Self-Hate At Six In The Morning

You're always told "If at first, you don't succeed, try and try again." Winston Churchill wanted us to learn from our mistakes. Oscar Wilde believed that mistakes were merely experiences.

I call bullshit.

I made a mistake, last year. I don't want to go into it, but I did a terrible, terrible thing and ruined things with my boyfriend.

A mistake is not an experience. A mistake is a failure.

That one mistake I made, without thinking, without contemplating upon the consequences, or whether it was wrong at all, still haunts me, more than a year later.
That one mistake fucks with my mind more than anything else. I'll be happy and beginning to like the way life is turning out, when it'll just come and smack me across the face, knocking me down.
That one mistake causes me more pain, more guilt, more sadness and more fear than all the other things in my life, put together.

I had hope, of course, that the pain would fade out.

'Time heals all wounds' is another piece of bullshit you shouldn't believe.

Time doesn't heal all wounds. You can try and try to fix your mistake, hope it'll gently get better and do everything in your power to just make it go away, but it won't.

That one mistake will stay with you, leech out all your happiness and turn you into a suicidal mess.


Confucius doesn't want you to be ashamed of your mistakes, thus making them crimes.
Too late. They already are.

Last Dance With Mary Jane

I have a long and varied history of drug use. I started using marijuana when I was thirteen, graduating to regular use before my fourteenth birthday. Smoking up was my form of stress release. My parents came home from work everyday and had a drink. Me smoking pot was just a variation on the same theme.

Soon, my older friends introduced me to LSD. Now, LSD isn't exactly a teenage drug, nor is it a party drug. It's almost past it's time. It's not the sixties. We're not in Kansas anymore, Toto.
Nevertheless, my friends had a steady supply, and we'd drop acid every once in a while, to 'open our minds'. We were all extremely volatile people in our creative phases round that time. Tripping, though I tried it only round three or four times, was one of the best and worst experiences of my life. I haven't thought about this for a long, long time, but now that I do, I realize I don't regret doing it one bit. I wish I would have waited a couple of years, so my mind was better equipped to handle it, of course, but I don't really regret it.

I tried cocaine once, at a party. I mustn't have done it right, because it didn't really feel like anything.

Apart from the occasional stint or two, though, I've been mostly drug free for the past two years or so. When I first started dating my boyfriend, I made up my mind not to alter my state of consciousness any longer. He's very sure of his stand on drugs and, well, it's not a very tolerant one. Of course, I still smoked the occasional joint when in social settings, and once, when things got very unbearable for me, depression-wise, I spent about three weeks straight, high.

For the last year or so, though, I haven't even thought about smoking up. I've left most of my 'unhealthy practices' (thrapistspeak) behind, actually. No more cutting, not more getting high, no more drinking every day. It also as something or the other to do with my boyfriend, of course.

I do, however, want to get high one of these days, for just one last time. I have one last nugget of wild to get out of my system before settling into a 'healthy lifestyle'. I want to just let myself be calm and carefree for a day.

Just one last dance with Mary Jane. One more time to kill the pain.

Love In The Time Of Adolescence*

My life is not perfect.
I went through terrible child abuse right up to the age of fourteen.
I have bipolar disorder, psychotic episodes, an anxiety disorder and some sort of borderline personality.
I have no real friends.
I have brains but no will to use them.
I could be pretty, but I stress eat.
I cry myself to sleep, most nights.

But every once in a while, I look into my boyfriend's eyes, and all the pain vanishes. I look back and wonder how I ever survived without him. It's hard, now, to remember a time when he wasn't the only face I saw in a crowd. I know it was less than two years ago, but I can hardly imagine not being in love with him.

He makes me smile, and laugh and feel beautiful even when I'm feeling ugly. When he laughs, is whole face lifts up, and he looks like the happiest man in the world. His hands are never a normal temperature - they're always either freezing, or burning up. He's one of the most intelligent people I have ever met, and I admire his mind so much more than anyone else's.

He almost makes me wish I was religious, so I could thank God for him.

*Because yes, adolescence is a disease comparable to cholera.

Fashionistas The World Over Would Weep

I just realized I use my single Marc by Marc Jacobs bag primarily to store and transport food and drink.
I also wear my sole pair of DKNY booties to the park.

In fact, my most worn item of clothing is a black Quiksilver t-shirt that actually belongs to Le Boyfriend and is at least about three years old, closely followed by a pair of shorts that cost about 200 bucks.
And sometimes, I pretend spoons are jewelry.

Lost And Found

I suppose an explanation is in order.

A little while ago, I logged into blogger to find that my blog had simply disappeared. I had no idea what had happened. I still don't. I suspect it was a blogger glitch, though the tech I wrote to denied it. I still have most of my writing, thanks to an ardent fan (stalker is such a strong word) who kept it all in word documents, so not all is lost.

I feel a little cheated, of course, that my writing won't be here for posterity like I originally intended. More than two years of this blog has come down to these two posts, now. It's kind of sad, really.

I stopped writing for a while because I was so distraught. I know it sounds very unnecessarily dramatic, but when your only outlet gets ripped away, it hurts.

Eventually, all the stuff I needed to say kept backing up in my system, clogging up my memory space and making me slower, so I just logged in and wrote a post.

No more dramatics.
I promise.

Did you exchange a walk on part in the war
for the lead role in a caaage?

Redemption

My head hurts.
My neck hurts.
My throat itches.
My back is killing me.
I hate the way my hair smells like smoke.
I hate that my skin's all blotchy and painful.
I hate how painfully dry my lips feel.
I feel like crying.
I wish last night hadn't happened.
I wish I didn't drink that whiskey.
I wish I'd at least realized how much I'd drunk.
I wish I didn't need to prove to myself that I still have some wild left in me.

I don't. Even one night, even with just a couple of girlfriends, is too much for me. I can't get into it. I can knock back the drinks as well as the next girl (probably better), and I can smoke a pack in a go, even attempt some hip wiggles, but I can't get into it.
I'd just much rather drink one scotch, not half a dozen Jack and cokes.I'd much rather spend my time reading The Grapes of Wrath, and not fashiontoast. I'd much rather just hang with my boyfriend than talk about sex with my girlfriends.

I may be growing the fuck up.


Remember when you were young; you shone like the sun.
Shine on you crazy diamond.
Now there's a look in your eyes, like black holes in the sky.