&writing abounds.

You tried telling me last night, in subtle and cautious paraphrasal,
that I was just like the sort of girl you've kind of always wanted.
Well, let me be the one to succumb to vulnerability
(slash: idealism, slash: unfounded reverie) and say:
You are everything I've always sought.

Until now, I've never written about you.
(And god, does that speak volumes.)
Some part of me denied that this was even happening,
didn't want to admit what was going on,
because, as I've always said:
You are going to leave me with so much baggage.

But the truth is:
This is real.
This is happening.
This is terrifying,
but such is life.

There have been so many surreal moments together
that I've wanted to freeze, to pause, to preserve forever.
Your rambling, reserved confession was one of them.
Because in that lacking, in that state of "almost",
everything was immediately confirmed.

People with nothing to contemplate and less to lose
are always throwing around equally empty and extreme declarations.
Clearly uninvested in what they have and say,
they haven't felt the agonizing fear of what it means to get 'too close.'
Which is why exactly why
I adore how frightened you are when it comes to this.
I appreciate the mixed signals and backhanded compliments all the more.

Trust me, every second I spend with you is wrecked with horrifying terror;
it's not like I don't sympathize.
It's just that there comes a moment when you have to risk everything
for the chance at merely... something,
and this something is worth that risk for me.

We have a title, as far as people know, but I don't care for it.
We are lesbians and swingers and addicts and children.
We are musicians and abusers and brothers and sisters.
We are anything but heterosexual and nothing like the norm.
But if we seem, to the world, like any other "couple",
so be it.

Because I know how insanely unique this is.
I don't think 'love' even applies here.
It's the first word that comes to mind.
It's the easy, obvious, cliché expression.
& Yes, it's the verb that I most often articulate.
But when I say such things, I'm not telling you the half of it.

"Love" has never met us, and it doesn't comprehend.
"Love" is far too old, too tired, too misused to understand.
"Love" says nothing of the fact that:
You're the best friend I've ever hoped to have.

It has no indication of:
the perpetual admiration,
the unbelievable gratitude,
the sheer awe,
the utter ecstasy,
the bittersweet addiction.

It isn't storybook.
& As you know: it wasn't immediate.
Let's just say it:
You were desperate & I was a whore.
We shared one single night,
and I half-expected
to never hear from you again.

Then something (really, everything) began to change.
We grew into something I couldn't understand or believe.
Slowly and surprisingly, "casual" became committed.
Undeniably, and unintentionally, ritual was redefined.

Now, months later, something in me has registered:
You are, for all intents and purpose, beyond perfect.
And for all of your flaws, and all of mine,
so are we.
Not in spite, but in credit.
(No. It doesn't make sense to me either.)

& The truth is, it's not supposed to.
I'm 20 years old, and I have haphazardly met
the person who has made me happier
than I ever intend to be again.
What could be less practical than that?

Like you, I never wanted this.
I condemned monogamy,
gave up on commitment,
reserved myself to misandry entire.
But I have day-/night-dreams of rings now
and to be brutally and unwillingly honest:
maybe this has nothing to do with you at all.

Maybe you really are just a picture, a memory, a notch on my bedpost.
I want to doubt that, and I do, but admitting such a thing seems so final.
I feel like I have to be intangible for you to want me,
and I guess this is all some elaborate game
to mask how much, how happily I've lost.

You've studied more poetry than I can really imagine.
And I don't want you to take this as a formal attempt.
Because I know you'll find it cheap and sacrilegious.
I just want you to understand that THIS IS ME.
I am informal, uncultured, stream-of-consciousness
and quite possibly entirely wrong for you.

But I want you more than I have confidence to say.
& This is the only way I can hope to express such things.
(By being cynical and hurtful and ironic, I know....
Isn't life a mindfuck?)

Call it pessimism,
Call it realism,
but something tells me you'll end up in a box of mine
well before a coffin of your own.
I imagine we'll split decades before we die.
It's safe to say that we'll never have the adventures we've planned
in Amsterdam, Paris, Rome, Kathmandu.
Having thought I've found the one,
I'll likely end up looking again.

Maybe this is indulgent self-sabotage.
Maybe this is menacing reverse psychology.
Maybe this is that unnameable paranoia that only comes
when you realize that you have everything
and thus, everything to lose.

But I hate what you have done to me,
and I will never forgive you for this--
because you've broken down all of my defenses,
you've destroyed my carefully-constructed isolation,
you've caused me to live in perpetual fear.

& I have never, ever been happier.

(This isn't going to be eloquent.
It's going to be emotional, and it's going to be self-important.
I'm dealing, and I'm sorry.)


C,

First of all... I miss you. That says it all. I miss you all the time, so deeply and so loudly that it hurts just to think of you. It hurts too much to concentrate on. I hate to say it, but most days I genuinely try not to think about you. I'm guilty of this fact, but it's true. If I don't, I become overwhelmed. If I don't, I just can't think of anything else. I end up obsessing over pictures of you and just dwelling in grief, and it's It's just easier to do that, rather than to remember -- really *remember* -- you. I've never admitted this to anyone, but the truth is I feel safer away from Potsdam, away from our mutual friends. Because most of the time I can ignore the fact that you're gone. I don't have to see empty chairs in meetings or empty spaces on stage. I can be hundreds of miles away and just sort of pretend that you're still there, living out your dream and singing your heart out, giving hugs and shining grins and just being you.

What kills me the most is that we were *just* getting to really know one another. It was my first year in college, and we were friends-- but not best friends; friendly-- but not sisterly. You were one year older, and I looked up to you *so* much. You were so free and smart and talented and well-liked and just like a ray of sunshine who made everyone around her happier. I remember thinking how cute and pretty you were, how you acted like you were 6 feet tall and made everyone around you believe it. I remember your jokes and your voice and your facial expressions and your acting and your sensitivity and that one beautiful piece of writing you read to us about being a child and not knowing or caring about the difference between straight and gay. (You really were the embodiment of happiness and love, and it just haunts me every day that you're no longer here.)

But I also remember the negative. The tears, the sobbing, the disbelief, the silence, the songs, the hand-holding, the singing, the uniting, just everything... From that first horrible meeting I led during that awful first week at school, to your memorial service in your home town, to the spring concert that honored you two years ago, and everything in between. Seeing our friends break down killed me even more, but there was a degree of catharsis in all that chaotic tragedy. It felt good to know that others felt the same devastating and nameless sense of loss that ran through my whole body. There's a sick pleasure in grieving, especially grieving together. I threw myself into the friends who knew you because it was the only place I felt understood. (it still is)

When they told me, I instantly became a different person. My life changed in that nanosecond. I don't pretend to carry a hole around with me that is as substantial or life-altering as others, but... I've never lost a friend before. And it really changed who I've become. I feel like I have to disclose what happened to people when I begin to get close to them because your absence has had such a profound effect on my life. I can't help it. Life just feels a little less complete, a little more sinister every day. I feel like I'm out here fucking off, doing stupid shit or getting bad grades or whatever, and I feel awful for taking my life for granted. Because you don't have the chance -- the *luxury* -- to take life for granted. And I just feel so guilty for living sometimes, especially living poorly. I mean, maybe it's crazy, but I really feel somehow... indebted to you, somehow owing it to you to live a better life and be the best person I can be. And trust me, I've used that to my advantage in a positive way so many times. But it feels a little unfair, too. Because I don't know that I can live up to the standards you would have set. No one can fill your shoes, and it's crazy of me to even try. But it's not a conscious thing. It's just this weird notion I have that I have to somehow do my best to absorb your responsibilities and try my hardest to make up for the lack of you in this world. And it sounds really pretentious and out of left field, I know... but it's just my mind's way of saying: I really wish you were still here.

You know, it's been 2 years, but I still have this tiny wish that I'll wake up and this will have all been a dream. Isn't that cliche? I mean, who really thinks like that? I can't help it, because wishing that for that seems so natural in this situation. The thought of you being alive and normal and full of life is totally fitting. The crazy thought is that of you being... well I don't want to talk about it, but you know what I mean, and it just doesn't seem right at all. Because it's not right at all.

I'm pretty sure I don't believe in a god. And it's things like these that confuse me even more. Because just as easy as it is to say: What horrific, senseless tragedy... It also seems sickly sensible somehow, that such an extraordinary person should be taken from us so early. That always seems to go that way on TV: the brightest, happiest, most talented, successful teen is the one who's taken away. Some sick sort of irony that almost makes me think there is a weird logic here. Like, that perhaps you were an angel. (And that seems to be the likeliest, I can in all honesty.) -- And what confuses me even more is my personal reaction. Because when I think of you, I feel so helpless and alone and out of control that I can't help but think about God. It's just a given. I imagine that he HAS to exist, that there is no question, because it is far too painful to even begin to imagine a world in which our earthly end really is it. And you know what? It comforts me. It comforts me so much to think that you're up in some perfect Paradise, smiling down at us. It makes me feel somehow more whole and more at peace to think that you still exist somewhere.

At the end of the day, all the words in the world won't bring you back. But there are a few things I can do to ease this loss... I can be the best person I can be. I can be sure not to waste this life, as a personal promise to you. It's true that I've been suicidal in the past, and it's also true I don't think having gone through this that I ever could be so disrespectful to life again. -- I can also face this grief head-on and deal with it, rather than trying to hide from it. Whether it be through song or writing or the comfort of our friends, so be it. -- Finally, I can make it a personal point to remember you, honor you, and do right through your eyes. Because I have to believe that you really can still see me and hear me and witness all of this. And I know that you're grateful for it, I know that you sympathize and that you'd do anything to bring yourself back if only to ease all of our pain. Well, if that can't happen, then we can agree to do the next best thing. And that's to do you the favor of living the best lives we can even if you can't be in them. Because I know that's how you'd want it to be. I know for a fact that you'd prefer to see us all happy, over sad.

I really do love you. And if we do meet again in some paradise in the sky, you can bet I'm going to give you one big gigantic bear-hug.

All my love,

~ Liz <3

The truth is, I miss being a depressed fuck up. I miss being unmedicated, crazy, oversensitive, and in my own head. I miss defining myself with music. I miss the rush, the warmth of disease. Without meds, I feel alive again. Smoking and shaking and fasting and tearing up at the slightest thing. I was so much more artistic when I was like this. So much more motivated and creative with so much more to say. Balance and sanity has systematically deprived me of my own identity, my ability to truly FEEL. The side effects have got to go. No more lethargy or weight-gain. And the main effects, as well. What is happiness but misdirection and numbness? I don't want to be oblivious, I want to be AWARE. I want to be crazy again. I need a return to hell, a return to me.

...

This is about where I would and should stop writing. But instead I'm going to tell you (myself) about my impending french test tomorrow, that is bound to fuck me over-- but not quite as much as the asian theatre test to follow it.

I'm failing and I truly don't care.

My stomach is cramping and my blood is freezing. I forgot I could get high from skipping meds. But, really, this isn't even my doing. I was let go from my psychiatrist's practice anyway. This is the natural evolution of things. This is what's supposed to happen.

The world is slow and soft and warm again. Before, I was so distracted and so easily manipulated. I see the world as pointless and imprisoning again, and it's such a comforting return. I feel special and different and alienated and somehow quietly powerful, again. REMOVED. That's the best way to describe it. I think. Lost and delirious, as they say. (And happily happily happily so.) I've missed sadness more than I can say. I've missed feeling so alone, so fucking special. Like no one on earth could possibly be feeling what I'm feeling right now. Like I'm sadder than it should even be possible to be. Like the world was meant for me, made for me, my own little Truman Show where everyone is just playing second fiddle to me, extras in my drama.

(Goddamn depression is hedonistic.)

But so help me if I take pleasure in blowing off socializing and studying to take solace in my fucking journal. Do you think any great art was created in the happy, well-adjusted social spotlight? It's all basements and backyards, trust me.

You know...

Drugs have completely changed the way I think and feel about life, I have to say. I see, now, that everything is just science and chemicals and waves. Every mood is a different high, a different trip. This constant nagging hunger, this ache, this sadness, this nausea, this inexplicable exhaustion, this is all just one beautiful experience I was meant to have. Or so I'll tell myself. Writing to myself in a crowd of people, feeling just like I did back at 13. before the meds. On the verge of tears for no particular reason. God, I love this, THIS IS JUST A TRIP, IT IS WHAT I'LL MAKE OF IT. Mind over matter, as they say.

I don't need anyone, and I'm not just saying that to convince myself it's true. I've been flying solo for so long now, and only now is it starting to really take effect.

Sometimes I hear secret messages in songs, imagine I'm floating through a make-believe world where temperature and time do not exist. Now I remember how and why music defined me. It makes me want to live in my headphones and glue my hands to my guitar. (I've missed this intensity so much.)

I'm about to go smoke the discarded end of someone else's cigarette and shake in the snow, and dear jesus fucking christ, I have never felt more ecstatic to return to normalcy.

Today, I rejected my friends' invitation to go hang out, party, and get high. I chose to stay home and write a paper for an upper division class.

...

Baby steps.

my new old venture is weight loss; (quelle surprise)
& I find myself surviving on cigarettes & honey apples
that, and men. Men and men and men...
5 in 5 days; a new record for me

'what would she think
of the too many men?'
I'll tell you: She judges.
& who can blame her?
'no mother ever dreams
that her daughter's gonna grow up to be a junkie
no mother ever dreams
that her daughter's gonna grow up to sleep alone'

but that's the thing, mother,
I *don't* sleep alone...
entirely.
I have beautiful sex with beautiful boys
and they look at me with their doe eyes,
whispering,
"you. are. beautiful."
and coyly smiling at me
giggling,
"would you like to cuddle?"

the girl who came before me would have answered
a staunch No.
but I've changed.
"deargodYES" is my reply
and we fall into limbs and sleep and warmth

who wouldn't want this?,
I say to convince myself.
who wouldn't desire
darting glances, necks bitten,
bodies groping, tongues exploring,
the orgasms and the afterglow?

she has coffee in the morning
and little "I love you" notes with toast.
a poor man who works far too hard
for too little money
and bills she can't hope to pay.

but she's happy,
// whatever that means.
and she hates my particular
form of happiness.
in dicks and road trips and hot tubs

but OH the hot tubs!
rushing jets and rising steam
stars above, foliage all around
and hands all. fucking. over. me.

I've decided sometime recently
that shaking outdoors with a lighter in hand
is the only way to live.
that drinking and smoking up
with taken gay experiments
is the only way college should be.

We both tasted like ashes, she and I,
as we made out in her car,
as I grabbed her neck and pulled her closer.
Atheists called christian hold my face in hands
and I come above them, as they come into me.
And christians called virgins come in the water
and I can only wish the water were me.

I sacrificed the bi polar boyfriend,
who threatened to kill himself and me simultaneously,
for something a little less dramatic,
a little less me.
trips to foreign countries
and signs in kilometres
are things I'll miss,
but not as much as the empty words
of "make me the luckiest man in the world
and spend the rest of your life with me."

(No Thank You)

...

I'm living-- I think.
I trade meals of food
for meals of smoke
And my ulcer exists only at night;
so it's bearable.

I'm living, if this is what living is.
For boys in the night
and quiet breakfasts in the morning
with no one beside me.
Allowing me to think,
to write,
to smoke,
to be

alone.

So much has happened....

// I am not in love,
which usually inspires me and transports me--
but I am i n s a n e
(and, to a lesser extent, in lust.) //

~~~

Immediately after that last entry was written, I took my phone and nothing else and stumbled out of my apartment and into a forest. I was tripping and not entirely sure if the forest I found in the middle of the city was real or just a hallucination, but I entered anyhow. It clearly wasn't meant for human habitation, and there was hardly a trail laid out. But I went in and sat down. I went in, I sat down, I found a ditch, I lay in it, I imagined that the one or two bugs I saw were charging me and threatening to cover me, and I cried. I saw creatures that I'd never seen, the likes of which should not be real [and, most likely, aren't].

In all of my hallucinating lunacy, I somehow I had the presence of mind to still carry out my calculated deeds of suicidal behavior. I surprisingly had the motor functions and reasoning to successfully delete from my phone all of messages, contacts, pictures, banners, notes and data. Then I dialed Verizon and entered a few key numerical passwords and effectively had my entire line shut off. ... I wanted to be unreachable. I wanted to be no one. I wanted to go missing and have the police find a dark blue shirt against a browngreenblack ditch forest floor and immediately call for backup. {My father no longer works on the force. So I was wishing it were my brother.}

I was bleeding from cuts in various places, some intentional & some unintentional. I tried to sleep, in a pile of leaves, in the broad daylight, with no concept of time. And eventually I let myself leave. Crying and shaking, I wandered around, and eventually, my roommates found me and brought me in the car. I was mute, glassy-eyed, and staring aimlessly out the window. // Thank god they didn't take me to a hospital. They just took me to our friend's house, where everyone tried to speak to me, and eventually the boy I'm fucking just laid down next to me, listened to me drone on and on about "spiders, so many spiders, all the spiders..." and I heard him whisper 'what the fuck did you give her? what the fuck is she on?' before I lost consciousness.

Every day since has been some equivalent of that.

~~~

(I have to keep writing...)

every time you touch me,
i tap out and dissociate
& every time i remember,
i get physically sick.

with every other guy,
every night before i went to sleep,
i'd smile to think of love & sex & the days' events.
(oh i meant it when i said
you're unlike anyone i've ever known.)
because these nights,
i fucking cry myself to sleep,
i count the weeks since i've last seen you,
& i pray to a god i don't even believe in
that perhaps tomorrow
you will finally let this end.

without the profanities.
without the guilt trips.
without the manipulation.
without playing the victim.
without all the begging.
without preying on my emotions.
without saying "i love you"
until i'm broken down & entirely submissive
a.gain.

in what fucking universe
is it acceptable
to not commit to a girl,
to love&see&fuck others,
& to then turn around,
and say 'how dare you?'
'how dare you judge ME?'
'how dare you take this for granted?'
'do you KNOW how many *other* girls
i could [and do] have?'
'i give you so much of my time;
show a little fucking gratitude.'

HOW CAN YOU "LOVE" ME
when you insist on CHANGING me
to suit your needs?
i had an identity before all this.
i was something of a feminist,
i was rather independent
& rarely submissive.
now you value this empty shell of a person
this bag of warm fluid,
who bows to your every whim.
this walking, talking object
who you love just enough to control.

the other boys used to fawn over all my best traits:
my music. my writings. my creativity.
my strength. my independence. my dominance.
my obsession. my passion. my romance.
my sex drive.
(i guess 1 out of 10 ain't bad.)

when i ask what you like best about me,
you list nothing about me at all.
you list all the ways i submit to you,
all the ways i endure you,
all the ways i love you,
all the ways i make you feel desirable;
// you'll have to tell me what that's like
sometime.

every time i try to end it,
i feel so empowered and so relieved.
i feel so ready, so calm & cool.
i spend all day listening to
music i love & recalling
traits i hate.
...
after you break me down,
again,
after i consent to stick around,
THAT's
when i cry.
that's
when i break the fuck down.

something is backwards here.

i hate everything about this
sorry excuse for a relationship.
don't presume that it's hyperbole
when i say
I WANT TO SLIT YOUR FUCKING THROAT.
although it's much more likely
i'd slit my own:
if only to get out of this.
if only to end the agony of
how & why & when to end it.

it's a lot like death, that way.
"every day, a little death" indeed.
every day, a little more your pet.
every day, a little less myself.
but
every day, a little more your possession.
what a trade-off.
...

one of this days, i swear,
i'll change the locks
& change my number.
i'll issue an are-oh
and avoid the internet
like all hell.

(just as soon as i'm tired
of the songs, the poems,
the drama, the insanity,
the "artistic experience"
& the chance to play the victim.)

one of these days.
sometime soon,
i swear.

( Read more... )

E-mail:

from: ---
to: lizenwright@gmail.com, ---
cc: --
date: Fri, Dec 12, 2008 at 11:57 AM
subject: New Voices
mailed-by: oswego.edu

Congratulations playwrights! You are the 2009 New Voices winners. You will be receiving a formal notification in the mail but because of the time crunch, we wanted to let you know about the following meeting where Brad will talk about "what's next."

~~~

( Apparently, I'm a playwright now? )

( AVERT YOUR EYES. )

( I love Anne Sexton )

I just did like 20 of these, putting in myself and my friends. It's so addictive!

( My celebrity look-a-likes )

First of all: Fuck you and your new layouts, LJ. Didn't Mark Zuckerberg teach you anything? IF IT AIN'T BROKE, DON'T FIX IT. Chaos ensues.

Anyway.

The highlight of my day today (besides shaving 1 minute off my mile!) was meeting with the head of the Fitness Centers on campus. He was extremely generous and sweet and easy-going, which made the experience very positive, but the results were positive as well.

( Blahblah fitness blahblah )

~~~

( Blahblah feminism blahblah ) To be frank, I could honestly give a shit if anyone in my life tried to force their opinions on me right now. I'm simply not open to anyone, to any idea of compromising for another person. I have had too many bad fucking experiences with it, and now that I've tasted health and independence, I have no desire to go back where I came from.

"Kindly fuck off," I'd say, "I'm living for me. Go chain someone to your name with a promise of commitment and a facebook relationship status and all those other things to which shallow and incomplete persons cling; then you'll have someone to control, to manipulate, to bitch at, to influence. Your words, your ideas, your thoughts, your opinions mean nothing to me; MY OWN reign supreme."


& That's all for this verbose and rambly little diatribe. ^_^

Stolen from Katie.

~~~

( Fifteen Facts About Me. )

Hmm, yeah, if you really need to know more about me, simply stalk my old journals (my Seventeen blog is still up and running for some reason), and pictures, etc. I'd also google "feminist", "leftist", "Borderline Personality Disorder", "Bi Polar Disorder", "Dysthmia", and "ENFP." -- I don't care. I have nothing to hide; have a ball.

I don't believe in tagging people for this, but feel free to repost this meme.

& Here's a photo.




Peace. ♥

Um.

... I just wrote a play.

That is all.

Just for reference, it is possible to be too outspoken and too passionate about political activism.

I had my Facebook account disabled today.

I made the mistake of spamming a wall of an extremely racist, anti-Obama group and one of their events. I didn't use profanity; I just expressed my opinion... many times. I said that their group was promoting bigotry, and I e-mailed the creator to ask him to take his group down. I reached the limit of commenting and mailing and the next thing I knew, I was logged out and unable to log back in.

So my account is just no more. My account, with ALL my pictures, notes, entries, poems, essays, letters, links, bumper stickers, messages from friends, messages in general, GROUPS, groups I admin, groups of which I'm a member, all my connections, all my ability to communicate with friends, my networks, my marketplace ads, my birthday reminders, my event reminders, my ability to find contact info for my friends, my ability to meet new friends and keep up with old ones... it's all gone.If you try to search for that exact account, you won't find it. It's just as if my account never existed.

I'm told that these things aren't always necessarily permanent. I'm hoping that they hear me out and listen to my promise not to spam/harass other members. Unfortunately, I was told I won't find out about the administrator's decision until sometime next week.

Until then... I can't go on the site, and --at the risk of sounding like an internet-obsessed geek-- it truly sucks. (I didn't realize how much I wanted to check up on friends, post links, update statuses, add photos, check out news, or admin my groups... until I couldn't anymore. I miss the rights that I'd taken for granted, and I would be willing to modify my behavior in many ways if I could get them back.)

I'll post again when I hear the news.

</venting>

The Day The World Changed for the Better.
... There are no words, guys. None. Our journey has come to an end, and an even more amazing one is just beginning.

I can't stop crying.

I'm so happy.

To be able to tell my future descendents that *I* voted for the historic Barack Obama is incredible.

I am so touched and moved and emotional and in awe and... I just can't say anymore.

"President Obama" is music to my ears, and I never want this particular song to end.





~~~

( I have a dream. )
- Martin Luther King Jr.

♥

I like to think that you're not nearly as perfect as I imagine you to be.

I like to tell myself that you're a dull, weak, unlovable empty shell of a person with no hope of redemption.

I do this because, chances are, I'm probably right -- or at least, I'm closer to the truth with that pessimistic state of mind.

& At least I can say, at the end of all this, that I had presence of mind. In between my moments of complete and utter fucking infatuation.

~~~



Because there's no way you can be this perfect; no one could be.

The way I fucking glorify you is disgusting and beyond idealistic.

In my head, you have no idea how beautiful you are...
You are incredibly brave.
You are incredibly strong.
You are brilliant and ambitious and driven and amazing.
You have known more hardship than I will ever know,
& you have faced it with more grace and dignity than I could ever muster.
I am in constant awe of you.
I wish I could be more like you.
I will never stop desiring to be close to you.
I will never stop remembering what it felt like to be with you. I
will never stop hearing your voice or seeing your face in my head.
I will never stop,
never stop,
never stop,
never stop.

...

But what the fuck do I know.

You're the seventh guy to whom I've said "I love you."

...

I have hundreds of entries JUST LIKE THESE to the other six, all promising the same bullshit promises with words like "only" and "forever" and "always".

And just like this, they all have expiration dates. -- The only difference here is that yours hasn't arrived yet.

...

Look. For what it's worth: I really do adore you {in my fucked and flawed way.} I really do think you are the most beautiful person I have ever met, in my current&temporary&affected infatuated state. You were my daily inspiration when we were not-so-officially together, and you continue to inspire me today. I know now that I couldn't forget you if I tried [and I've tried]. Perhaps it's just the way I'm wired. I think adoration is perpetual; time isn't going to change it. It never has for me.

But, GOD... You would do so much better to ignore this and forget me. I imagine you aren't reading this, and I know that that's for the best. I suppose I could entrance you again if I really wanted to and I really tried, but what would be the point? I know I would hurt you, eventually, just like I've hurt every other guy. It would be entirely wrong of me to even offer a relationship to you.

If I could offer you something calm and collected and genuine and real, I would. You must know that. -- But as it is, I could only guarantee you hot/cold moods, and consistent love/hate. I know for certain that I would mock you and condescend you and dominate you and belittle you and manipulate and control you and drive you fucking insane. I'd cheat on you and rub your nose in it; I would even try to cover it up. I'd flirt with every guy I saw and half the girls. I would exhaust you and hurt you and spit you out and speak to you as if you were my worst enemy. I'd then turn right around and mix tears with fetal positions and profess to you my *genuine* sorrow and apologies. You'd feel too conflicted and confused and overstimulated to respond with anything but absolution, and my atonement would be complete. I'd move on. (Tomorrow is another day, etc.) But you wouldn't. Because you're normal, you're sensitive, you're human; you're not me. You'd let this build, you'd have it all weigh on you, and you wouldn't be able to continue on. Our end would be the epitome of our intense, dramatic, emotional, melodramatic, messy, chaotic relationship; it would culminate in the extremes of all those descriptors. It would break you down and it would kill me temporarily, and it would be horrible for the both of us in the end.

I'm a broken person, and I've never pretended otherwise; in fact, I embrace it. I think it makes me incredibly interesting. -- But the point is, I *CAN'T* have normal relationships. Not now, not at this age, not at this point in time, not with these diagnoses, not being this far behind in my treatment. I am depressed and enraged and insecure and dark and unstable and masochistic and manipulative. No matter how much I'd like to, I can't have a normal relationship: not with you, not with anyone. & Despite my self-serving diatribes that wailed to the contrary, I mean it when I say that you made the smartest move of your life when you ran away from me.

~~~

Do yourself a favor and ignore these entries.

Do yourself a favor and stay gone.

I met my new shrink yesterday. She's an adorable lady with a PhD who takes my insurance and thus is 100% better than no counselor at all. She also "gets" me, rides horses, and picked up on multiple characteristics of my personality and intelligence within a few minutes of meeting me. We finish each other's sentences, we're on the same wave length, and I really truly like her.

One thing we spoke about was my tendency to manipulate, hurt, and control people -- specifically parents, boyfriends and submissive friends -- for sport. We also spoke about my possessiveness and irrational degree of jealousy... but this was something in which she was very interested & a pattern she [and I] wanted to work to change.

I guess the interesting part about all this is the fact I didn't think about you once. I didn't think about you when discussing boyfriends, past relationship patterns, love, loss, sex, etc. & Why would I? I mean, be reasonable: We were never official. Everything happened in a matter of mere weeks. It's not like we were all that committed or inseparable. Our non-situation was neither dramatic nor intense. It mostly occurred in dorm rooms and dining halls, and now that I'm removed from Potsdam, I can safely say that I'm removed from you. (Right?)

But you're the one I dreamt of that night, and you're the one who fucking haunts my thoughts today.

And I think I know why.

...

Out of all the people with whom I've been involved, I never hurt you for sport. You are the only one I never betrayed. Did you know that? Did you know that, in some way, I had & have cheated on every single other love interesting in my life? WHAT MADE YOU SO FUCKING SPECIAL? You know what. Don't answer that; I don't want to think about that.

But I'm pissed, you know. I'm pissed at the way you let me let you leave. I'm pissed that you couldn't appreciate how many strides I had made with you, how truly different you were. -- For whatever reason, I never felt the aggressive need to "dominate" you, to condescend you, to put you in your place, to make you jealous, to tease or tempt or taunt you. I just *adored* you from the start [andyouknowthat.] Unlike every other guy, I never wanted to see you in pain; moreover, I couldn't stand the thought.

I can't tell you how many times the scene plays through my head, where, after you said something offensive and hurtful, something you never meant to say, something that came out entirely wrong... you had this look of terror and embarrassment on your face. It's a look I've seen before, you know. It's a look on which I have capitalized with EVERY OTHER GUY; it's something I have *always* historically used to my advantage. It's a look I love, generally speaking. It's a look which gives me the upper hand, the win, the permission&opportunity&target to strike.

& Do you know what I did when you made that statement? That unintentional insult? Do you fucking remember?

... I smiled.

I smiled, and I kissed you, and I told you to forget about it, 'to shrug it off.

Because, for the first and only time, that look caused me pain. Seeing you in distress was the worst fucking feeling in the world.

& For this one goddamn perfect moment, I STOPPED giving a shit about my insecurities and my codependence and my controlling nature and my jealousy and my misandry and my self-centered bullshit and my issues and my past and my goal to wreck the hearts of others. -- For whatever reason, I put your needs before my own.

&I don't even *know* how I feel about girls who do that! I can't rationalize it. I think it's the most dangerous [&beautiful] thing in the world. I can't say I recommend it, I can't say I look forward to it happening again.

... But I CAN say that it was amazing&lovely&beyondpure.

I can say that I can't stop thinking of how you look and laughed and felt.

I can say that I miss you beyond reason.

& I wish that you had understood -- even for a second -- how fucking special you were to me.

So why recount the events of the last three days when their words can sum it up instead?



"I hate myself and want to die."