I type but don’t write. I speak but say nothing. My heart begins to pound loudly in my ears and I feel faint, dizzy, sick. I think, “Panic attack?” No. I’m just holding my breath again; waiting for something to happen that’s never going to happen because I’m not really waiting for anything. Throughout my day I have to remind myself to breathe, inhale great gulps of air into my lungs, unclench my teeth, loosen my jaw, relax the muscles in my face, try to remember something funny enough to inspire a smile. My entire body is tense, my neck and shoulders ache from the strain of holding everything inside, and I feel tired at odd times, but never when I’m sleepy. I forget to breathe, I forget to eat. I forget to call my family members, forget to take out the trash, or send someone a draft of something I’m working on I promised them I’d send weeks ago. It’s always tomorrow. Tomorrow I’ll remember but I can’t remember today. I’ll breathe, eat, sleep, relax, write and speak, think clearly tomorrow. There are reasons why my mind is a chaotic mess, normal everyday reasons that put me to sleep when I think too much about them, and then there are the other reasons - I don’t talk about those either. You get this impression, nothing more, a lipstick smudge from a kiss on a passenger train window meant to tease the handsome man on the platform whose name I’ll never need or want to know. Something of me, maybe a little, maybe nothing, but a taste of the woman in the picture that no one knows and few see.
My Amnesiac God got me thinking about writing again - my purpose and point - and I’ve begun to question my place in the noise.
No, I don’t suppose I’m ready to think about that yet.
I’ve been away but not gone. There’s too much to say and it’s getting harder to hide behind words. You don’t want to know me any more than you yourself want to be known by me. Every so often I lose my ability to filter. I say what I want to say and to hell with the consequences. I used to live this way. I don’t recommend it. We all say some pretty stupid shit from time to time.
[edit]
The good news is I’m still crazy. Or I’m still the girl I was to the people who knew me when. As hard as I try, I can’t help but fall into the role of her:that cynical, angry, edgy, and profane grrrl who spends too much time listening and looking, and too little time interacting with people. I’ve discovered my secret weapon is to say just enough to keep people away from me. “Fuck off, I’m busy dissecting you from my armchair laboratory. So be a good little rat, scurry back and play with the other vermin. I want to study you in your natural habitat.” It’s all a load of crap. People terrify me. They’re weird, unpredictable, and too emotional. One second it’s hugs and the next it’s flying bottles and fists. I don’t understand them at all. They think I’m nuts because I quote poetry and talk about this or that historical figure. (And I occasionally break out into a little “I’m so flippin’ freakin’ cold” dance in the early morning hours… But one or two people on the planet have actually been forced to witness this.) Maybe we’re all fucking crazy.
I’m tired. There’s no continuity to my thoughts or this post. I took the photos of me with my webcam around 2am this morning. I have a cold. My eyes are bloodshot and my lips are chapped from continuously licking them. Don’t ask why I was taking photos of myself at 2am in the morning and I won’t ask why you’re interested. Deal?
I never think I look like me… Of all these pictures, the one in the middle probably reflects my mood most accurately.
I’ll edit this tomorrow.
Praise and Blame