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[22 Dec 2010|11:02am]
Part of this difficult anxiety development is having to face the demons. These tiny, involuntary spasms of doubt that find their way to my surface. so much so, its painful. my fingertips are sore from merely typing. my legs and arms, lined with a painful tickle that is far from a comfortable giggle. The pangs of panic - run - while stationary at my desk cause a real conflict in adrenaline within me.

Jane Kenyon personified her depression and made it a person, pressing hard against her as she lay helpless in a cradle. I like metaphors. Thus, this cloak of fear was pressed upon me at a young age.
2 !@#$%^s| Start living

Mustwrite [22 Oct 2010|09:38pm]
This is going to be a hardly organic experience, but I gotta do it. I always look back to past years/entries and am so happy I captured certain experiences and thankful for my perseverance in autobiographical-meganjargan-journalism. I will always have these entries.

Today I really felt depressed for about 30 minutes on an evening drive home. This isn't a bad thing. I've been treated for a little over 6 months now, between psychiatrists and starting new therapy next month. This sounds like a lot, and I actually should be doing more. I faced some severe panic attacks once I graduated college, completely debilitating, mind fucking attacks that resulted in a hard blow to my self confidence and overall well being. I continued to work, I have a pretty rad gig at a publishing company, but I became a really boxed in person. To work and home. To work and home. Anything else just made me so dizzy and overwhelmed. This sucked, and currently sucks, but I am hoping this is just a college-to-work transition side effect that will direct me in a path to greater self discovery and a more well rounded attitude toward mental disorders, towards people, towards life in general. I have gained a lot out of this experience, and I have come a long way in 6 months. This sounds like a very short amount of time, but living with this disorder is literally a minute at a time battle. Learning to be open and taking strides to be healthy is something I've been taking really seriously. Having said that, I do slip of course. There are days I am completely self-indulgent, sometimes cruel to myself, and can I just say I'e been having a really freak streak with watching horror movies lately. I blame the meds. Theyve made me a little desensitized to things, thus I seek out stirring things to evoke emotion.

God damn I need to go back to school.

But first I must relearn how to LJ write. I've done nothing in here today but run-ons and partial thoughts. Theres just so much to cover since I've really sat down and went for it in this white space. White space. I used an adjective.

Poetry may take a bit longer to get back into.

Where was I going with this.
I was depressed today, because, A) when doesn't autumn make people depressed, it's the season that brings sheer happiness and utter melancholy on the same playing field. B) I knew I was driving home to be alone. I recently broke up with my boyfriend of a year and I have learned how fucking important it is to let go and be independent, but when it all comes down to it a sunday night is just so much better as a cuddle session. someone to bounce to echo. but other than that, fuck it. C) Cunt.

Day 1 - hooray.
1 !@#$%^| Start living

[15 Oct 2010|02:08pm]
Being young is an awesome justification for fucking, being fucked and getting fucked up. “You’re only young once” is a line I use to silence the nagging thoughts resonating in my mind about the person I have been, or can surely become. I like to imagine ways to justify my behavior to any type of critic. Rehearse the cunning relays to a quick question from a potential defender. Perhaps the largest defender is just myself, a deeply rooted plant of goodness inside me urging me to reevaluate my relationships, my actions.

I think this is why I’m afraid to touch the word document. In it, I’m encouraging every shred of myself to move to the front and participate. Urging the thoughts to find their voices.

If I were any type of artist I would be Matisse. He feared his craziness, though he knew he needed it to unearth his passions onto canvas. He painted only in day time, reveled in its safe sunlight and conventional work day routines. He used color as his muse, mixing the brightest, thickest color companies to employ a sense of happiness he may or may not have ever had. Basically, he painted the score of a happy life’s orchestra that was so far from his. An imposter of some regard, because I’m sure deep down he knew the flushing blues were really his calling. I retract the statement that I am like Matisse, which is way too conceited. His artistic prowess is moon-jumps beyond me, but he’s one of the few great artistic masters I feel I can identify with on an emotional level.
Start living

When I tend to forget. [16 Feb 2010|11:28pm]
Having it Out with Melancholy


When I was born, you waited
behind a pile of linen in the nursery,
and when we were alone, you lay down
on top of me, pressing
the bile of desolation into every pore.

And from that day on
everything under the sun and moon
made me sad -- even the yellow
wooden beads that slid and spun
along a spindle on my crib.

You taught me to exist without gratitude.
You ruined my manners toward God:
"We're here simply to wait for death;
the pleasures of earth are overrated."

I only appeared to belong to my mother,
to live among blocks and cotton undershirts
with snaps; among red tin lunch boxes
and report cards in ugly brown slipcases.
I was already yours -- the anti-urge,
the mutilator of souls.


Elavil, Ludiomil, Doxepin,
Norpramin, Prozac, Lithium, Xanax,
Wellbutrin, Parnate, Nardil, Zoloft.
The coated ones smell sweet or have
no smell; the powdery ones smell
like the chemistry lab at school
that made me hold my breath.


You wouldn't be so depressed
if you really believed in God.


Often I go to bed as soon after dinner
as seems adult
(I mean I try to wait for dark)
in order to push away
from the massive pain in sleep's
frail wicker coracle.


Once, in my early thirties, I saw
that I was a speck of light in the great
river of light that undulates through time.

I was floating with the whole
human family. We were all colors -- those
who are living now, those who have died,
those who are not yet born. For a few

moments I floated, completely calm,
and I no longer hated having to exist.

Like a crow who smells hot blood
you came flying to pull me out
of the glowing stream.
"I'll hold you up. I never let my dear
ones drown!" After that, I wept for days.


The dog searches until he finds me
upstairs, lies down with a clatter
of elbows, puts his head on my foot.

Sometimes the sound of his breathing
saves my life -- in and out, in
and out; a pause, a long sigh. . . .


A piece of burned meat
wears my clothes, speaks
in my voice, dispatches obligations
haltingly, or not at all.
It is tired of trying
to be stouthearted, tired
beyond measure.

We move on to the monoamine
oxidase inhibitors. Day and night
I feel as if I had drunk six cups
of coffee, but the pain stops
abruptly. With the wonder
and bitterness of someone pardoned
for a crime she did not commit
I come back to marriage and friends,
to pink fringed hollyhocks; come back
to my desk, books, and chair.


Pharmaceutical wonders are at work
but I believe only in this moment
of well-being. Unholy ghost,
you are certain to come again.

Coarse, mean, you'll put your feet
on the coffee table, lean back,
and turn me into someone who can't
take the trouble to speak; someone
who can't sleep, or who does nothing
but sleep; can't read, or call
for an appointment for help.

There is nothing I can do
against your coming.
When I awake, I am still with thee.


High on Nardil and June light
I wake at four,
waiting greedily for the first
note of the wood thrush. Easeful air
presses through the screen
with the wild, complex song
of the bird, and I am overcome

by ordinary contentment.
What hurt me so terribly
all my life until this moment?
How I love the small, swiftly
beating heart of the bird
singing in the great maples;
its bright, unequivocal eye.

Jane Kenyon
Start living

Sheepish [23 Aug 2009|12:36pm]
Scattered thunderstorm days give the earth a piercing radiance. The tree looks alarmingly green against the warring blue sky. There exists a feeling of something brewing.
My bunny is pregnant and nestled in her hut about to have babies. I feel so guilty about this and hope she's not in pain. There is something really bizarre about reproduction.
I go back to school for the last semester in roughly a week; mixed feelings.
I'm mildly hungover today.
My room is comprised of life stitchings from this entire year and I can barely find my underwear in this mess.
I was drawn to this journal minutes ago with no real subject, so this is me recording a random Saturday.
3 !@#$%^s| Start living

sucks [22 Jul 2009|08:19pm]
I don't know what I was thinking when I opted to bang out biology over the summer. I've never taken an intensive course and so far it's bruising me. I think my largest frustration is the speed and shape of the course, knowing every moment is crucial and every ounce of lecture I will be tested on leaves zero room for breathing. I find myself dizzy and anxious within the first 10 minutes of the day, I leave and literally have to go into a coma before resuming my day because I am so overloaded. Tests are laced with cramming and crying, labs are rushed and unorganized. I feinted today.

I didn't have an exciting college experience, its been really messy and confusing and ultimately a really lonely experience, but through it all I've managed to excel everywhere I've studied. I deserve to say that at least. I think knowing that this lagging gen ed course is going to give my GPA a nosedive is really fucking with me. I don't care, a B won't do, and I know that makes me sound ridiculous, but it's been my one goal throughout these past 4 years; prove to yourself that you can get A's despite your mental barriers.

This is all me. I can't blame or rely on any other factors. I'm hovering. This is what happens when I face a truth: maybe I really am not smart.
1 !@#$%^| Start living

[17 Jul 2009|01:55am]
I found an old literary magazine in my aunt's collection. Every time I visit her piles of things left untouched in her former sanctuary I begin to feel the welt on my throat, like I'm being choked. I peer to find some kind of connection to her, which always seems to magnetize once you've lost someone. You realize the parts you didn't appreciate, you feel a deeper bond though ironically that bond is exponentially more shallow, it's gone.

The magazine was published through a school she attended, complete with amateur drawings and poetry. I felt it was only necessary to make a drink and sit with this compilation for as long as I needed to.

There is something so depressing about reading a once-sparked passion ignited on a page and knowing that the creator has died.
Start living

[07 Jul 2009|10:55am]
I got dumped.
It hurts.
1 !@#$%^| Start living

Observations [28 Jun 2009|08:09pm]
No matter how often I clean my room, things are never tidy. I believe this is because my mind is never tidy; I'm a messy person literally and figuratively. Tonight I realize that the reason I can't keep things in a neat space and have trash bags of things to toss just about every week is because important belongings to me are not material, but rather experimental, resting in the quiet corners of my mind as apposed to framed and placed on my desk.

My mother asked me a while ago what possessions I have that I actually care about- I believe this was a stab at my inability to take care of things- but I didn't really have an answer, except for my journals, which are dwindling as electronic writing replaces them by the day.

Don't get me wrong, I have stuff, but I could definitely live without this stuff, which is evident in the way my room looks all the time. The pile of things I regret buying are tangible, and pile of non-regret purchases are invisible, like all my dmb concerts; meaningful experiences I wouldn't regret spending money on in a second.

On that note I am seriously looking forward to seeing Incubus in August from the PIT, they are the most poetic band to experience.

Start a grueling summer class tomorrow.
I'm feeling pretty low tonight.
4 !@#$%^s| Start living

[20 Jun 2009|01:46am]
I had a minor-to-major meltdown today as I was forced (by my internal) to confront my life long best friend about his sexual orientation. While the conversation ended pretty unresolved, I still felt some pressure lifted, and some hope for a more open future. I felt very selfish today putting him in such a position, like who am I to make him feel like he owes an explanation for his sexuality? On the reverse end, I think I took a huge step forward on the path of maturity by being so vulnerable and confronting him. Amazing how admiting to vulnerability somehow equates to "grown-up".

What a complicated matter sexual orientation is, namely, having to talk and analyze something that feels natural.

I think that is our future here: taking the natural and making it complicated, into terms, and theories, because it keeps people confused and open to interpretation, which we need in a society that thrives on overwhelming stimuli. We can't rest; we can't be bored. We need to keep the emotional ball rolling.

Anyway. Carrie Bradshaw makes late-night blogging look so seamless. I think I will retire here.
1 !@#$%^| Start living

Rain [14 Jun 2009|09:58am]
Today I'm hardened with a shell of depression. What is keeping me from breaking out, moving on, trying? I don't know if it's sheer intimidation, or fear, that keeps me in this crowded bubble, latching onto gross familiarity, and new men to dote on me to remind me I'm worth something. Why can't I just be satisfied alone?

None of this came from thin air. It brewed from seeing him again. The one guy who I feel most like myself with, and most flawful with. It's a horrifyingly realistic place. He illuminates my flaws, but also makes me feel like I'm appreciated for things no one else will ever understand.

Emotional unavailability left us in this divided cell; a world of our own laced with graceful text messages and moon sharing, though we both know we can't thrive off either. We just live out our days without eachother but share some jarring connection that reminds me every day how I'll never be complete without his voice in the back of mind bouncing my echo.

I feel like I have no sense of self in days like these, like I have no idea who I am, what I want, or what I am doing. Do I write poetry, or hoetry that embodies what everyone else has already said. Do I write to execute or for publicity? I'm about to graduate college and don't even know if I like my major. I went to three different schools, all of which I liked and hated. I feel like I could be dropped anywhere and fit in; an aspect about myself I used to think was cool, now I fear it means I have zero sense of self and can conform to anything. I don't know what I believe in, I don't know if I ever loved.

If I am floating in this universe for a purpose, I've yet to find it. I know this is the brutal art of life, and I'm still young, but I doubt that my fulfillment of any goal will come out of being stuck in my mothers house and writing on livejournal.
2 !@#$%^s| Start living

[01 Jun 2009|07:22pm]
10 years.
And I grow enough balls to send him an email.
I say, it's been a while. how are you.
he says, hello. i bought a new car.
such topics eat a reunion and shit out resentment.
10 years.
1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10
new years days tricking myself into resolutions.
ten greedy winters, hiding in a depressive sweater
ten graceful summers, assigning skin a new color,
a true italian, nothing like my mother.
a virginity taken,
a stepfather burried,
my anxiety, fists of popping explosives.
ten years without a father's voice
to backhand my morals
and remind me what selfish means.
Start living

These are the things. [24 May 2009|09:23pm]
My sisters pinning from the dental hygiene program was Tuesday, a very personal and beautiful ceremony. Joey pinned her on stage; the whole thing was obviously very ceremonial and for the purpose of family. Just being able to conceptualize her experience from the inner network of other couragous students I finally had a face to match to their names really meant something. I have never been so proud of someone, I just wanted to burst with tears. I held back, for Jens sake, she was so nervous and just wanted it to be over. I cried on the way home like a baby.

Yesterday I had her graduation party and I can't believe how amazing it was. Hosting a huge party, seriously, from brainstorm beginnings, to invites, to food, to phone calls, to horrendous BJ's runs, to set up was an anxiety attack waiting to boil, and it did about three nights before the party. Thank man-made god for ativan. Anyway. The party was so good! Bonfire, keg, paper lights!, family, my homemade sangria, lots of food, just wonderful. Twenty cups of my sangria-o-death coupled with family shared joints made this morning brutal (an understatement).

I'm thrilled for everyone else who has been celebrating their vast college graduation achievements recently. Sometimes I sit and just ponder how amazing all of my friends are, and their successess and life stories make me really proud to say I know them. Congrats everyone, from the quiet corners of my heart and mind.
Start living

Poe-ums [12 May 2009|07:39pm]
Poetry updates...

I got 3 of my poems published in the yearly literary journal The Onyx. I'm mostly content that "Pendulum" has a home now; I've held it for a good year and it's been rejected four times, and it's honestly one of my closest poems.

I wrote and illustrated a collection of my poems via InDesign. As a project for graphic design, the task was both tedious and enlightening. I'm glad for the experience, and to have been able to conceptualize my poems into designs. But I must say, I am SO technologically unsavvy! The software outstanded me and I spent dayssssssss in that studio learning the tricks. Another topic for another day.

I received the judges notes for my 3rd place poem in the Sparrow competition which was VERY unexpected and her observations were wonderfully sharp and deep. The audience responded well to the reading, I really enjoy reading for an audience and look foward to working on that craft. A poem really takes on a new life in spoken word, and after working so closely with my poems it feels like a priviledge to be able to deliver them...and LIBERATING.

June 6th I'll be reading at the Salem Arts Festival, and get to crash with the seminar alumni for the night. Really looking forward to that, I missed my people.

Onto another...
Start living

[05 May 2009|11:58pm]
This semester really and truly kicked my white ass.
Start living

[13 Apr 2009|11:53pm]
Well today I was notified that my poem won 3rd place in the annual Marjorie Sparrow Award for poetry. I'll be reading at the writers reception thursday afternoon at Framingham State.

Very humbled.

"A Practical Approach"

I’m asked how I perceive visual stimuli.
To ask inward, do I see with eyes, or feel with eyes?

A homeless woman pushes a carriage of cans;
I envision her in earlier years fighting a relentless drug czar,
her weary eyes a reflection of failed triumph.

Such over-examination, they say, defines my sadness,
where it comes from, how it grows.

Not fleeting sadness, reserved for street rejections.
Not the sadness of farewells, dwelling in nostalgic contexts.

But the kind that feels, being in itself,
an innermost factory, pulsing, producing

the film on the eyes, the woven fingerprint,
a clairvoyant empathy toward anonymous subjects.
Start living

Wondering [07 Apr 2009|01:06am]
I've got the cat rubbing against me as I fidget to type. His purring is nice, at least; when do we ever get the chance to hear comfort, in it's purest form, without the cognitive noise that accompanies human comfort?

I want to remember what life felt like before I knew I had the ability to feel it.
Start living

[26 Mar 2009|05:41pm]
I bought a Rod Stewart cd the other day for no reason other than to quench some nostalgic thirst, to touch upon a simpler time in my life.

So Rod Stewart, wafting from the speakers, poignant childhood recollections spiraling into an orchestra I could embrace, or avoid, with one earnest fast-forward press. I remembered having feelings of intense anger toward someone once, and my mother told me to avoid a rash confrontation with that person and instead write in a journal every single thing I felt without any filter. She told me to write it as a letter, addressed to that person, then to throw it away, or save it but don't share it. I can remember sitting red-faced and sob soaked digging my pen to the paper and writing every swear word I knew in my journal. While those feelings wouldn't be exposed, I did feel quite a release. Essentially my mother introduced me to the use of writing as an outlet, and to embrace the privilege of having a soul of my own, one I could hide in whenever I wanted to. While her advice was quite powerful, I think it may have hindered me in later years from confronting people I was really upset with, and enabled me to hide in anonymous journals. Something to consider as I reflect upon some of the relationships I've had recently that went to shit- most of their demise I think can be attributed to our indirect language with eachother, and me brewing resentment for the other person not already knowing how I felt.

So Rod Stewart, Maggie May, a song my mom used to sing to me often as a kid, especially to wake up in the morning, as the recurring line is "wake up maggie". But while childhood was more simple, I think it was more painful in a sense that any feeling I experienced (anxiety, fear) was alarmingly scary and without explanation. I was not exposed to the attempted rationale for emotions that I have come to know so intimately in my 20's. Instead it was just me, a child floating in the universe, experiencing what only felt like a foreign pain then.

Just a recent observation of mine.
Start living

[15 Feb 2009|11:07pm]
I am so sickly nostalgic today. Today I went to a 2 year olds birthday, who is the son of my girlfriend of ten years. A few of the girls I went to high school with were there with their new babies, and I couldn't help but sit back and observe the changes life brings that really sneak up while you're busy making other plans (Lennon). I felt really happy for my friend, proud to be her friend, her unconventional path of life and all the things she's accomplished to become the strong woman she is.

I'm enveloped in the memories of four years ago, an era of my life prior to college that brings me both serious happiness and underlying sadness for all the unnecessary pressure I voluntarily hid beneath. I feel as though life happens in big chunky phases, and in every phase, there is a current or distant issue to be examined and over-analyzed. And once the phase dissolves, retrospective analysis seems so fresh and easy. and damn it for thoughts being so fluid when you don't need them to be.

Coincidentally I'm thinking about senior year of high school as I'm in my senior year of college. The difference in environment is certainly stark, high school was entirely more emotional and associated with farewells and detachment of familiarity, whereas college is just a really interesting portion of my existence that I can't quite put into words. I really don't know what I've been doing for the past 4 years but fucking up and getting fucked. There are a few monumental experiences I've had since college began but they aren't related to any one place, rather they hover above a timeline that doesn't have a clear location. What I mean is that I've never had a second place, a discovered homeland that comes with moving away to school. I've gone away on hopeful sprees to new places but always ended up back on Flynn Ave, back to the same deep inadequacies that live in these walls, the trusty dysfunction that stems from loving my mother in the darkest, most desperate way a person can ever love someone.

I just really miss, or at least would like to remember how good it felt to be allowed to be unaware, and to experiment, and to dip into alternate waters for a chance to find something. drugs, groups, music, jobs, these aspects of life were interchangeable and it was acceptable to piss through them. I feel as though every year of my life is a step toward a necessary establishment. I'm frowned at when I don't have a defined rationale for why I'm getting this particular degree. I catch myself judging others more and more and actively have to slap and remind myself of how wrong it is. But maybe that is the common thread throughout life, and as you grow older you just learn to the art of bullshitted confidence. Another phase I suppose.

I don't know that I'd want to figure myself out. Much of everyone's life I think revolves around trying to understand what we are made of, what we can be, why we function. But if I had the chance to be told by some spiritual being exactly what it all means I think I'd decline. I think the point of the hurt, the smile and the unappreciated sunrise is this innate chase to find our purpose.

All in all,this entry is nothing. I miss Nick a lot.
Start living

I may, or may not regret such self-disclosure. [25 Jan 2009|09:28pm]
Sunday evenings invite a feeling of wholesome wind-down.

When I sit down and talk to my grandmother about my life, my ideas and my relationships, she has a really genuine empathy. Her experiences, though dated and from a different generation, somehow offer a level of ease for my worries about the life I'm leading. All of her experiences with men, however, end with their passing, and she has a moment of reflective solitude, and it's almost as if I can see her remembering their first kiss, their first gut laugh with each other, and then a sigh of appreciation and utter marvel for biology's indifferent life course.

Much of who I am as a young woman is compared to a hypothetical me; who I would be had my father been a part of it at all. As I get older, I see myself observing daughter-father relationships with a level of ignorance, I can't seem to grasp what that type of relationship really feels like. What could have been. The woman I would be with a guiding father. I am much more emotionless than my sister is; she battles with an inner rage toward the misfortune of being raised by a single mother. And while we honor my mother for all her graceful and selfless years of our upbringing, there is still a dark corner tucked away for the resentment of not being protected. My sister's teenage pregnancy can be directed to the lack of supervision and utter confusion of being a young woman essentially on her own. Much of my critical paranoia about death and separation can be largely attributed to a fathers absense.

My relationships with men have been an on-going saga since I hit puberty. Romance novels and the mature marriage pursuits have intriguied me and enveloped me since it was socially acceptable to be dating. I've opened myself up, dared myself, mistreated myself, hurt myself and scarred myself on the plunge of various relationships. There are no regrets here - simply experimental etchings on my young soul and mind. I am asked often if I am searching for the qualities lacking in my father, and if I could seriously admitt to even knowing him then that could be the case, but I only know the in-and-outs of my fathers mental disorder, his painful attempts to be caring, and his involuntary submission to his own issues.

I've been communicating with people about their relationships with their fathers and taking personal notes on some observations in public places to help my personal goal to writing a book on "the fatherless tribe". Growing up without a father is an all too familiar story for our generation, where divorce and even a father's death seems a more common occurance over an enduring marriage. But what are young girls really missing from having a father? What is it about this peculiar opposite-sex void that leads many females along the same troublesome route of relationship issues... we are among the same fatherless tribe, with most likely the same questions about ourselves and our indentities.
4 !@#$%^s| Start living

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