GIRL, INTERRUPTED

Well, I did kill myself. I killed the girl I used to be; she's gone. The things she used to put up with, I can't. The taunts and attacks she felt she deserved, now I know she deserves so much better. The things that used to bring her happiness, now she knows they were crutches. I will always walk cautiously in these new shoes, but I can't go back to that girl. As scary as it is to know that I died, I have now been reborn. The muscle memory is still there from my previous life, but as I learn to walk anew in these big, shiny shoes—though I may trip a few times—I know that I can't go back. I can't go back out of fear, to that small life. Those dark, enclosing walls of my mind. It's an illusion that I thought was real for 37 years. The chains of my mind continue to break apart like so much dust in the windy night. They are gone forever, gone with that girl that used to be me. I'm still not sure about this new person I've become. I'm still getting used to her. Little does she know how much more gentle I will be with her compared to the old girl who I killed. Even though she had to die, her sacrifice will not be in vain. Because of her death, now I can truly live. It's all I've ever wanted from this life: to be inside the painting, instead of gazing at it longingly from afar.

I cling to you like the motes of desert dust cling to heaven's tears.

SAFE

It's locked away
where no one will ever find it. 🔑

PHOENIX RISING

For every rebirth, first there must be a death.

THE FLOWER OF EDEN

I think I've found my writing style: Gothic romance. I think reading Nathaniel Hawthorne has changed my life. I've only just finished "The House of the Seven Gables," but now I need to read more. I think "Twice-Told Tales," which is a collection of short stories, will be next on my list. There is a Vincent Price lead here; had it not been for watching him act in the film "The House of the Seven Gables," I might never had picked up the book. I also enjoyed him in the film version of "Twice-Told Tales" (hence why it is next on my list).

Another style/inspiration for me is L.M. Montgomery, the author of the "Anne of Green Gables" series (I just noticed the gable reference!). Though a bit later than Nathaniel Hawthorne, it's the innocent, wholesome prose that I love about her books. Hawthorne has this too, but in a darker shade. Let me be clear: my stories will not necessarily be Victorian. But the style of my writing will be drawn from that classic, dusty cobweb feel.

I'm getting that passion again--that desire that I had just sworn away but a few hours ago. I don't like these constant and turbulent ups and downs. While I enjoy that I am on a small high at this moment, I dread the inevitable fall that is bound to follow. I would prefer a more constant monotone of stability, no matter how dull. I need calmness more than anything right now.

WRITE IT TO GET RID OF IT

Step by step and the job is done.

There's a reason you were able to thrive in a vacuum for so long.

THE TEARS WON'T WRITE THEMSELVES, HONEY

Standing at the precipice of pure potential or annihilation. A reckoning, if you will, is at hand.

THE MIRRORS TWIST AND DISTORT IN ENDLESS CAVERNS OF ANGUISH

My mother is more psychotic than I ever realized. I'm amazed I've lasted this long.

Perhaps, like Anne Rice, I can take the pain and write it into my characters and stories.

Perhaps.

WORD DUMP

People often tell me not to worry because I'm smart. I would trade all the intelligence in the world for some coping skills.


I look forward to the eventual deaths of my abusers. But most of all, I look forward to one death: my own.


They use you and abuse you. And then they throw you out like yesterday's trash.


The only thing keeping me alive at this point is my anger.


I've always been so obsessed with death, I didn't have time to live.


Chains of abuse never end.


They took away the one thing I love: alcohol.


The suicide trance is not for the faint of heart.


My love affair with death started when I was eleven.

SHE MIGHT TAKE IT BACK SOMEDAY

In my heart I'm done, but I'll keep pretending for as long as I can...

AYE, AYE

What I need to do is get back into reading, exercising, and just general self-care. Yes, I am in a scary reality, but we all are. I'm also enjoying watching the World Cup. There is still a lot of beauty out there, and wonderful things taking place. I can still educate, but I can enjoy my life too. They are not mutually exclusive. Sometimes you have to take a time-out to reevaluate what's important, to re-energize and regroup. Does that mean it's going to be easy? No. But according to this African proverb: Smooth seas do not make skillful sailors.

WE SHOULD CRAWL UNDER THE BRACKEN

One day it all won't matter. All the screaming (both at night and during the day), all the useless tug and pull that is life, all the tears shed for no one and nothing, all the meaningless words fallen on deaf ears... none of it matters and it never will. We were born to suffer, to maim and be maimed. To jump through hoops of fiery rings--only to land in a swirling pool of lava. We chide ourselves that this is it: to fight and fight and fight and fight and fight and fight and fight and then die. In our minds we make up a fantasy to ward off reality. We escape in books, movies, games, drugs, alcohol, sex, work, religion. But we're zombies; we go to our allocated places of congregation, we portray our allocated roles appropriately and with zeal. But we haven't been aware of what we're doing and saying for millennia. We're hopelessly asleep... and in slumber do we dream... dreams of passion and dreams of horror. Life and death. And then...?

STAY THE COURSE

A lot of good things happening... I just need to hold it together and survive myself.

THE VEIL THINS

When everything is said and done, you will be a memory floating on the consciousness of my final dream.

I'M EXHAUSTED, LEAVE ME ALONE

There's no place for me.

WICKED

Through the flames she walks on coal that does not burn her. In this desolate wasteland she thrives where nothing can grow or live. Those that cast her, thrust her, into this oblivion will come to regret it one day. But for now the witch waits, in the dark as she always has. There is no change, only time. ⏳🔮🎇

ABSOLUTELY

I'd rather be in a circle of nobodies with authentic quality than in a circle of big-shots with fluff filled crap.

IT'S NOT UP TO YOU (OR ME)

Even though I don't necessarily believe in a God, I do feel that the universe (or some power) pulls you in the direction you need to go no matter how difficult it might seem at the time or how much you try to fight against it.

A STUDY IN CONTRAST

Some thoughts on Tommy Wiseau. Yes, he has been known to make stuff up: where he comes from, his real age, etc. He embellishes at times or fills in the blanks with how he sees himself verses the reality of things. You know who else does this? Donald Trump. But here's why Tommy doesn't bother me in the least bit. He's kind. He has an innocence to him that I find endearing. Sure, I don't know him personally, but from what I have witnessed as a fan, he seems like the genuine article. His motto is "Love each other." He lifts people up instead of bringing them down. He inspires. He laughs at himself (and a lot of other things...). 

So when Trump makes up stuff or stretches the truth, it bothers me. Because he does it to maim, to hurt, to abuse. I get it. He feels so awful inside, and the only way for him to feel any small relief is by inflicting his anguish onto others. He doesn't lead, he belittles. He doesn't ask, he demands. He spends all his time oozing out a poison that has been in him since childhood. The man needs help. I used to feel sorry for him, but I don't anymore. He's lived on this planet long enough to notice a trend. He has the money and resources to get help for his issues. But that would be admitting he has a problem, and this is something he will never do as long as he lives. 

I feel gross that I wasted a whole post on Trump's sorry ass, but I had to make use of the contrast to show how truly wonderful Tommy Wiseau is. And trust me, he is. 😎

NICE CLEAN COAL

Some people are alone on Christmas.
Some people want to be alone on Christmas.
Santa isn't real!

MUSINGS

I think when you're writing for the public some of the pureness gets lost because you are anticipating what your audience wants verses writing for yourself. How to satisfy both without losing integrity? Therein lies the conundrum.