14,932

Ways to fall. . .according to Radiolab. . .

That seems ridiculously overestimated. . .but at the same time, I totally believe it, especially with the way nearly everything I do feels like it could be or should be described by or along side of that word. Fall.

Every other routine action--out of bed, in the shower, down the stairs, to class, back into bed--I'm falling. Every other metaphor for how I see my situation--in a well, through black space, into a trance, down--I'm falling. Every other feeling, worry, realization, or emotion I have--ill, off the radar, apart, short, through the cracks, out with, over, under, catch me I'm (such a good soundtrack)--I'm still falling. And, of course, this past weekend I fell once more (because clearly I'm not doing it enough), back through time, no less.

It's sort of weird to consider, I think. . .falling. . .no matter what the meaning of it. Because people almost always know what you mean regardless of the context. It's a feeling of no control. And of not always being certain if that not knowing is good or if it is bad. And I'm not sure we ever really figure it out until it's over. Even with things like falling in love (which seems to be one of the only most common types of falling I'm not experiencing, but I think I need to be thankful for that since it can really only end in more disaster for someone like me) and falling off of a building, which appear easily classified as good and bad respectively (unless you're me and falling off of a building or the like sounds unsettlingly attractive), you can't really be sure until it's over. Until you've found true love or had your heart broken. Until you've survived somehow or died somehow (and it's still anybody's guess which of those outcomes is best).

And I guess that's what's so frustrating right now. Not knowing. Not knowing anything or if I know anything or when or if I'll ever know anything. And it's crazy because this. . .this nothing I know. . .this nothing I feel, am, see, have, want, need for sure. . .it's so much. That makes no sense. . .

Okay. . .okay. . .this is getting too hipster now (see also). . .I hate having so much trouble making sense of what's happening with me. Bah, humbug. . .

Falling out,

-Daisy

PS - So good to know, Vi, really. . .just wish I were sure that this is a permanent setup, if you know what I mean. Don't feel bad though. Also, I'm sure if you just keep snapping your bagels and being yourself, someone will show you that it's not too much to ask for someone to love you. Until then (and after, of course), I'll be here, loving you in the way that's not quite what you need, finding you so beautiful. . .you know. . .

But I am les tired. . .

Daisy, you may be so low (and don't for one second forget how low I am as well), but you're not riding so low.

Everyone else out there,

Sorry it's been a while. My schedule has been thrown off, but that's no excuse because when is one's schedule not thrown off for some reason or another. Who am I kidding?

I had a bad, lonely Halloween. But I've been better since then because of a guy. It's mostly in my head, but I think I'm getting somewhere with him. You know. . .I just want someone to love me. Is that too much to ask for? (don't answer that, please.) That has put my head up somewhat higher. Somewhere where I can see all the pain I am, but not quite feel it.

As I was explaining to Daisy earlier, I feel exhausted. . . but that doesn't really sum it all up. I feel drained, used up (but not in a good way. . .is there a good way?). I was always tired. For at least the last six years, if you were to ever ask me how I was, you would have gotten some form of the response "tired."

There are wrinkles on my forehead.
My feet are bleeding.
I am losing my appetite.
My back hurts.

I'm 18. Who is my body kidding? This isn't fair.

I apologize for the brief nature and skimpy substance of this post. The lethargy has moved to my mind, down to my fingers, and onto this blog.

Peace and Blessings, Peace and Blessings,

Vi

Orca

I'm not sure when this became a solo (like S-O-LO, you know? Jason does. . .although, my own situation is no where near as upbeat) production, but I feel like it's because this blog is a sort of outlet in times of complete misery, and, fortunately, Vi is not so miserable as I'm used to seeing her (not that I actually get to see her) as of recent. . .or, at least, not so miserable enough as to need it. If that's the case, I'll gladly put on my shades to cover up my eyes, buy one of those spiky jackets, and ride solo from now on or as often as I need to. Something good for you is good for both of us, capisce, donna?

Anyway, as per usual and as can be expected after my pointing out when this blog seems to be most needed, I have minimal to no positive things to talk about, so, in order to "mix it up", I'm going to go at explaining it in a slightly different but still pathetic way. . .hope your selves have been braced. . .

Okay, well. . .since arriving here, I've been thinking a lot about my life when I was younger, and, recently (as in last night), I stumbled across a memory of my seven- or eight-year-old self taking swimming lessons at the high school.

I think I liked learning how to swim. . .maybe. . .but I specifically remember one activity that I absolutely loathed: water polo. (Or, at least, the modified version we'd play in the deep end every so often.) I'm not sure if I can really say that it was the game itself I hated so much as I'm not sure I ever really understood how to play it. No, my issue with it was that it required that I be able to see and react to what was going on around me in ways I didn't need to during normal lessons.

The thing is that, at this time, I had already acquired my glasses, but it would be years until my first pair of contacts. So, unlike in lessons where I could manage without my lenses by listening and by peering at my instructors and lesson mates, while playing water polo, I was completely lost.

I couldn't see the kick boards we were (apparently) supposed to hit with a ball (that I also couldn't see). I couldn't see my teammates or anyone else in the pool, for that matter. And, to top it off, I could barely stay afloat as treading water become increasingly difficult as one (or maybe just me) enters a minor state of panic due to lack of comprehension.

I was blind, and I was drowning. . .

Being here in Minnesota, even now that I have the promise that I'll be leaving for good in less than fifty days (can I get a "halleluurrrjj-yah"!? and not the almost overdone Jeff Buckley version. . .though, that one is pretty enough to earn a link, I think), has felt and continues to feel like drowning. And the only way I can see that feeling going away is if I leave. . .if I get out of the pool. . .so I guess it's good that I'm doing that soon. . .

But, while here, I've. . .discovered(?) a lot of things too. Rattling things. About myself. . .my life. . .the people I know. . .the people I don't know. . .and I guess that's what's "supposed" to happen during this "phase" of a life like mine, but it. . .all I've found. . .exposed. . .but not necessarily "figured out". . .it feels like a hell of a lot. Almost like I dipped into other phases and found out extra things. . .things I didn't need to know. Things I wasn't ready to know. And all of that. . .makes me feel like I'm blind again. But, different from swimming lessons, getting out of the pool--or, in this case, leaving Minnesota--doesn't seem like it'll also be enough to clear things up for me again. I can't see this feeling going away. . .I can't see at all, to be honest. . .being blind an all. . .

I should be happy.

Or, just. . .happier, maybe.

Maybe.

-Daisy

PS - I apologize for the lack of sense this post title makes, but it is what it is. . .let it mean what you want, I guess. Or just let it mean killer whale. . .

"There sure are a lot of bridges in this town. . ."

Tell me about it, sister o' mine. . .

Or, perhaps you shouldn't. . .that could be really problematic. It's already problematic. . .the way I'm doing just about everything in my (oh-so-limited) power to avoid jumping off one. And not even so that I could die. I don't really think about what happens when I reach the ground (or water or moving car or whatever else happens to be there). On the contrary, I think about doing it because I believe that that feeling of falling (or flying?) might help me feel like I'm alive again. Alive. Awake. Present. (Just maybe not present here. . .)

I haven't felt like that in so long, and I've tried--with consistent lack of success--doing anything I can think of to spark something in me, to flip a switch, to wake me up. But, regrettably, some less-than healthy doses of blood, vomit, electricity, neck pain (from whipping my hair (back and forth), logically), food, and OTC drugs later, I still feel like nothing. Like death.

My cheeks are hot. I like that. I think it means I'm getting sick, but I still like it. It makes it feel more sweet(?) when I cry. That makes no sense, and I don't know how to explain it. It's just . . .more warm. More young. More justified. Less sticky and salty and wet.

I like body heat in general, actually, and usually someone else's more than my own (as long as it's not exercise-induced heat. . .I hate sweat). Maybe it's the complete and undeniable isolation talking, but the idea of being close to someone. . .of touching. . .a hand, a hug, whatever. . .just feeling that warmth. . .sounds really nice. Okay, so it's definitely the fact that I've never felt so alone before. . .so friendless, so loveless. . .but what does that matter? Maybe something along those lines would wake me up. I'll never know.

So, I guess I'll stick to bridges. Here are some from which I would be very okay with jumping:

And I guess I'm aware that aesthetic appeal played a big role in deciding which bridges I chose. . .but that's okay. I was not aware, however, of my attraction to water. . .but maybe that's coincidence or something. It looks pretty, and, like I said, I don't really think about what happens when I stop falling. . .

Sorry if these posts are. . .too honest? This is about the only place I feel like I can be honest though. . .and even now, I'm holding back. What the hell. . .when did honesty become such taboo? So freaking consequential. . .damn.

-Daisy

Happy Halloween

I wish there were actually something happy about it.

I wish I had something better to write about than being miserable. I wish we both did. Maybe that's why we don't have any followers yet. . .because people don't want to read about the sad things. But what would we have without sad things? Certainly not good things, that's for sure. We need the bad things, I think, in order to recognize the good things when--if ever--they show up (right, Meredith? To be honest, just about any Grey's Anatomy quote would all but sum up my life today and every day I've spent here (and whether "here" means Minnesota or the planet is becoming exceedingly unclear). . .like this one. . .today, this one kills it for me. . .and I don't even know what that means).

I don't know what a lot of things mean anymore. Words. Feelings. Images. Or the lack of any or all of those. I am broken-hearted by my confusion. I am up in the air. I am drowning. I am floating, and I am suffocating. How does this work? It doesn't, that's how. This is not working. I am not working.

I have a poking and prodding issue. I consider this a secret even if it doesn't sound like one right now, and I've never told anyone, not even Vi (until now). . .and I suppose it'll stay that way if we fail to accumulate followers. It doesn't sound serious, does it? I'm not sure what to think of it. . .it took years to even realize that it's something I do that others don't and several more to realize that it may be a problem. I don't even know how to describe it. It's like. . .a need for smoothness. All over. My head, my ears, my face, my mouth, my arms, my hands, my back, my legs, my feet, my chest, my stomach. . .I could be detailed about the "process", but it was sounding worse and worse as I wrote it out. Use your imagination without fear and you'll probably be right in some way. What's strange is that this has never seemed like self-destruction. It still doesn't, really. It was self-betterment for a while. . .and now. . .now it feels a little out of hand. . .or maybe just neutral. Just something I do. . .something I waste my time with. . .

I suppose the same could be said for this blog post, though (wasting my time, that is). Could be. . .shouldn't be. As much as I know I should be doing homework now (or sleeping, maybe), this post does not feel like a waste of time. It doesn't feel good. It doesn't feel like anything.

But it's a distraction. A distraction from the on-going crying, restarted about an hour ago and still flowing. A distraction from the words, feelings, and images I'm experiencing and from those I am missing. And that hardly makes sense considering I mention them in the post. . .but that's just how it is. Just naming them here is far more objective than thinking about them in the discomfort of my bed.

It's amazing to me, actually, that I can do this. That I can write this blog and have all of these words tumble out. I used to be required to keep an academic blog for the AP Composition course I took in high school, and it would often take me an hour or two to come up with a post half as long as this. It's incredible how much (and, perhaps more importantly, what) people can say when they're given the chance. Incredible. . .but also scary.

This whole post is scary. Even as the one writing it, it's unsettling. Or maybe I should say "especially as the one writing it". . .I'm not sure. Regardless, I'm thinking this post was not the type of scary people typically look for on Halloween. . .but to hell with typical. . .it's just another meaningless word now.

-Daisy

Shalloween

Okay, so it's Halloween.

My favorite holiday.
But not this year.

Remember ET, when they went trick-or-treating? That's what Halloween should be. (Or something out of the Nightmare Before X-mas.) It shouldn't be dress-as-slutty-as-you-can-and-get-as-drunk-as-you-can-without-dying. . .een. No.

However, I must admit that I would be better able to tolerate the nastiness most young adults bring to this holiday if I weren't in such a bad, lonely place (mentally and physically).

I want to "go out" with people (in the sense that my parents seem to use whenever they talk about Friday evenings), but I just. . .well. . .don't have any friends (besides the drugs my psychiatric nurse practitioner gave me, my ear plugs, my eye mask, my computer, and various dining halls). I have a crush (as Daisy knows), but I've never had the courage to tell my crushes how I feel about them in the past, and I don't think I do now either. Anyway, I hardly ever see or speak to them.

Crushes are a SICK, SICK thing.

maybe it's time for some ECT. . .maybe my bell jar will lift.

-Violet

Deaf and Numb

Today I felt like I was walking through molasses. I couldn't get myself out of bed (or, for that matter, to remove my earplugs) until noon, although I woke up at 9:30. I finished The Bell Jar (by Sylvia Plath) in that time. . .but, still, I felt like I accomplished nothing.

When I willed myself out of bed, I got so far as my computer before the beginning of my day was delayed even further. It's just the depression, right?

I managed to (not) take a shower, and I put on sunglasses (as if there were actually someone here who would recognize me, and I didn't want them to). I headed to the gym, where I was lapped by an ancient man. It turns out that you should eat before you run. I got really dizzy and got a strange headache. I guess somewhere in my doing NOTHING, I forgot to eat.

I "finished" a bunch of homework. I put quotes around "finished" because I half-assed everything. I recycled one of my high-school papers for my writing class, I skimmed the reading (at best) for my language class, I decided not to read the readings for my writing class, and I watched 20 minutes of the movie I was supposed to watch for French before reading it's plot on Wikipedia. . .in English.

I am getting straight A's. . .I wish I feel like I deserved them. . .but, then again, I don't not deserve them. College is just enduring bullshit. Am I right? They can preach all they want about "self-betterment" and "well-roundedness," but until they sit through lectures so boring you would rather peel the skin off of your lips, I don't think they have any merit.

So, anyway, after I "ran," I decided to go sing (because, after all, I like to sing. . .I think). That went pretty well, but even in the padded walls of a practice room, I can't let my true voice out. I need total isolation and the peace of mind that no one is listening. . .or the opposite: people who want to listen to me.

After my vocal cords were thoroughly beaten, I ate (yay!). And then finished the rest of my day in a vegetative state on Facebook and staring at my left wrist. Now I am writing this post with my head against the wall. This is boredom, today.

I'm in New York City, and I'm bored.
Now I'm staring at a bottle of Prozac.
Facebook stalking people.
Going to bed early.
Signing off.

-Violet