T can have my clothes and all those things she’d appreciate, like furniture and stuff. She can also have all my money.

B can have the house so he can sell it and that will give him lots. It would be nice if he’d care for jesus, but t would take her too.
Oh and all the tech stuff, computers and tv’s, toyota etc he can have too.

I’m sure you guys won’t fight over it or anything. Maybe give matt and jeff my convertible because they’d fix it up.

I can’t make good decisions or even understand what is good for me anymore. I used to be so sure but now I do things I’m sure about and they work opposite. The thing that felt good aren’t and the things that are supposed to feel good don’t.
That’s all really.

I like running. And yoga.
Please someone tell my mother it is her fault. Might help her to have a reaction.

After watching my grandfather die and realizing that I am trapped in the way he lived his life. Right now I feel he is lucky. I don’t have cancer yet but I can’t spend all my time exercising. I can’t eat at all anymore. I know it is because I kept taking clonazapam. More and more and more trying to make changes easier. It worked opposite. I will take a few more now just to start.

I’m going to try to run and feel better now. If I don’t I am going eat every pill I have, just like a girl. But I won’t throw up. That would be silly. I’ll put lots of food and water out for Jesus.

I’m sorry. Please get someone to get Jesus because I feel bad about that. I tried to tell tl how bad I was feeling but she was busy. B, I have had such evil thoughts because I am so direly afraid of men. It doesn’t go away and that hurts you you deserve better. I’m sure this will make a good story you can write about.

I want to be there. I want to be here. I want to want the right things but my brain betrays me. Here’s to running.

Teeny Tiny Head

If I could gather everything I love and enjoy
into my hand
and hold it together and be certain I could do that whenever I need to
I wouldn't fill up with familiar hate.

It is like things repeat.
Because they are.


It's shameful but it is true. The fear so long ingrained in me
about certain people overpowers everything. Proof, experience, truth. That's a useless word.
Because, like the hard scientists know, if you ask the right questions you will get your answers.
So I ask the right questions.
And again again again I'm proven right! I'm right! I'm Right!

When does it transition into being my fault for asking the damaging questions.
Can I get extra time for repetition and intensity of negative experience? Does it compound or is it only
additive.

The thing is: it isn't at all like that. The horror is that I have been shaped by these things.
When a cock got shoved down my throat at three, along with a hold in my throat, it opened up a logical order for me that I needed and
still live within. I know it, I know I should stop, I know I am trying.
Because now it makes all of you my violent enemy.

I hear voices. I just noticed. Not my own voice telling me what to think. But a bright heated voice that screams
so loud my head rings to kill, to run, to gather weapons for the impending attack.

I

Useless Ghosts

Every day I speak to my father. You know what he says? Nothing! No such thing as ghosts that way.
A woman just asked me, with the utmost consideration, where I wanted the knob on my shutters placed. She
spoke attentively and kindly. When I told her, she made a suggestion and was extremely helpful in my
decision making process.
I was paying her.

Today I told my father that, just like him, I couldn't get across to people what I really mean. He kidnapped
me when really he meant I really love something! and I wrote about how alone and hurt I feel when really I meant I
really love something!

He didn't say anything back again. There were no signs he heard. But I knew if he did, he'd sympathize.

"you're funny"
"you don't know anything, do you?"


"I'm not sorry for liking girls."
"I'm no longer your MOTHER!"



I like having fun too. Yesterday everything expanded and got filthy.
I can't tell how much is in here yet. It's expanding. While I work away decorations, trees,
cablefliers appear. But not that they appear; they were always there. It is only my noticing
that changed.

Expansion is like that, it's a pain. A parenthetic tree, dripping value unevenly into my
sidelines. Not my focus - no that is always laser clear.

Right now, dancing edges and shrieking shrinking significancies, it is comforting the refrain:

"you don't know anything, do you?" spoken by Karen Black in Martin Scorses' first film You're a Big Boy Now 1966.
I am one I am one!

There you go again

An unknowable percentage of me is better equipped for life 150 years ago. Life of a dairy-milking mother of 10 who kept her floors shining, quilts finely pieced, breads risen, children silent and husband fed easily. I hate it and I love it in turn.



An update:

It is more of that black and white thinking.
I remember in an early email exchange with you, before we met, you said you were a person of extremes. I told you that I was too.


I dully repeat like a doll with a voice-string on my ass that I don't know what to do, what is expected of me in love.
Sometimes, when I look at my friends that I care deeply for my eyes burn because I'm sure I'm using them wrong. Wrong eyes,
wrong fingers and blinks. What I mean is that it is a matter of extremes.

Because I grew entirely accustomed to being alone and learning about everything in isolation I feel guilty in love. I try to be perfect in love. Perfectly there and entirely present and eager and exuberant. The opposite of what I have always known.
It is an exquisite failure system. I can't, no one could, meet these standards. So I falter. I can't be entirely present and perfect. And I am unable (unable unable) to advocate for myself and my requirements of aloneness. I forget. I forget willingly and eagerly. Because they make me feel guilty.
I get trapped there, between extremes. My failures pile up and fill me with confusion and anger.
The hardened parts of me yearn to hold onto things that will never change, move or disagree. To strain out all else. To think about the floors instead of your quiet gestures of confusion or pain. That is, as you intimately understand, why I take medication. Because it stops the floor thoughts cold and it is such a relief. A fair trade to lose that, and that hardness. Even when it means enduring a few hours of bleak grief gated by past and recent memories of ugliness and loss.

I won't repeat it anymore, that I don't know what is expected of me. That is the wrong sentence. I do know when I am free of sick thought: I am expected to understand the nuances of people, relationships. To be able to manipulate the pillars of relationship like appendages that do good works. Like, relationships are forged upon the problems overcome and survived and not upon the difficulties avoided. It is what makes Tammy and I so close: our highschool disaster. And Taraleigh and I like sisters: our(my) roadtrip psychosis. And you and I. We faced the aftermath of your illness, the unexpected and unannounced peaks of mine. And not in spite of but because of these things we move ahead. Better. Stronger. Nothing to do with perfection at all.