i am so fucking mad and frustrated that I want to push my already throbbing head into the corner of the wall and see if squeezing the pain will push my hurt and depression so far in that it will reach oblivion. Caught up inbetween frustration with my present state of ridiculous affairs and a listlessness that is new to my brain and body, I mostly spend my time ready to yell or bitch. Construct rambling monologues in my head about the angry emotions I try to intellectually piece out. Even in my worst upset.

Now that I’ve been left here on this fucking island alone, with enough brain stories and money carpets to make me feel like the life I find myself in everyday has some connection to incentive.

What am I cramming myself into this law thing for? What do I want out the professional power/fantasy life I’ve poised myself toward? A bigger room and more organizing and phone call headaches and power pushers to provoke and tap dance around?

This headache never goes away. I am tired whenever I remember to think about my life. The list of “what I should be doing right now” is visible up there on my mental refrigerator-door. Doesn’t mean I actually get any of them done. Expense calculations? Outlines to write and articles to concoct? I don’t think I am much good to placate anyone, and I don’t feel like I’d get much out of it.

I keep wondering about the expression options that seem the most interesting though I doubt I’d actually engage in any of them. Breaking things. Breaking me in a few places. Doping up my brain to keep the teary-blurry eyed vision in blissful consistency. Curling up in fetal position in the softball field in front of the law school. Right on home plate. I find the mind picture of myself there rocking back and forth like an autistic child comforting for some strange reason. I know that actualizing that image wouldn’t help at all.

Then there’s the possibility of finding someone I have some trust for to come and hold me for a while. Thr image of being petted and soothed and kissed a little sounds nice but the impossibility of it just makes it all the more frustrating. It would end anyhow.

I don’t know why I think about drugs because I already have a brain state that can’t see or act properly. All of my images are about attention getting. I know that once I get it I’m not going to feel better any how.

Fuck them all. Fuck M for having nothing better to say to me and N for wanting nothing to do with me. Fuck G and all of em for being as self-absorbed as I am. Fuck all of the men for not wanting me, for not granting me the power I deserve to have. Fuck them for not paying me the attention I feel owed, and not giving me a chance to pick and choose before I decide that I don’t want them anyway.

Fuck life for taking away my desire to find and follow something special in someone else. The beauty that used to be there in being alive and being alone and being a kind of weird little girl that appreciated moments so much that it paralysed her.

Who’s going to love me and take care of me? I don’t know if I can do it myself. I don’t now if I can do it for my family.

I want to be strange. I want to not give a fuck anymore and

My head feels so heavy, like one of those toys little kids have–weebles–with a heavy weight in the bottom. So that the thing bobs back up when you knock it over. Except I feel it in my head. It wants to fall over.

Why does my pain want an audience? Maybe that’s all I want. An audience.

Who will love me? Who will clean my grave?

Where will my ideas scatter? What could they feed? Could I nurture anything successfully beside my own absorbed, throbbing lack of motivation?

I want someone to kiss me. Without being asked. Softly and slowly like the process of thinking about it, preparing for it is deliciously enjoyable. I want my wet cheeks kissed and my eyes stared into with something besides a question.

I rack my memory for someone who has softness for me. Someone who I want to care. I can’t come up with any answers.

I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO AND IT MIGHT KILL ME.

I feel like a wounded puppy curled up with my paws over my eyes, breaking into crying whelps when I can focus enough to feel the pain. My hands bang and scratch at the keyboard in anger and frustration to talk, express, be heard. Dammit. Hear me. Listen to me. I want somone to listen!!!!! Isn’t my story good enough? Don’t I amuse you, interest you at all?

l’ve got to bury them. Part of myself. They’re gone. Deal with it.

This entry was posted on Sunday, June 30th, 1991 at 12:00 am and is filed under law. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.