing line
• wire cutters
• shiny orange sneakers

---

My mom's surgery went ok. She's on medical leave from work for some 20 days. The trip to Alaska was wonderful; I may post some of the things I wrote while we were driving. Though by the end I was ready to be home, it felt odd to be back. While we were traveling, the only things that mattered were where we were going to get gas next, when we got hungry or sleepy; I had books to plow through, knitting to finish, driving to do, and so forth. And then, we were back, and I had the house to myself, with nothing that I really needed to do. I slept.

I'm putting off taking my medication this morning. I've been feeling tired and sad and somewhat angry; I loathe the cold stiffness from within my bones, the dull swelling pain that grows giant inside me. And yet, some days I almost hate the two white pills that make me able to walk and drive and type more. I hate them because they remind me, and because I'll be chained to them until God knows when. I hate my body for not working as it should, my immune system for being clumsy and confused.

I'll take them, probably as soon as I'm done writing this. And then I'll take my cat to the vet and run errands and come back and be lazy and forget all about it, until tomorrow morning, when I wake up with slightly stiff joints and am reminded of the damn round pills.

My mom called me today. She is having surgery next Thursday. They're taking her thyroid out.

She asked me about the upcoming trip to Alaska.

"Are you taking a camera?"

"Yeah..." CJ had just emailed me about that. "And lots of film."

"Maybe, you know, if you see a temple on the way, you could take pictures."

"Sure..."

"Maybe you guys can go to church on a Sunday if you find one along the way..."

"Mom," I started to say, but stopped and sighed quietly instead.

"But really, that's kind of difficult when you're on a trip, because you're all dirty and wearing pants and..." she went on, rushing to fill the silence.

Maybe I will try to explain it again next time. But not today—she’s having surgery next Thursday. I wish I could tell her that even though I can't bring myself to go to church, I worry about her just the same and that my thoughts will be with her.

Todo Cambia.

It's almost midnight. RF is running around downstairs and CJ is asleep upstairs. We went to bed at the same time, but I got up after he dozed off. I couldn't sleep, so I got back up and came downstairs.

I am mostly listening to Mercedes Sosa singing "Todo Cambia" over and over. One year ago, I was heartbroken and in Chile. It was nice seeing my family, but I wish the circumstances had been different. I was, however, fine—bad enough that thinking of how I felt makes me shiver still, but well enough that I'm here a year later and that I can laugh it off.

I finished my Japanese classes. I did well, and yet that does little or nothing to ease my anxiety about the upcoming quarter. I have excelled and failed miserably in school. This is my past.

It will probably be a long time until I see my family again. My dad liked sitting on his chair with a poncho on and reading the paper; my mom always got sleepy early and disoriented easily; my grandmother would never just sit down and stop doing things. This is my past.

CJ and I leave for Alaska on Friday. I am taking Chinese next quarter. This is my future.

We used to walk four km to church on Sundays. We lived in a small house in the middle of nowhere. In the summer, we'd pick blackberries and my mom would make jam. I liked sitting at the top of the small hill next to the house and watching the wind turn the fields into a sea of golden waves.

We lived in a nice house in a cul-de-sac. We had no furniture in the family room; later, we'd find a beat up leather recliner and take turns sitting on it when we watched TV.

We lived in a crammed hotel in downtown Buenos Aires for several months. I used to wait for everyone to fall asleep and then drag a chair to the terrace and sit there through the night watching the stars. I used to sleep in the morning.

We lived in a large apartment in a nice section of the city. I always think of it as “the five-bathroom-apartment.” A few blocks away, people built shacks of tin, cardboard and plastic by the train tracks. I used to lay naked on my bed on hot summer nights, window open and heavy wooden blinds drawn, listening to the passersby and hoping for rain.

This is my past.

RF is here downstairs. Maybe he can't sleep either. I used to love him, and we lived here together. This too is my past.

CJ is asleep upstairs. RF and I live here now, roommates.

I'm going upstairs. I'll try to open the door quietly and sneak in without waking CJ up, but I'll fail; he'll stir and smile, and I'll get in bed and he'll draw closer. We'll sleep with the window open.

This is, perhaps, my future.

It was my dad's birthday last week. He turned 47. I called to wish him a happy birthday and found that he'd been ordered to be home and not do anything for a couple of days because of a bad case of the flu. My parents (and when I say “my parents,” I usually mean my mother, father, and grandmother) aren't all that good at that--being home and not doing anything.

I was a bum today. I loathe Mondays and it seemed like a worthy way to spend a Monday.

I'm much better at it than my parents.

Is that how life will pass me by? For some people, it's working all the time and never stopping. Maybe I will be a bum and never get anything done. My parents and grandmother are always busy. My grandmother is nearing 90 and we still had trouble getting her to sit still long enough for her leg to heal when she hurt it. My parents work and work and do things around the house and go to church and read self-improvement books and listen to new music and watch movies and raise children and puppies and move from country to country and get masters' degrees and learn new languages and and and...

I play on the computer and take drives and go to school. I buy useless orange things.

Do they like working so much? Do they consider all of it work? Is it in how they were raised? Is it that I've had everything so easy? Am I just a lazy person?

I feel alienated.
I really miss my family.

Never mind me, I’m just babbling.

I have these arguments with myself. I get terribly worked up when I find that something I consider stupid bothers or scares me. I blame this on my mother (but then, I blame everything on my parents; I figure it's just easier that way and I save myself a lot of time—just blame everything on them all at once instead of going down the list). But anyway, I have these arguments with myself in which I invariably chew myself out over caring about these things and then decide that the way to stop is to go to the other extreme. That's how this site was born, that's how I stopped wearing makeup, that's why the webcam's on. Lately though, I've been wondering if I go too far; what happens after I'm no longer terrified of not wearing makeup, or after I'm ok with not being able to hide behind my hair, or after I can blather on for months on end on here about just about anything—what then? Do I go too far and instead of conquering something, do I just fall into a different rut? Is the other extreme just the same thing wearing a different costume?

The only difference is that when I fall into the other extreme I am no longer scared to go back and visit the first one; this, however, does little or nothing to take care of this uneasy feeling.

Maybe I just like worrying; maybe I make these things up to have something to do, to pass time. To feel busy.

I was fidgety and anxious for the days following that drive. I was scared to drive anywhere near there; I was worried about being by myself; I was worried that this urge to shatter myself into a million pieces would take over me when I was feeling just fine and that I wouldn't be able to stop myself.

Friday, I asked CJ to drive back up the mountain with me. We set out Saturday morning and made our way up to the same spot. I got out of the car, a little shaky, and made my way to the edge. And nothing happened—everything was fine. I brought the camera out and took pictures; I hugged CJ and laughed.

"Screw you," I told the cliff, and felt silly, and laughed some more, and drove away.

When I Fall.

We went up to the mountain where we first kissed, one of our favorite drives. We are slowly making our way through all its twisted side roads—trying to find ways to go higher and farther while there is no snow. As we we were driving back down, we spotted a road we had yet to follow and decided to go up a ways and see if it went anywhere. It seemed to go on for a while and we needed to go home, so we stopped and got out to look around and stretch our legs. On the left side, more mountain; on the right side, a sharp drop onto a bed of rocks and then the endless sea of green. I was mesmerized by the sight and walked closer to the right. Up until then, I had been thinking of how good I felt, but at that moment, all of that was gone, and all I knew was that I should throw myself off.

I walked closer to the edge, slowly so as to not call CJ's attention to what I was getting ready to do. But I didn't want to be quiet—I wanted to lift my arms and feel the air and laugh and fly and die. I drew closer and closer to the edge, and then he grabbed my hand from behind.

"Watch yourself," he told me.

I turned around, shocked and looked at him, but his eyes pierced me and I couldn't stand it. I buried my head on his shoulder and tried to bring my frenzied thoughts to a stop. I tried not to cry, but a tear escaped me all the same.

"Are you OK?" he asked, worried, putting his hands on my shoulders. "Look at me and tell me you're OK."

"Yes," I lied, but my voice was shaking and I couldn't hold his gaze. "I'm fine."

"Let's go home, OK?" And he walked me to the car with his hand around my waist and closed the door behind me. He drove down fast and we made the trip to his place without saying a word. I looked out the window and longed to be able to jump and hated myself for doing this while he was with me.

"I should go home," I tried to say without sounding shaken up after we'd parked.

"I'd feel a lot better if you stayed here," he told me.

We went back and forth like that for a while, until I gave him my keys. I didn't know what I wanted; I thought about saying that I'd stay but sneaking out after he'd fallen asleep and going back up the mountain. But in the end, there's always more time to die, and I felt too lost to make up my mind. We made our way to the bedroom, where he sat next to me and held me tight and tried to make me feel better. I shook and cried and told him more than I intended to, but in the end we went to sleep like always, tangled up and giggling and tired, and I did feel better the next morning.

Drive

All of a sudden, I started feeling OK about the things that worried me. All of a sudden, I wasn't really concerned.

After CJ and I drove to Ellensburg though, I started feeling more andmore confused about everything--school, family, being in the US, CJ, RF, living in North Bend...you name it, I was confused about it. I finally decided to go for a drive and I let CJ and RF know that I might disappear for the weekend. I threw some clothes and a sleeping bag in the back seat and started driving west.

I drove to the coast and then south. I wanted to get away from everything and everyone; I wanted to drive and be swallowed by the landscape. Night caught up with me somewhere in Oregon, and after I was too tired to keep driving, RF called me to talk.

I felt calmer, less confused. And as we were talking, I started feeling homesick. I have always felt homesick, but I've rarely been able to point that feeling to a specific place—in the back of my head, I'm always homesick for a place that doesn't exist. This time though, I knew where I wanted to be—I wanted to go back to North Bend. I wanted to see CJ, I wanted to look out the window and see the bluebird on our grass. I wanted to be able to talk to RF in person and to play with the cat. So, much to RF's amusement, I got back on the road and drove home.

On love.

Someone on the INTP list* asks:

If Life is like a box of chocolates, what is love like?

---

Tic Tacs

Upon further reflection, I'd have to say sometimes TicTac, sometimes Pez.

---

Love is like a wharf rat in a mist that smells of an old olive drab canvas tarp, the rat sliding through the midnight shadow of your life, part of a baby bird which fell from the eave of a warehouse on the pier clutched in its teeth.

---

A sack of potatoes?

---

Love is like a lit matchstick.

---

Love is a box of chocolates filled with little un-pinned grenades.

---

Love is like drinking a creamy refreshing milkshake through your nostrils.

Love is like swimming in a lake and then feeling something touch your leg.

Love is like buying a stock and then watching it drop down to zero.

---

Love is like the ebola virus: at first you feel hot and dizzy and have to lie down. Then you have trouble breathing, your kidneys shut down, and blood pours out of various orifices.

Okay, so I'm not a poet.

A fairly large segment of the population claims to have experienced what they call love, but sometimes I wonder if most of them just had a touch of indigestion and mistook it for love, or if they are so cowed by the frequent mention of love in our popular culture that they have convinced themselves they must have been in love once, or will be soon - it's a given. Having never been in love to the best of my knowledge, I am skeptical that there is such a thing. When you ask others who say they have fallen in love what it is like, all they can do is come up with flaky metaphors. I am not convinced.

---

Someone you can be quiet with.

Next: someone you can be quiet with over the phone.

---

* if one of these quotes is yours and you want me to put your name with it or remove it, drop me a line.

In the words of the immortal AJ: I want to be a conformist when I grow up.

Why is it that everyone assumes that what you wanted to do when you were young is what would make you happy? How many people really have the faintest clue as to what they even like and don't like in their teens or twenties? So maybe you wanted to be a wandering minstrel growing up, and maybe you never got around to it because you couldn't sing to save your life and you didn't like going from place to place or you were too damn lazy to look the word "minstrel" up in the dictionary. Oh horrors! Maybe you lived your life anyway and did what everyone else did, and went to parties and school and got a job and a wife and kids and a house in the suburbs, where, contrary to what the United Nonconformists of this world and rabid American Beauty fans will declare in unison any chance you give them, some people are happy without having the life sucked out of their souls. And maybe, God help us, you're one of those people, poor you with your house and your job and your family and your routines and meals and outings, and still dperfectly happy to just fit in. You'll never be alternative enough, you'll never master cool, who gives a shit? Stop whining and making yourself feel vaguely guilty for something you've never wanted. Stop making excuses. Maybe you have just what you want.

Maybe it's all you need.

[the length of my sentences is inversely proportional to the amount of sleep I've had]

So, rheumatoid arthritis it is. I was really depressed over it the day I was told--like I said, I knew it was coming, but hearing it made it much too real. It felt so strange sitting at the Dr's office and listening to him talk about dealing with this not for a month or two or for a year or two, but for a decade or two. I spent the rest of the day moping around the house and then met up with CJ, who did a good job of cheering me up. So, that's that; I was given some medication and am supposed to go back in a couple of weeks to talk about more long-term treatment.

As is always the case when I don't want something to be real, I put getting the medication off for five days and was in a lot of pain and discomfort, which was, of course, just fine by me. I don't know whether I take pleasure in making myself feel like shit or simply don't care. Whatever it was, after a few days of feeling sorry for myself, I finally went and got it, motivated in no small way by people asking whether it was helping and RF getting quite annoyed at me after realizing I still hadn't gotten my prescription filled. I was able to bend my knees without much pain last night, and this morning I tripped all over myself hopping down CJ's stairs.

---

I feel like I'm running out of things to talk to my therapist about, not because suddenly everything's good, but because I don't feel so confused about everything. Like everything else in my life though, I can't just leave this alone; I wonder if this is a temporary high brought on by not being in so much pain and having CJ around, and if it isn't, how will I fill my days without being always confused and in pain and making plans to kill myself? What happens if all I was was my problems, what happens if I'm but a brittle and empty shell without them?

What happens if, all of a sudden, I'm happy?

Where is everyone? I feel I could scream for hours before someone noticed. It looks so empty that even my thoughts seem to echo.

I knew it was coming, but that doesn't mean that I was ready for it. I suppose I was hoping for something else. And even though it shouldn't be devastating, all I want is to curl up and cry it off. And of course, wanting that makes for a wonderful excuse to beat myself up for being so weak.

Maybe tomorrow it'll rain...

I want stormy weather. I want the air to be warm and thick, and I want a whisper of a breeze to build up just enough that it lifts the hair off my neck and shoulders when I stand in the yard. I want the sky covered, I want dark, low clouds to hover above me; I want them to burst with rain. I want to be drenched, and then I want to go to bed with the window open, listening to the tapping of the water and to hear thunder in the distance as I fall asleep.

I met someone with a foot fetish.

I want someone who likes my feet, dammit.

---

I went with someone to the mall (*shudder*) this weekend--she wanted to try on a couple of dresses, and I ended up trying some on myself. would you forgive me if I told you that I fell in love with a girly black dress? And would you think less of me if I told you that I almost got it, even though I'd probably never wear it, just cause it looked so nice?

The reason I'm so intent on shunning 'girly' things is that they're so often associated with being dumb, or simply because they're things I don't want for myself. And I worry that, if I admit to one thing, I'll be assumed to be perfectly happy with all the rest of them. I don't cook, not because I can't*, but simply because I don't want it to be expected of me. I don't clean other people's messes because I know guys who've gotten along God knows how many years without cleaning their own apartment because all it takes is bringing some wide-eyed girl over who finds their lack of interest in cleaning endearing and feels she just has to do it for them. I avoided Home Ec classes like the plague; I went to math instead, much to the chagrin of certain school counselors. It's a rare thing that I'll admit that I can knit, sew, crochet, cook, or produce all kinds of Martha-Stewartesque crafts. I would rather people think I'm clueless or clumsy than that they expect me to do these things.

Much of this is directly related to having grown up in the Mormon Church. My parents raised my sisters and I to be independent women--I don't know how they reconciled this with the Church, but I am thankful. I was taught that whether I was female or male made no difference; I remember my aunt (who then lived across the street from us) speaking to my mom, concerned that I wouldn't play with dolls. I was playing with her sons' trucks instead. Deliberately--it had earlier struck me as stupid that I shouldn't just because I was a girl, so I set out to make a point. And well, their toys were more fun.

My aunt was a beautiful woman with light brown hair. She married a tall, wiry man with piercing blue eyes and dark brown hair. He liked blondes. She bleached and dyed her hair. One day, she showed up at our gate, crying, with his bicycle. They'd had a bad fight, and she wanted to hide it at our place to get back at him.

Some time later, they moved. He lost job after job, many times due to his irascible temperament. His eyes became sunken and his skin tan and leathery; he found farm jobs around the southern side of the country. They continued fighting, and ended up having four children. I don't know when he started hitting her. Maybe he already was that day she showed up at our house with his bike. I don't know when he started beating his children. I don't know when it was the first time he left her, nor how many times he came back.

Last time I heard of him, he had been thrown in jail for bouncing checks. Last time I saw my aunt, she had aged so much; her hands were bony, callused and peeling; she was still bleaching and dyeing her hair, now hacked and broken like straw. Last time I heard of her was last summer, while I visited my parents. She called my grandmother in tears--he had been hitting her again and taken off afterwards.

"Give me money for a train ticket and to bring her and the kids back here," I told my mom when she got home from work. "I'll go get her and drag her here if that's what it takes. And the bastard better not raise a finger at me."

My mom sighed. She had tried to get her sister to leave before.

"She'll just go back to him," she told me, shaking her head sadly. "I've tried. But what would she do? She has nothing to fall back on, and no one here will give work to a woman her age and with no experience."

My grandmother had poured a great deal of money into courses for her. She never finished any of them, or never tried to find work related to them. There was no need to, after all. She was a young, beautiful woman, and had just found a Prince Charming with piercing blue eyes.

My parents raised me to, first and foremost, be able to take care of myself. This was what I wanted to do--go to school, then go on a mission (women may serve on a mission for a year and a half at the age of 21 in the LDS Church, while men are required to go for two years at the age of 19), and then, if it happened, get married. If not, no big deal. And I fully intended to continue working after getting married. Having children was never appealing to me. After moving to utah, I was told by people in the Church that, because I was female, my priorities should be, first and foremost, be married and have a family, then, if I wasn't married by the ripe ol' age of 21, go on a mission, and only after that, school and a career. And I was to drop that, of course, after getting married. A career was something you had to fall back on in case some catastrophe fell upon your husband.

To this day, my father thinks I'm anti-marriage, and pretty much anti-relationship. He also thinks I can't cook. He's wrong about both. But I've tried very hard to distance myself from the things relationships, family, and marriage may mean to him--changing your name, having children, not working. He thinks I can't stand kids; he is wrong--I have a lot of fun with children. I simply don't want to have any of my own. Never have, and don't expect to ever change my mind.

"Maybe," he lovingly told me once, "maybe it's time you start taking better care of yourself. You know, get a boyfriend, maybe you need to, I don't know, talk differently, not be intimidating, maybe you need to change the way you walk, you know..."

Yes, I know.And that's why I get so worked up over liking a dress.

---

* Though as of late, when I do cook it ends up turning into an experiment ('I wonder if something edible would come out if I threw some in') and I don't really want to bother worrying about poisoning other people.

"I remember, from childhood comic strips and books, a top-hatted, mustachioed magician who brandished an ebony walking stick. His name was Zatara. He could make anything happen, anything at all. How did he do it? Easy. He uttered his commands backwards. So if he wanted a million dollars, he would say 'srallod noillim a em evig.' That's all there was to it. It was something like prayer, but much surer of results.

"I spent a lot of time at age eight experimenting in this vein, commanding stones to levitate: 'esir, enots.' It never worked. I blamed my pronounciation."*

I have asked people from the LDS Church countless times how someone may know whether the Church is true or not. Time and time again, I have been told to pray and ask God. Fine, but what happens if you don't get an answer? Or what if the answer is no? Then, I've been told, then you must not be asking right; maybe you don't really mean it, maybe you don't really want to know.

Maybe it's your pronounciation.

What about the millions who belong to other religions? Surely at least some of them have honestly sought God. Surely not all of them belong to the religions they do just because their parents belonged to it, or because it's what their friends do. Surely at least some of these people find it just as important to try to figure out what the right religion is. Surely some of these people have asked, wanting to know, over and over again. Why aren't all of them in one place? Is God just being moody and not answering anyone who doesn't end up joining ? Is God deliberately misleading these people? Are all of them lying, being stubborn, risking their salvation, just to piss you off?


* Carl Sagan, The Demon-Haunted World

Over It.

I'm having one of those stick-one-song-on-repeat nights, though I don't feel sad or sick. The question that's been haunting me--what do I want?--remains unanswered and maddening. Do I want to leave? Do I want to go back to school? What needs to change?

I'm starting to feel restless again. I know that I need to decide what it is I want, to figure out what I need to do, but I don't want to. I am afraid to think about it; I might find out. I'm afraid that it might be unpleasant, and I'm afraid because planning and setting things down makes me terribly uneasy. I have no problem doing things spontaneously, jumping into something new, disregarding common sense. That is no problem at all. Not acting on impulse is a frightening thing.

Maybe nothing needs to change--maybe I just need to wait and let it all settle. Maybe all it takes is time. But time is so dangerous--time will make you numb, time erases, time makes you forget. Time heals, but at what cost? Time leaves but memories, cruel, faint glimpses of what used to be. Time leaves you empty.

I bled.

The trick is to keep breathing.

My mom, perhaps by coincidence, perhaps in a fit of clairvoyance, left a box of kleenex next to my bed.

---

I finally went to the Dr. about my rusty joints. They drew blood, I chatted up the lab guy (I'm trying to make myself talk to people; I spoke to a woman as we waited in line at the store the other day and my head almost exploded), and called me a few days later to tell me they think I have some sort of arthritis and give me a referral. Doh. This was one of the reasons I didn't want to go to the Dr. in the first place (the other being that I was hoping it'd kill me before finals), and now I'm having a hell of a time getting myself to make the appointment.

Meanwhile, I've started sleeping in my bed. I can't climb up the ladder, so I snuck one of the chairs from downstairs up into my room and put it against the wall by the ladder. So then, every night I stand on the chair and drag myself up into the bed, and every morning I slide myself back down onto the chair. The first morning after sleeping there I couldn't get out; it took about an hour of cursing and wiggling and bending limbs. It wasn't nearly as amusing then as it is now (as it is with most things, of course--Captain Obvious to the rescue). I haven't had major problems since, though, and I'm getting pretty good at getting in and out. Heh.

---

I've been trying to keep busy. I've seen two 'chick flicks' within the past week, God forgive me (how good or bad they actually were isn't important--it's the seeing part that's bad). It annoys me that I'm expected to like brainless, touchy-feely mush (which is not to say all 'chick flicks' are brainless mush, etc. etc., standards disclaimers apply) just because I'm female. In dumb 'girl' movies, people die, cry a lot, and bond to the oldies. In dumb 'guy' movies, at least stuff blows up.

---

I felt lonely last night, so I stayed up late. I'm staying up late tonight, because that way I can feel lousy longer, and then be annoyed at myself for staying up, and then also feel crappy tomorrow morning.

I've done things today that I didn't want to do because I thought they were what I needed to do to make things better for myself. It's four in the morning.

It's four in the morning and I doubt my judgement.

I always did like Spock better than Kirk.

"You have incredibly high expectations of yourself," she told me, aghast.

It was nice to hear someone say it. "I just want to be reasonable," I told myself the same way I'd told myself that I mustn't let emotion get in the way of my judgement.

"You're so reasonable," I've been told. "You're not at all like a girl. You're so logical."

I just want to be reasonable, I told myself over and over. I still tell myself. And who knows, maybe my life is better for it. But sometimes I wonder if I'm not crippled for thinking this way.

My mom came and went in a flurry of shopping and visits to the hospital. If you've read this for some time, you've probably noticed that I've been pretty depressed for a while. While RF and I were in New York, I came to the conclusion that I needed to kill myself. I'd already looked into different methods and I decided that I'd do it when we got back. I was in a lot of pain in New York--physical and otherwise--and cried everywhere. He didn't notice.

After getting back though, I felt really guilty about the money and effort people had put into me going to school. Finals were just around the corner and I thought that if I passed, at least everyone wouldn't think that I was as big of a failure. So I did, and I felt better because I knew it was going to be done with soon. But then I didn't follow the plan and next thing I knew the quarter had started again. I thought maybe I was starting to feel better; I went into the quarter with a little hope that it wouldn't be so bad, but by the time the second week had rolled around I was feeling horrible again and missing school. When RF's mom flew in, I stopped going altogether. I guess I had also stopped eating; I didn't notice, but RF's mom mentioned something later on. When my mom got in, I could barely keep up the illusion of feeling semi-normal. RF suggested that I go see someone about my depression; I agreed to go the day after my mom left. I had a horrible night the night of the 10th; I didn't think I could make it to the end of the week, and asked RF to take me to the hospital the next day. He agreed. I kept changing my mind; he asked me to give him my car keys; I lied and told him they were in the room my mom was sleeping in and didn't want to wake her. They were in my bedroom. He asked me to promise him I wouldn't do anything before the morning; I was reluctant, but finally gave in, fully intending to break it. I thanked him for everything he'd done for me and said good night. I went to my room and wrote a note with instructions for some of my things; I knew this was the time to do it--do it then or go to the hosptial the next day. And my birthday was getting closer; when we were in New York, I set that as the deadline. I didn't want to make it to 21.

I don't know how I was able to not do it; I felt bad about lying to RF and I guess I hoped this might help. I stayed up until it was close to dawn, then fell asleep, exhausted, next to my laptop, my book about suicide, and the note. The next morning I woke up afraid and hid the note.

the earth holds you when you fall

i went for a drive.
i used to watch the stars to keep me sane. now i watch the trees. several months ago, i was taking a shower, window open, looking at the trees, when i realized that even if i had to leave i'd be ok.
i drove around the falls, following small, empty roads, driving slowly and staring at moss and trees. i rolled the windows down. i stopped and listened to music and stared at the sky. i didn't really go anywhere, i didn't really see anyone. i was just there, in peace. hercules once fought a giant whose strength came from being in contact with the earth. he lifted the giant off the ground and thus defeated him.
being around trees, green, water, makes me feel, against all logic, that i can make it, that i'll be fine, that this is just something that will go away with time.

is home the place you would go to when you're ready to die?