The Girl From Ipanema

~Tall and tan and young and lovely...~

So here I am again after all this time.

Ha, 18 and I feel like I've woken up finally for the first time only to realize that I've royally fucked myself for the last three years. High school. What the hell was I thinking? Now I'm here, awake, alone, and I strangely feel somewhat empowered. I think I'm going to do it. Just stop caring and get on with life. I'm done school, I'm done with many people around me, and I'm ready to do whatever the fuck I want, when I want.

I think I was in denial for a really long time. I turned 18 and nothing changed so I thought. But it did. I grew out of so much. Especially my boyfriend, unfortunately. Though we're the same age, I just found him to be too young for me. He hasn't figured out anything in his life yet, and he's so scattered and confused. I'm not saying that I'm not, but I feel like I have a very calm head on my shoulders, and I know what I want.

I guess that's actually the main difference. I KNOW what I want. He has no fucking clue. It's sad, but we've drifted too far apart. I respect him, I love him and above all I want to be his friend. We've agreed to that and taken out the obligation of a relationship. I think that's the best possible thing we could have done for each other. I'm finally at peace with this. I'm so happy that he agreed to it.

Well, I must learn to love, let go, and it he comes back... Hell who knows, we might have stumbled onto the same path again.

Until then...

~ No she doesn't see~

Random Thoughts On The Midnight Train

I don't know where to start. I've been gone the last while. Lost in a land of stress.

I'm here now.

I don't know where here is.

I'm having a hard time typing. My hands are shaking.

I miss my boy.

I want to talk.

I'm slowly going crazy.

My mind is a cataclysm.

Go me. I can spell.

Good night subjective perverted world.

Sleep in peace.

Eric Clapton, I love you.

S.O. S.

Physical Condition: Sore hips, sore head, sick stomach, disoriented, awake, really tired.
Mental Condition: Confused and afraid.
Music: I Want To Tell You - The Beatles.
Food: No Thanks.
Drink: Coffee.
Current Thoughts: Oh god. What now?

These last few days have passed like something out of an amazing dream that is (in reality) a nightmare.

I don't know how to explain it. I guess it would be summarized by TOO MUCH SUBSTANCE. So I guess I gotta clean it up. I've done so many reckless things these past few days. I've broken promises to myself, I've shared experiences with people without even thinking about after effects, and I've literally just let go, to see what happens.

What happens is you essentially can not distinguish between your real feelings and your drug addled feelings. You may do something that you normally wouldn't be comfortable doing without so much as even a second thought. You will look back at this experience, and go, "Wow, that was amazing, we didn't even decide to do that, we just did." and not even care. Life just seems to random and different.

As disgusting as I feel, I believe I've learned something these past few days. Sometimes it's better to let go and see what happens. Start again from scratch. Just do everything, and when a bad experience crosses your path, learn from it. When a good one does, learn from it, grow, and possibly repeat it. Never question any of your experiences. They are unique only to you. Live life, and learn from it. Do not fear it. Do no judge before first hand knowledge is applied, and always ask questions when curious.

This is the beginning of Spring Break, and unlike the rest of the teenage populace, I actually do not believe I will be partying the whole time. I've gotten enough of that the past few days. I don't feel the need to get that done anymore as I've done it so much this past week, Hell, actually, this past month. I apologize to myself for all the abuse. It was unnecessary. I don't much care about the condition of my body, but when both my mind and my body are under constant attack, it's time to fix it.

Tomorrow will be a day of hard work and reflection.

I realize now that I don't need you. I want you to be there for me, I want you to trust me, and I want to be friends with you still. I want to know you. You, however, have made it apparent that this cannot be for now. I want you to know that I care about you and I want you to know that if you need me, I'll be there for you. We're done now though. I see that. And you want to portray that. I'm fine with it.

I'm going to let life write itself now. I don't know what that's going to entail, but I'm excited to see.

I guess it means that I have to take precautions to make sure I stay alive long enough to let it write itself.

--Joi

Little Black Room

Time: 9:40 am.
Music: Wait And Bleed - Slipknot.
Mood: Dead.
Physical Condition: Wish I was in a coma.
Current Thoughts: Why is this such a mess?

I am in a cold black room, there is no sound in or out. There is merely no presence of light. Inky blackness, no more, no less. This is a small room, maybe five feet wide and 7 feet tall. The walls are lined with meticulously sharpened daggers, each four inches from another. There is only enough room to stand still. Any movement causes the daggers to stab me, causing blood loss and fatigue.

I am tired.
I'm so tired.

All I am able to do day to day is stand. I am ignorant as to how long I have been here. All I know is that I am here, standing in the black. I know about the daggers for I have bumped into them in moments of weakness. Moments where I feel I can no longer stand, and must rest, no matter what the cost. The temptation of the walls, of a moments rest becomes so overwhelming. All I want is that break. So I finally take it, and I get hurt.

I try so hard.
I'm losing.

I've been fighting for so long. I don't know how long, but its been so very long. I've been fighting the impulses to fall, fighting the fatigue of standing for so long. For exerting myself so much. I've been trying so hard not to injure myself. Not to fall onto those daggers. No sleeping, crouching, leaning.

How long have I been here?

My eyes are heavy. I sometimes wonder if I even have eyes anymore. It doesn't seem to me I do. There is no difference between having them open and closed. They no longer even itch if I leave them open. I wonder if perhaps I am blind. And that this room is no darker than the sunny side of heaven. I am somehow disinclined to believe that, but I have no way of disproving it. All I know is I can no longer see.

Claustrophobia.

It feels like the walls are closing in on me. It's hard to breathe. I'm panicking, and in doing so, I am repeatedly stabbing myself on the daggers surrounding my dark prison. After trying so hard for so long, I've become so tired and so weak that I can no longer hold myself up. I've used up the last of my energy fighting for consciousness. Though I can not see them I am anticipating the sting of the daggers. Any moment now.

I laugh.

As the cold metal bites through my skin I am laughing.
The lights come on. I am laughing.
Blood pours from my multiple wounds, and I am laughing.

This is the first time I've seen the light, felt real, and been warm for who knows how long. I can't remember. Of course I have no way of knowing.

I am dead.

Stirring The Pot

I am sitting in the bath tub, eyeing the hot water. I do not understand why, but for some reason I feel I must stick my face below the water and submerge my ears, like I did as a child. I can't remember why. I just want to. I close my eyes, take a deep breath and submerge my head. The water rushes into my ears, deafening me to world around me. I am blind because I have closed my eyes. I feel nothing but comforting warmth. I drift.

I awake in my bed. This is the third night in a row. It's 3:12am. As usual. It's always the same time, but never three nights in a row. I don't understand. I peel back the covers and sit up in my bed, feet resting inches above the icy floorboards. I am six years old.

There are noises coming from the kitchen, and I can tell the lights are on even through the towel shoved under my door.

I have come to associate a towel placed under a door with covering an unpleasant scent. I'm not sure what it is, but I know that the fumes can't be good for me.

I hear noises coming from my kitchen.

Cautiously I slide out of bed, taking care not to upset the dollhouse by my closet or the tower of blocks by my desk. My mother told me to clean my room, but that was a week ago. I never got to it, and I don't plan on doing it anytime soon. Whenever I clean my room I find that, well, I simply can not find. Everything is missing. I can never tell where exactly I put everything. I can never remember. Sometimes I wonder why my short term memory is so bad. I wonder if it has anything to do with the fumes creeping under my door.

My door is creaky. I know this because it has a bad habit of getting me in trouble when I don't want to be heard. Three weeks ago I figured out that if you apply enough pressure to the hinges, the door opens silent, like a ghost.

I am a ghost. Dressed in a small white night gown, long curly hair rolling down my back, I glide breathlessly through my door and down the hallway. I take refuge from the fumes in the washroom, closing the door completely and blocking it out with a towel. The washroom is safe because it has a lock. I figure that no one can harm me in there because no one can open the lock.

The noises in the kitchen stop. A knock sounds upon the door.

"Jennifer, are you in there?"

"Yes dad!"

"What are you doing up? It's late and you have school in the morning. Get to bed." I can tell that he is angry with me. He doesn't want anyone to see what he's doing, because what he is doing is bad. I may not know much, but I know that if you're awake at three in the morning filling your house with fumes, you're doing something bad and secret that you don't want anyone knowing about. I believe it is secret, because he only does it in the dead of night. I can't be sure though. I hate my curiosity.

"I'm sorry dad, I woke up and needed to use the washroom." I lie.

"Well in that case it's fine," he grumbled, "could you go out there and stir that pot for a moment then while you're up? I need to use the washroom as well, and I can't leave it sitting."

"Yes dad."

Finally my curiosity will have an answer. I will know the image of the source of the fumes. I will know where they come from, and maybe if I'm lucky, what it is."

The stench is foul. I stand on a chair in front of my stove stirring the pot. There is a thin green liquid inside. The source of the smell. It reminds me of rubbing alcohol, but with something different to it. Rubbing alcohol isn't bright green. Once again I am so confused and curious.

My father emerges from the restroom, eyes red and puffy from being exposed to the fumes for too long. "Get to bed." He snarls.

"Dad, what's in the pot?" I ask.

"It's daddy's medicine kid, now beat it." He scolds as he cuffs me in the ear.

I have two daddy's. Night daddy and day daddy. Day daddy lasts from eight in the morning until six in the evening. Day daddy reads to me, plays with me, and makes me laugh. Night daddy likes to hit and yell. I don't like night daddy. Sometimes they trade times. But not often. Tonight I am not so fortunate.

I leave the kitchen in tears, humiliated that he scolded me and hit me even after I helped him with his medicine. All I did was ask one question. I don't understand why being curious is so wrong. I have come to believe that daddy likes his medicine more than he likes me. He spends so much time making it and preparing it. He never scolds it or strikes in. He never gets mad at it or throws it against the wall. He must love it more than he loves me.

I often wonder why I am not good enough to be loved. If mommy and daddy loved me, would they continue to ignore me so? If mommy and daddy loved me wouldn't they hate each other less. I do not sleep much. I lie awake and wonder why my parents don't love me, and why they love their medicine so much. It hurts me to know that I am always second. I am six. I am a child. They should love me. I am life, whereas the medicine reeks of death.

I close my door and leave my lights out. There are things far more frightening than the dark. I don't fear the dark, I embrace it. It makes it harder for night daddy to find me. It makes it easier to hide. I love the dark. I return to bed and cry myself to sleep.

Tomorrow I get to pretend nothing happened and that I'm just a normal grade one student with a normal life. I will call my nights horrible dreams if asked, and I will never tell because I still love them.

I often wonder why.

I raise my head out of the water to take a breath and then submerge it once again. Like I did as a child, only now I remember why I did this.

I can still hear my mother screaming and the crunch of a body against cement.

The hot water masks my tears.