Http://dysphorena.blogspot.com
Linda's new group blog for all her friends...check it out, and send me an e-mail if you want to be part of it.

Mmmmm, things just keep getting worse, eh?

So, yeah, family problems.....I don't know who logs on, or if I should care about her privacy, but hell, it affects me- she was molested last night, I told my parents and she's denying it to them so that she won't have to get caught up in the stress of whatever kind of legal battle or whatever the fuck it is that we're looking at. This won't work well with her history......but....I don't know. She sent me the same e-mail she sent phil- I know because I was in her account- about what happened....angsty and artistic, but what did she expect from me? I wonder what she wants from me.....I've been doing my best to keep myself completely emotionally unaffliated with these people....haven't though....went to my dad's office today to drop off shoes for god-only-knows what reason. I hadn't been there in a few years, but the last time I was there, I remember I saw the "#1 dad!" clock I bought him when I was, like, 7 or something still there. I think the idea that it was might have made me cry....I don't know, it seems like it would have. I found myself searching for it today, and it wasn't there. That should have made me cry. It almost did. It's been too long a week, though.

I don't think my dad knows at all about what the guy did to cathy last night- my sister started telling mom it was nothing before he came home. I don't think he would do anything anyway. I doubt he'd react at all. If it would bother him, he'd do his best not to think about it. Maybe. How the hell am I supposed to know what he thinks, feels, how he copes anymore? I don't know if I ever did, and I was close to him once.

Ally McBeal almost made me cry, tonight, too. This is almost making me cry. I hate it when my eyes get damp but the tears won't actually come. Crying is bittersweet, but at least have of that is sweet. It's a release, and at rate, and it makes you feel real. Maybe Andrew feels so fake because he never has.

"Wish that I could cry
Fall down on my knees
Find a way to lie
About a home I'll never see."
-Five for Fighting

I'm not listening to that. I'm listening to "Best I Ever Had". Who is the best I ever had? And where will I be when I stop wondering why? (That's "Champagne High", an unrelated song, except that they're both going to be on my future "most depressing songs ever" CD)

Thought I was going to get to see Jeff today...he's bad at making plans. Another let down. Probably see him sunday or monday, and he promised he'd let me know which by tomorrow. Tomorrow I'm seeing Mark, which is somewhat unfortunate, being that I am feeling the incredible need to be near rich kid, wait, no, I'm not allowed to call him that anymore- "Andrew".....I don't feel those kinds of feelings for significant others anywhere near as much as regular girlfriends. I'm not regular, never was.

It's getting on my nerves being seen as a teenager all the time...I'm not passionate, I'm hormonal!
FUCK YOU!
(heh, that really helped my case) I'm precocious, goddamn it. Don't these people REALIZE that? Do they know ANYTHING about me? If I hear the word "special" one more time, I may slap someone. That's not angst OR insight, that's violence. I am

Violent
Angry
Intelligent
Passionate
Emotional
Youthful
Insightful
Experienced

I'm not young, I'm not a teenager- I'm a younger, better-looking, quicker version of all of you who still has use of all her major joints! I am simply the thing that has come to take your place and improve the world that YOU might have been better in if you had taken the time to be as good as me. That's what I am, and nothing else. Treat me as an adolescent, and I'll treat you as an artifact.





Where the fuck did all that come from? *sighs* Screw it, I'm too tired for this.



"There'll be no strings to bind your hands
Not if my love can bind your heart
And there's no need to take a stand
For it was I who chose to start.
I see no reason to take me home
I'm old enough to face the dark.
Just call me angel of the morning, angel
Just touch my cheek before you leave me, baby
Just call me angel of the morning, angel
Then slowly turn away
From me."
-The Pretenders

(Andrew and Linda- four months yesterday.)


On with it~

"What'll I do
When you
Are far away
And I am blue
What'll I do?
What'll I do
When I
Am wond'ring who
Is kissing you
What'll I do?
What'll I do
With just
A photograph
To tell my troubles to?
When I'm alone with just the dream of you
That won't come true
What'll I do?"
-Irving Berlin


If I had sung this to myself, and I probably did, when faced with the idea of Emily and Jeff going to college, along with infinitely more friends that I can't even make myself think about.....Torrie and Aaron and George and Jenn and.....I should stop naming them. But if I had sung this when faced with all that, I would have had such a hightened idea of the urgency of the question that it would have weakened my strong knees and strengthened my weak voice. I don't know what to do.....spend more time with Jenn and Andrew, get inventive with who I spend my other time with. Can't wait for Nick to get his license, then he and I can spend time together as often as we feel the inclination- Nick is the type who, given a license, would drive to see me whenever I was having a crisis that day to hold me while I cried, and let me feel his closeness...so often that's all I need.

Physical closeness is of hightened (using that word for the second time in this thus far short post) importance to me now that I don't have the luxury of touching the hands that are most important to me and running to the arms, resting my head on the shoulders and stroking the hair.

"Put down the pen
I'm lost again
The feeling's gone away
But I can't curl up in you
Like I could
Back then."

Part of a song I wrote after Emily and I broke up between my freshmen and sophomore year. Mr. Ladd asked me to sing it to him once and I wouldn't, I can't sing. I think Mark once offered to write background music....Emily and Mr. Ladd and Mark, people I can only reach, with any regularity, through the internet. The computer. Cold, disdainful box.

Elorza turns 17 this month, and not long after that he'll be able to try for his license, and sometime after he gets it, he's said he is going to drive up here. Seeing him again, at this point, would be like a vision of God. I so need to look into eyes right now.

"Kiss me each morning
For a million years
Hold me each evening by your side
Tell me you love me for a million years
Then if it don't work out
If it don't work out
Then you can tell me goodbye...."

One of the many songs I first heard on Ally Mcbeal and was quick to download directly proceeding. David E. Kelley shows provided a weekly happiness for me last year that was so like an oasis.....I really should watch them again this year.

"If you must go
I won't grieve
If you wait a lifetime
Before you leave."

Dinner should be here shortly...on with it~

DISCLAIMER FOR THE GODDAMNED LISBON SCHOOL SYSTEM: Since you can't figure anything at all out on your own, the point of that entry, when taken as a whole, was that I'm NOT self-destructive. Because I'm not. You don't have to alert St. Mary's, and if you did, I'm sure Chris would understand the meaning and send me home with a note saying that I am, in fact, sane, and that you are, in fact, dumb. (That means you, Nunnery.)

"Just so you know, I wasn't trying to off myself or anything. It's just something I do sometimes."
"Doesn't it hurt?"
"Feels better."
"Than what?"
"Everything else."
-from 28 Days


While I can't see myself drifting into drug abuse, I see eating disorders, self-mutialation, stalking and violence as all extremely probable chapters in this fucked-up book de moi. I'd like to think that if I was going to get hung up on drugs, at least, I would have done something besides one sip of rum and sniffing white out by now. But maybe my delusions are as false as any junkies.

She had just cut herself, the girl in 28 days, because she was in rehab and her mother was supposed to visit her for a family day and hadn't. "I make her embarrassed." She said. Self-mutilation is one of the more esoteric forms of self-abuse, and while I can't say that I understand it, I don't think I'm as mystified by it as others. It's almost logical to me. But only at certain minutes.

No, I haven't done it........not in any formal sense, anyway. I have been known to bang my head repeatedly against brick walls from time to time, and I remember almost entirely one night of tossing and turning in my sleep until my anger- for Mr. Ladd- turned violent and I scratched at myself with unparalleled bloodlust- I wanted him to feel it, to wake up from a sound sleep covered in sweat, to not be up all night and have the feeling of uneasiness follow him throughout the day, and never ever completely disappear. And then I wanted him to see me again, just once, and see the deep-set scratches, and get nauseous. I scratched and clawed until on the brink of bleeding, groaning and growling and screaming in my bed, and when I was just about to break the skin, I stopped. I breathed hard, in and out. I hated myself for my weakness, all of it. I started to cry. I wanted to die.

I got up, and turned on the light, and I went to my desk. My hands reached out, touched the box cutter, picked it up, traced the blade. Then I put it down and picked up the pen and notebook beside it.

*

I hate you
I hate that you left me so weak
I thought that is was strength you gave me
But it was weakness
Made me too weak to write this in blood
Kept me so brainwashed that
I’ll thank you for that one day
Believe it
Kept me believing in you so strong
I hate you

Hate that you’ll never know about the words
written
On pages and pages of journal
That I never would have kept
without you
And I thought that was strength
It’s corruption.
People like you aren’t beauty
You’re the effects of the drugs
That keep me psychologically addicted
To life
You bastard
It’s a drug
Whoever convinced you
To convince me
Otherwise should die
because I’m forgiving
But not of you.

I just found meaning
in a song
That is you
And I thrashed in my bed
And scratched myself
How do you like that?
Scratched at my flesh
Because of you
Not hard enough to leave scars
Because of you
Not deep enough to bleed
Because you left me too weak
I thought that was strength
But I’m too weak
To write this in blood
Withdrawal
I thought you were good
You were just the effects of
various uppers
‘Cept not on my mind
On my soul
I wanted you to
feel the nails
Leaving no scars
Leaving you awake
And disturbed
And throbbing
In bed
As I am
Without you
I HATE YOU

I hate
that I love
you.
That I will never shake the
Belief
that you loved me.

Be proud of yourself- this is
ink
you bastard.
Did your dirty fucking job
“Well”.

*

That was the result. I don't cut, I write. Hopefully things that might one day make other people feel badly enough to cut....or, hey, I could be noble and say "that will inspire them not to". But either way.

I cut once. My friend was abusing pot to the extent that it was beginning to do to his life what more damaging drugs generally do to others. So I convinced him, online, that I had taken up, just then, self-mutilation. It wasn't much of a thing, a scratch that bled. Did with a broken disposable razor. I hadn't the slightest clue how to make it bigger or deeper- I was a rookie at damaging myself purposefully...physically anyway. It did it's job, however- in the midst of both our tears and frustrations, I made comparisons that made him realize how I felt every time he told me what he had done. Since then, the problem has subsided....I don't know if it would or wouldn't have had I never cut myself, but if he starts up again, I think I will, as well.

And that will make everything all better, won't it babe?



My name is Linda and I am a BITCH when it comes to making my point loud and clear. On with it.