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[30 Nov 2009|01:46am] |
Sunday.
Today, I drove from Illinois to Tennessee. My mother drove from Tennessee to Georgia. My father finished the trip from there to their home. Moved my luggage from their car to mine, then left for Athens.
Now, I don't know what to do. Kinda tired of waiting.
So, I'll do something.
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[02 Nov 2009|03:05am] |
Righty right.
I'm not sure if what I want to write is about to burst out of me, spill onto paper, but it exists and that's all that matters to me.
The feeling's restless, like I've been sleeping next to a cactus for the past few months and my body's either pin-pricked or sore from trying to get away from the plant. The prospect of rest is depressing, as all I have to look forward to the next day is the same soreness, the same results as the day before. I feel like there's no clear progress, nothing that stands out as why things are better now than they were before.
There's nothing to be upset about. Or maybe that's what I want to believe, so I can ignore the mountains of things to be upset about and just focus on one thing.
But I want to shut out even that one last thing.
Everything should be perfect.
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[20 Sep 2009|08:45pm] |
I don't know what I'm doing.
But I guess that's okay.
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[01 Sep 2009|10:48pm] |
I fear myself. When I feel genuinely outgoing, I feel like a fraud because that's not how I used to feel, or how I usually feel. Being outgoing or personable is something I've always reserved for people that I deem close to me, and that's not precisely what I've been doing for my entire life. But with some, I'm always reversed, as if I'm too afraid of saying too much. I'll be outgoing to everyone but the people that are really close, which is strange. Or maybe it's not that foreign at all.
But I've always thought it's hardest to be honest to other people.
Que sera sera.
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[04 Aug 2009|10:52pm] |
I'm drawn tight. Constricted.
I found an apartment I'm looking to lease in the next few days. The upside is that it's suitable for one, the downside is that it'll be $412.50 a month. Just shy of a hundred dollars more than my previous place, not including utilities. I may have to be internet-less for a while and live on electricity and water, but it'll be nice to have a place of my own. And I can work things out to live nicely, though it'll be expensive.
I'm trying to talk myself down. Everything is coalescing at a moment that I'm not as prepared for as I thought I would be. I'll have the first month's rent, a security deposit, and god knows what else I'll have to pay in the next few weeks. I don't have my courses set for the upcoming semester, and the only thing I have "planned" so far is that I have a work schedule. Even that schedule is tentative, as I feel like I'm going to have to work more hours to make ends meet. 25 hours a week won't get me the time I need to not stress out over every little thing. Plus, working is my way of compartmentalizing all my problems, since productivity lets me blot out all the trash I'm trying to work through.
Everything I think of is an "I should have" moment. What I should have been doing with my summer, what I should have done with people, and essentially everything that's holding me back. Holding me back from what?
I'm compelled to live in memories rather than in the moment. Spontaneity.
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| Shades |
[03 Aug 2009|02:08am] |
Markus's apartment is empty, aside from upturned furniture and myself. Despite this not being where I will live, only a temporary fix, I can highly relate to this place. The living room's cleaned out, with the exception of an empty shelf. Everything that used to be in the room now rests in the kitchen, effectively blocking off the back porch. The only way in and out is through the front door, which is locked with a key left under the mat as I come and go. Feels familiar, despite this being my transition home. Everything about me feels cluttered, disorganized, and bottled up like a shaken cola.
My insides are experiencing a clusterfuck. Everything I see reminds me of something else, and everything seems incorrect. And when I see something wrong, my instinct is to fix it. But I'm at a point where it's not what I can fix that matters, it's what I can build.
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| Nothing to show. |
[09 Jul 2009|03:52am] |
A coworker caught me outside while I was taking a smoke break in the storm. We've talked from time to time, but today she decided to explain she's reading one of Carl Jung's books on symbolism in the subconscious. She confided in me a reoccurring dream that's been haunting her since she was a child, and finished her story with a throwaway comment about how Jung's interpretation didn't meet her expectations. I gave her my opinion on what the dream means, as well as some faux-wisdom that dreams are what you make of them.
Seems like my life is revolving around dreams lately. My dreams have been extremely unfortunate, to the point that I'd call them nightmares. Though most people think of nightmares in straight-forward terms, such as a horrific event projected through sleep, I feel like my dreams are only nightmares after I wake up. The dreams themselves are not especially scary or disturbing, but what makes it a nightmare is how I feel after I realize it was only a dream. Realizing a good thing is merely a dream hurts me more than a typical nightmare.
Popular dream theory is that a dream is your subconscious trying to work out a problem that you've bottled up in the conscious world. And I'm fairly certain that that panic, that terror, is all from the realization. Things I never want to come to terms with, but my mind forces up against everything else. I showed a person this journal, and after a few minutes of talking, the person came out and asked me if I'm depressed. That's the kind of memory I'd rather not have resurface all the time. Maybe because there's a tinge of truth to it, I can't say for sure.
I don't want to sleep. I just want something real.
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| Without much to say |
[16 Jun 2009|03:04am] |
I've been lost, lately. Not sure what to do, where to go, what to say. I speak, and everything comes out with ill-intentions, without motive or acceptable circumstances to act upon. My words are like bile in my throat, as I try to edge through the day without upsetting the people I care about. The list is few.
I feel that I have alienated one of my closer friends. Often, my off comments have been brushed off as jokes, as intended, but recently my presence seems disconcerting to him. As if that arbitrary line I push with others has snapped with him, as I test to see how far people trust me. It's a childish way to prove my worth to myself, when that was never necessary at all- his association with me alone is a testament to my worth, at least in part.
Today, I retaliated to a hostile action done by someone near me, though we aren't close. I know her temperament, and I know that I should stay clear of her; not necessarily scared, more that I don't want to deal with behaviors we all should have long ago outgrown. Yet I engaged her, as she took the low road and I met her halfway, fighting her fire with a propane tank strapped to my chest. All it did was escalate the situation, and did me no favors- it didn't even give me a proper chance to vent.
I have to face this, otherwise I won't feel right. I can't delegate someone else to talk to a person about it, that's not the way to handle this. The only suitable method is to talk to the person as an adult- I don't need someone hanging suggestions on me, when I know the only real options.
That's the great thing about being an adult. I don't have to do anything.
But I'll hate myself if I do nothing. What a twist.
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[14 May 2009|12:31pm] |
Today, my grandmother died. It's also my birthday.
So it goes.
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| Illinois |
[13 May 2009|03:04am] |
Eighteen hours in a car is a real long time.
Since Friday, I've spent a long time explaining who I am and what I do to my relatives from far away. After Friday's hellish final exam, my sister called to tell me how our grandmother was in terrible shape at the nursing home in Illinois. Word on the vine was that she might not last through the weekend, and my sister couldn't get a hold of our mother at work. With some effort from calling McKesson and a coworker of my mother's, we were able to tell my mom about the situation. Worried as we were, she asked me if I'd drive to Illinois with her. I had already planned to spend the weekend with my mother for Mother's Day, so I agreed and soon left Athens to go mid-West in a rush to see my Grandmother.
On the drive up, I lost sense of time, space, and my orientation within three-dimensional space. I felt like I was floating, though in full control of the vehicle. My mother was sobbing from time to time, worried that she might not get up there in time to see her Mother one last time. Tired and weary, we drove through winding curves and corn fields as we slowly made our way to Southern Illinois.
Along the way, I decided to be upfront with my mother. I told her that I smoke cigarettes, getting it out in the open. She wasn't alarmed, she already knew, but I had never been upfront with her before then. But my goal for telling her wasn't to get it off my chest, and it wasn't to make her situation that much more painful to withstand. I wanted to tell her something new about myself, something open and true so that she might feel like I'm opening up to her. I'm terribly confined in what I say to most people, especially when it comes to my family.
A family's disappointment is a devastating blow to the ego, but a stranger's sinister snarl says nothing, to me. Being upfront opened me up to attack from all sides, but at the same time provided a perverse sense of importance as my family paid attention to me. Attention I didn't want, but I question if I didn't want the attention subconsciously. As my mother told everyone that I had started smoking, the family rounds began that told me I shouldn't smoke, that I'm too smart and that I should know better when all the facts are available on the dangers of smoking. I didn't fight them, I tried to answer their questions in curt, simple answers without provoking anger or ire out of the family. But I feel like there was disappointment in their voices, and that's what I was looking for, to an extent. They care enough that they're disappointed that I'd intentionally harm my health, but at the same time they don't want to let me make my own decisions. Everything works at degrees, where they revere me for what they perceive as intelligence, but are ashamed of me for my actions and behavior.
But I wasn't there for my relatives, being uncles, aunts, and cousins. My mother and I were there for my grandmother. As I arrived on Friday night, the first thing I heard was my grandmother as she lay in her bed. Her dentures were out, demonstrating the strong angles her jaw bone makes when not shaped by her porcelain smile. My grandmother is built like me- small forearms, smaller legs, but a skinnier face and she's 58 years older. Her skin around her eyes was drawn tight, with counteracting wrinkles that betrayed the fact that she was in pain. Though she was comatose, she was releasing rasping, guttural sounds that welled inside my head and caused me to be nauseous as I thought This is it? I'm going to be in the same room with her as she dies?
We stayed the night in that room. The next day she was more responsive as she slowly recuperated from her state, as she opened her eyes and looked around the room, somewhat noticing people. Instead of talking, her gasping and wheezing took precedence as she huffed out Huh... each time she took a breath. At one point she started crying as she realized she couldn't speak to anyone, nor could she rightly recollect who anyone was in the first place.
We nervously sat. There's nothing else you can do in a situation like that. Thirteen people, but you can't play Twister in the nursing home without miffing a few people. We waited, hoping that all the support would do Grandma some good, and so we patiently postulated what might be the eventual outcome. Until a guy came in that I'd never seen before: the nursing home director, Chuck. All I could coax out of my grandmother was a hug, as I leaned near her to say hello during the afternoon. Chuck came in and showboated, as he asked her how she was doing, kissed her cheek, and then told her a line that brought her back. Our family was convinced she wouldn't be speaking anymore, that she was done.
"Fannie, you're really blessed to have all these people here that love you."
And Fannie managed a Yeah. I really am.
She started to make a recovery. We went our separate paths.
I tried to talk to my mother more, tried to entice her into asking any question at all. She usually doesn't ask very difficult questions, but I was pushing her to try and come up with a big question. Something she wonders about, but could never bring herself to ask.
The only thing she asked was if I'm unhappy.
Tough call.
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| Six. |
[20 Apr 2009|10:37am] |
Today is the sixth year anniversary of writing in this LiveJournal. This will probably be the six hundred and sixth entry in the journal, as well. Seems like it's just six-six-six as I look at these dates, and it's odd. Nothing special, but it's a pattern with no consequence, no real meaning. But it's still there, so it means something to me, without there being anything at all.
I've decided that since I've had this journal cataloging my human condition for so long, I should ascertain what my life is all about. Normally, I feel like this task is easier to idealize about without any sufficient way to verify what lies at its core, but six years of this journal makes me bolder, allows me to tackle this task without much worry. Best of luck with that.
But the truth is, I worry all the time. One of my facades is that nothing bothers me, but that's only because I look like I normally do. Looking like I always do, people presume I am worry-free. I do not scowl, I do not sulk so often, but these amorphous masses weigh me down and suffocate my will to live. This is not to say I wish to no longer live, but rather that I am unhappy (in general) about the life I lead. I am not content, nor do I think I want to be content. I have stints of happiness, with bouts of depression, but these are the ebbs and flows that everyone experiences.
So, I try to decide what makes me happy. I'm nearly twenty years old, I should have a handle on what I like in life. I enjoy philosophy, religion, serious conversations, being productive. I adore writing, languages, trivia, and getting to know people. I am not innately religious, though I enjoy being a surveyor of all things religious. My favorite books remind me of my own writing- pieces that are vaguely philosophical without being overbearing in approach, but that might elevate my writing beyond its reality.
Beside the point. I have skills that bring happiness, but I refuse to proclaim them outright as to keep my modesty. I feel that were I to accentuate where my strengths coalesce, I'd appear pompous, even arrogant. But what I feel are my strengths also entail what my greatest weakness are, and where my sorrows, if any, derive.
Despite all that, I can say that who I am is who I am. I could be better, but I am not. I could be worse, yet here I am. If my actions and words dictate who I am, my life is sufficient.
Happy.
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| Raining |
[13 Apr 2009|10:50am] |
It's raining, again. Athens has been drowning for the past two weeks, suffering downpours and tornadoes as nature wills. I find myself unable to leave the house, apathetic about the weather and getting through the day, even if rain is only a minor inconvenience. But I enjoy the rain, to a degree, because every once in a while the clouds clear and sunshine penetrates what's left of Athens. These moments, only lasting a day or two at a time, I appreciate because I earned the sun while dealing with the clouds.
I'm writing a lot more, lately. Scraps of paper everywhere have scrawled out notes on what I'm thinking about, but they remain scraps at the end of the day. No amount of cigarettes grant me the clarity I desire, nothing seems to be enough right now. Nothing's condensing in my head, I feel like there's just vapor whirling around, gathering mass and momentum, with nothing useful resulting from the action.
I'm just worried that when I finally can let go of all this, it won't be a spring shower- it'll be a thunderhead.
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| Spring Break |
[13 Mar 2009|02:18am] |
I didn't know what I was going to do for Spring Break this year. Most Spring Breaks I treat the same, where I don't really do much of anything besides read or watch some television show. I thought this year was going to be different- I had made plans with Nathan to go to the beach, do things around Athens, smoke hookah, or anything that would allow us to relax. He was the first person I turned to for ideas on what to do over the break.
The plan was that I'd go home for a few days, since I hadn't seen my parents in a couple months, then Nathan and I would head out for something. I was terrified that if I didn't leave early, my spring break would turn out just as depressing and unremarkable as they always turn out. But going back to Athens, I knew I didn't have Nathan to turn to once I returned.
Just before spring break, I decided I wanted to go back to a game I used to play. My old friends quit, and I gave away most everything just before the plunge. Back into the game it's fine, but sometimes the game makes me lonely. Millions of people connected to the game, and it's possible to be lonely. But, even when I'm lonesome, the few times I'm with a person make up for all the down and drear the game emanates.
My real spring break started today. I went to bed at 6 AM Wednesday night/Thursday morning, then woke up sharply at 10:45 AM. By 2 o'clock I was awake, and unsure of what to do. Instead of sitting inside all day, I went to the gardens and walked the trail. I felt tense, but the walk was helping to edge some of it out. Ever-tense. For the rest of the night, I played the game while Emily sat on my bed, playing the game on her own computer. I made queso, with chips and salsa.
Today made this spring break the best one yet.
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| Stay with me or Go away |
[28 Dec 2008|01:49am] |
I messaged Emily the other day, trying to figure out why we stopped talking. I had just finished one of my final cigarettes and thought about how it ended so abruptly. She called it cut ties, and I was upset by that. I couldn't think of a real reason why we stopped talking a few months ago, just that it happened. Things were going fine, but it all stopped, probably for the better. Things weren't good or bad, things simply were when I was with her, hanging around at stores and the Grill. During that time, that's what I needed; an escape from my little world at apartment 81, and it's time I cherished.
I told her I missed her, but it turns out she didn't miss me. I wasn't angry, rather disappointed that whatever friendship we had was so easily thrown away without a second thought. I'm the one that always has the second thoughts, the ideas to try and reconcile something of an acquaintance. I do that a lot, with friends I've long since lost contact with for months, years. But whenever I see them, I feel like a day hasn't gone by since I last talked to them. That's how I treat people, even if I only know them vaguely. I'll easily treat them like a good friend, even if we were never that close. Just as long as we were acquainted once before.
So I sit here, thinking about you. A nonspecific you that ropes around everyone I've ever known. Even if I don't really think of you every day, you sit in the back of my head and come to mind from various things. I wonder what happened to you, why I never see you anymore. And the worst part is when I remember, and I think on how it really was my fault. I try and repent for my actions, but some things aren't redeemable. I tried to save something with Emily, but that thing was doomed to begin with. Memories flash of other people I've tried to reconcile with, sometimes unsuccessfully. Once we're hurt, why chance it again with that same person?
I'm not afraid for myself, I'll always give someone a second chance. If I am afraid for myself, I'm much more afraid for the other person. I'm no messiah, but I want to save anyone that comes my way. And we can all use someone there to save us from life. Even if all I can do is try, trying is better than apathy. Apathy's a major turnoff.
I'll never regret trying.
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| Autonomy |
[22 Dec 2008|03:47am] |
Late at night, I feel like I get the peace I need. At my parents, I smoke a cigarette on the back porch as the winds chill to twenty degree Fahrenheit, so I back into the doorway when the winds gust, trying to blow out the cigarette's cherry. I'm not getting a buzz off these lights anymore, as with hookah, emphasizing my need to stop smoking for a while, back off the nicotine. I have two cigarettes left for before Christmas, along with a promise to Nathan that I'd cut back on smoking. He doesn't want me addicted, and neither do I. But addiction is so easy to stumble into, at which point it's too late.
I'm addicted to many things as it is. I get addicted to people, circumstances, money, all of which I'm trying to cope with. Cigarettes are an easy way to try and micromanage those other situations, granting me a moment's rest to think about my life. But I don't need the cigarettes, I've been managing my life for quite some time.
Money goes further these days. More spending money from work, less money invested in the groceries. I got a job back in October to supplement my rent and what eating expenses I have. My money's gone into other odds and ends such as the hookah, eating out every once in a while as a 'treat', buying Christmas gifts. But the real reason for the job is to grant me more autonomy. I never ask my parents for food money, leisure money; I'm not in grade school anymore. I've long abandoned the idea of an allowance, realizing that I have to do something for myself, adjust to the real world. I'm slowly achieving my greatest goal, the same goal I should have been pursuing all through high school.
I'm saving up for a motorcycle. I can push through work so I can finally be independent. No more shuttling around on buses, catching rides with friends. Something to call my own, without any input from my parents. I bought my laptop using nearly half the money I earned over the summer. The other half of that summer money was wasted due to my own ignorance. But it's time to move on.
It's time to stop being fourteen.
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| Sickness |
[20 Dec 2008|03:21am] |
Everyone has sickness, vices. Everyone has a vice or three, but we all have a unique way of dealing with our flaws. In college, I see a lot of people taking up the self-destructive route. Binge drinking, sleep exhaustion, drug experimentation gone haywire, fight with your roommates, take up an addiction of choice, all make up a small subset of what people do to deal with their lives.
But these habits, they mimic the average college kid's lifestyle. Some of them are looking to have fun, but the self-destructive ones are looking for an escape. And worse than the ones looking for an escape are the people that bear witness to the self-destructive behavior, and out of despair seek the same behavior. Unhappiness begets unhappiness. Wanting to fit in, joining in on the drinking or smoking.
One girl's been following that path for a while, and she doesn't have the ability to take any self-abuse, alcohol or otherwise. Her self-abuse borderlines on life-threatening. I've seen her hyperventilate after smoking, fall over on herself after a shot of vodka. She believes that she can achieve some form of nirvana by simply 'escaping' like she sees her friends. She suffers from low self-esteem and low standard of living, the factors don't add up for her. Makes me sad.
A thing about our flaws is that they also give us strengths in a wax-wane/yin yang balance. What shortcomings we have we mitigate by some other talent. But self-abuse is one sickness that isn't mitigated by being able to play a piano while drunk. Beauty is beauty because there's ugly to contrast, but self-abuse's counterpart is self-gratification- in some countries, another form of self-abuse.
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| Let Go |
[07 Dec 2008|03:42am] |
I still think of you.
Not mad, not happy.
I miss you.
Let go.
Change.
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[29 Jul 2008|05:34pm] |
Dear LiveJournal,
I don't think I need you to make me feel heard anymore. I've fallen out of love with you.
Adieu.
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[28 Jul 2008|12:28am] |
I'm just too damn macho. But not the other day.
Everything's easier when you're undeniable, irrefutably the best thing ever. But I overcompensate for how I feel. People look down, and it's disheartening since my life's barely started and I'm under fire. I want to rationalize it, I want to deflect this reputation on other sources. But really, I'm just from a house and a family. Not really a unique living situation, just one that seems unfair. Unfair to have this person, that half-person. A lifestyle of lies, deception, and mistrust.
I feel like my name has three letters in it, but not the three you'd expect.
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[22 Jul 2008|10:35pm] |
I feel psychotic.
I want to chew my arms off. My head feels like it's going to explode, perpetually. I looked at the Kübler-Ross model and realized that I constantly experience four stages: Anger, Depression, then Acceptance. Though I'd hardly call it Acceptance, Denial comes around to wash away my sanctioned peace. I don't have my friends, I don't have much of a family. Worst of all, I have no person to talk to about how I feel.
I feel sad.
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