Emailed

I took a big step tonight.

I emailed the college's therapist about an appointment.

I don't believe in therapy as a rule. I don't think that talking out your problems is going to solve anything. If you can't handle it on your own, then it is too big for just talking to take care of.

But I need help. And I need it soon. I've been more depressed in the past 4 months than I've been in a few years. I don't understand it. My life is finally back on track.

I'm always tired. Irritable. Lonely. Jealous. Angry. Or worse, blank.

I used to value being an empty slate. I took pride in my ability to let go of all my emotions and just be mentally limp. I used to call it meditating.

This sort of mediation isn't helping my anxiety any more, though. It isn't helping the pains I get in my chest and ribs that prevent me from breathing properly. It isn't helping get rid of the anger I feel towards EVERYONE in my life.

Even now, as I sit here writing, I find that I am trying to calm my breathing. I picture a giant drain in the back of my mind, emptying all the hurt and sad and panic down a pipe at my feet. It is a process that leaves me hollow. Shiny and new.

-ish.

I tried to deal with it through copious amounts of alcohol - mostly tequila, rum, and beer. Occasionally wine if I was feeling like a classy drunk. I would sip it after classes, before work, after work. In my flat or at the bar on the corner.

But I reached a point tonight where I just didn't have the energy to drink. I was bored with the idea of sipping on something until I got the fuzzies in my nose. The fuzzies that would let me sleep without having to gasp for air or try to shut down my brain. They did that for me.

So. I emailed.

Cotton-headed and Sleepy

I'm tired.

I don't want to be in college anymore. I don't want to study all the time, or be told which books to read. I don't want to sit in a half circle listening to other students who don't know how to read aloud.

I don't want to be friends with anyone. It's a never-ending stream of disappointments and letdowns. No one is who they say they are. No one really gives a shit. The only reason the idea of friendship exists is for survival. We all try to attach ourselves to the strongest alpha in the group.

All I want to do is drink myself into an oblivion every evening, sleep soundly, and wake up to shelves of books and coffee. I will read and write and drink and curl into pools of sunlight.

I'm tired...

Disjointed Thoughts, But Not Because of Alcohol

I sit here, with a cup of rum beside me and an open notebook, wanting to write something. Two girls perch on the edge of my couch, as I slouch across a giant pillow on the floor.

I don't understand why I only get the urge to write when I am particularly down and out. Is the point of everything to prove that the stereotypes are true? To be a writer is to be depressed? I'd rather not, thanks though.

I sent an epically long email this afternoon, and it was more writing than I had done in a very long time. The more letters I write, the more I will be inspired to write.

One of my summer courses is an Ekphrasis course. It is a theory from Greek philosophy in which you respond to a piece of art with your own artform. We will be (hopefully) doing a great deal of writing and editing with feedback during the 7 week course. One can only hope.

Start Me Up

I talked about going back to Flagler in my last post. Well, I'm here. I'm doing much better than I did the last time - all B's and C's this past semester. Not as well as I had wanted, but better than I had been doing.

I'm back in the same place that I was last year. That I am all the time. It's pathetic really. She wasn't even in a relationship when I met her. I started crushing, hard.

And once again, the someone I wanted wanted a different someone. I'm just tired of being the only one who's alone. All the time. Even the guy who said he wanted me didn't really. I was a momentary convenience to make another girl jealous. I just want to feel desired, worthy.

Even my writing has lost its flair, its pizazz. Maybe that's me now. I am flairless-empty-unlovable-unwanted-undesired-tabula rasa.

Hide From The World

I'm thinking about going back to Flagler.

On one hand, it is a terrible idea. I didn't do well there the first time around, and I hated what I was doing.

On the other hand, it's a chance to prove to myself that I can succeed at whatever I put my mind too. I love history, have loved history for years and years, letting one teacher scare me away from my favorite subject. Flagler has a history major. It also has a Liberal Arts major, in case I can't decide at all.

I get this feeling in the pit of my stomach whenever I think about St Augustine. It's like being so in love with something, it makes you nauseous just to think about, that's how excited you are. I want to be there, to live there, to stop convincing myself why it was a good idea to leave.

I know the people won't be the same. I'm a whole semester behind all of my friends just from this year alone, not to mention all the credits that won't transfer back over because of my grades. But I can't let a college beat me. I want to be able to tell people about the school I love so much.

I miss having friends. I miss being able to walk around at night. I miss the White Lion, the Bridge of Lions, the winter lights. I miss the theater department, and how cold all the dorms are.

I want to go back, but I don't know if anyone will approve.

Three Teenage Girls Walk Into A Coffee Shop. . .

I only have 21 minutes left of free wi-fi here at Starbucks. It seems that most of my posts are written from the beaten-up chair tucked into the far back corner on the right. The braiding is coming off the right arm, peeking out white cord beneath blue velvet. The back cushion is smashed out of shape, pressed down by countless people here for business meetings, meetings with friends, or as an escape from meetings.

The baristas are all loud, telling stories about co-workers not on this shift. The one other guy in here has the courtesy to walk outside to talk on his cell. I've been here since about 4.30. I did my Biology homework. I applied for a job. I drank a grande soy vanilla latte. I'm trying to figure out the best way to get home, while avoiding the traffic that loves this part of town. I would start going to the other Starbucks, but it is in a newer building. The coffee smell hasn't had the chance to permeate the walls there.

The coffee smell is home.

I get some of my best ideas sitting here, smelling the smell, listening to whatever mix cd was approved by all. Of course, even my best ideas aren't worth that much. Someday I'll get better at writing them all down. I suppose that's why I write here. At least I'm writing something, getting into the habit of it all.

Someday, my best ideas will be good ideas, and something will come of them other than outlines and plot sketches.

Goodbye, Yellow Brick Road

Well, all that worrying was for naught. It seems the decision was made for me, by way of job termination.

Of course, it helps to write it all down. Once I'd written about the tingles and warm fuzzies and dropping of heart bottoms, it was so much easier to shove away. I know that I say I want to live my life by the precept Love as thou wilt but it is so much easier to ignore it. After all, he is loving as he would, and I shouldn't stand in the way of that.

Love isn't like the fairytales. It doesn't happen overnight. I know that. I fought long and hard for my last relationship. Where did it end? In a ditch somewhere, unknown by others, much like Hitler. This is horrible. I'm making Hitler references.

My life is not the Holocaust. My life could be a lot worse. I could be dead. But sometimes? I think that would all be easier. Because then I wouldn't have to deal with the uncertainty. I'd just be dead.

Moral of the story, I don't want to fight fruitlessly for something that is never going to happen. And I'm glad that this will be less time I am forced to be around him. Because let's face it: I love the pseudo-snuggling on the couch and the wrestling over food. But I hate the reminders of girlfriends and chicks he thinks are hot.

Falsehoods and Flashbulbs

This is the most horrible thing that has happened to my heart in over two years. I can't be falling in love with him. I can't be putting myself through this yet again. I know what happens when a person falls in love: trembling moments of utter joy, decimated by harsh reality.

He won't love me back. He might not even realize I love him. We will float side by side for a predetermined amount of time and then we will never speak again.

That's how the world works. No one stays. No one means forever when they say it. It's all just words and motions and pretty lies on pretty lips in pretty moments. None of it can last for any longer than the instant it happens.

My stomach flutters. The bottom of my heart drops out. I think about him at the most inconvenient times. If it were just a crush, it'd pass. It would have when he went back to her yet again. I am logical and reasonable to a fault. I can talk my way out of any decision, any feeling, any rationale. I compartmentalize better than any one I know. I can exist as a perfect entity, empty of any emotion or bias.

But I can't make myself ignore his phone calls, texts, facebook chats. I can't turn down his offers to hang out. We sit too close together on the couch and steal each other's food. He teaches me football. I teach him parents of high school girls. When he's drunk beyond all belief, and I know he won't remember it in the morning, I let him curl up in my lap and sleep. I warm my hands on the back of his neck, and rest my head on his shoulder. I pretend.

I can't believe I'm letting myself do this. I would that I were a stronger person, to ignore the raging hormones and fluttering and fireworks when we hug. I should be able to stop this.

I can't fall in love with him.

Indecisive

Which way is which?

Which way do I go?

Which way don't I go?

He's a big man now that he drinks at Starbucks

The barista's laugh is loud, grating. The two small boys at the next table stare, watching me flip through a thick chemistry text.

I'm not sure who I am any more. Gone is the sweet girl who swore to save herself for marriage, clinging to the dreams and myths of the 50s. In her place is an over-cynical quasi-optimist who doesn't really care about what she will feel tomorrow, only wanting justification and adoration in the here and now.

Weasley was perfect for the sweet girl I once was. He reminded me of a time when I wanted a thousand small children running between the legs of my many Great Danes.

He turned out to be truly idiotic. Forbidding me from large words in his presence, calling me every pet name but my own. Refused to step foot in my haven, because he hates coffee. Wanted sex-telly-sex-telly like a stereotypical guy.

So I went for it. I went for the brash Southern burr with the blonde hair and the defined abs. Turns out, those kinds of guys aren't any good for me either. He just wanted a quick and easy lay, not even holding my hand while leading me to the hill he wanted to couple on.

I kept thinking, If I coax him, he'll get sweeter, softer. He didn't. So we didn't. Did we? I'm not sure.

Perhaps my plans for the future are too big, too broad, too overwhelming.

The only reason I'm pursuing a degree is because the Peace Corps requires volunteers to have a bachelor's in something. In order to travel the world helping people, I have to learn how to help myself. But the purpose of traveling was supposed to be to find myself. Can I help myself before I know who me really is? The irony is astounding.

I'll write a book about it someday.