Saturday in December

I had what will probably be my last visit with Dr. Blyss on Wednesday. It took me by surprise -- Dr. Ramsey had me coming in for over a year and I still didn't feel fully recovered. But I'm actually not constantly in pain anymore. Funny how chiropractors are different when their priorities are different. I suppose that isn't entirely the reason -- my reduction in medication seems to have aided the most in the reduction of my dizziness and high heart rate. I've cut it in half, approximately -- maybe 200mg less than I was taking before. This is, of course, not under the supervision of a psychiatrist because Kaiser won't give me another one yet. No matter. Ideally, I'll be able to wean myself off of all my medications (not including birth control, although I did look into permanent contraception the other day) so I won't have to worry as much in two years when I no longer qualify for my parents' health insurance.

Fall 2011 term is officially over. I think grades are up next week, but honestly I don't care -- I finished, and that's all I can ask for at this point. I admit that it's a little sad that I don't hold higher standards for myself, but I've been doing that for two decades and we all know how that turned out.

I've felt more productive lately, felt more positive. I feel better, I guess. Not quite good, but better enough that I  have hope of being able to wake up smiling again. 

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Learning to Read and Write

I believe that the unmoderated and instinctive behavior of children is the clearest window into someone's personality. Innocent and unashamed to be true to themselves, we can learn so much about ourselves just by analyzing our childhoods. For example, when my preschool class finished up our year, the teachers had us make these big paper folders to hold all the work we did and take home. They were already made for us, but we were able to decorate them with markers to our liking. I remember decorating mine with a random sort of print -- various letters (some of which were backwards) and numbers (only a few, since I didn't know how to write them all) in different colors. My friend was drawing fireworks, I think, and there were quite a few who'd just taken to scribbling different colors to cover the folder. "Um... I think you're doing it wrong," she said to me. I don't remember what I said in reply, since I still liked how it looked. I settled on adding some squiggles mixed in with the characters and was quite pleased with the result.

better write more...

Not feeling well today. Mentally, physically, emotionally -- you name it, it's down here with me. I'll likely end up not going to my Grant Writing course and perhaps my Rhetoric one if this headache keeps up. In the latter, however, we're discussing the first few chapters of one of our texts, "Writing & Healing," so I'm a little reluctant to not go.

Kittens and Bouncy Balls

While typing my morning pages (750 words) today, I kept getting distracted. My cat, Higgins, kept crying for some reason and I couldn't focus. It occurred to me at the end of my pages that he might have the right idea -- why keep quiet when you need something desperately? I heard him drop his bouncy ball, so he must have just wanted to play, but the concept is still relevant -- why suffer in silence when people who love and care for you are there and available? I certainly wouldn't meow at the top of my lungs and circle around a computer chair, but I need to do something other than pretend everything is okay when they clearly are not.

Glitch

Brit got me addicted to this new game called Glitch. You should totally play with us.

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Dr. Blyss

Started seeing a new chiropractor today -- one a lot closer to my apartment. It's actually only a couple blocks away and my daddy's insurance covers part of the bill. I had wanted a female chiropractor for a while as well, so Dr. Blyss was an easy choice. I'm sore, but it's a good kind of sore -- the after-the-gym sort of ache.

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Obsession, Stone Sour Style

Okay, so, I have a new favorite song. It's called "Through Glass" by the band Stone Sour and I'm absolutely obsessed with it. I heard it on Sirius in the car one day, not really paying attention to what was playing until my little ears picked up a a particular pair of lyrics:

" no one ever tells you that forever feels like home / sitting all alone inside your head. "

It just clicked -- how the hell do they know exactly how life feels like for me? I pretty much fell in love right then and there. I don't actually know what the entire song is about for sure, and in all honestly, I really could care less.

Killjoy

I've always said that I hate myself. If I were someone else, I certainly wouldn't want to be friends with me. So I often wonder why it is that I have so many great supporting me. Danny said it's probably because they feel like they benefit somehow from the relationship. I can't fathom what anyone could possibly gain from my pathetic presence.

When I was in middle school we would go on family vacations my mom would plan. As if bringing along a pre-teen weren't enough trouble, there was me, undiagnosed and therefore untreated anorexia and depression. They would laugh and try to take lots of pictures. I wouldn't have any of it. I just wasn't interested in anything; there was nothing that gave me any sort of happiness. I remember my mother lowering her camera once and glaring at me. "Killjoy," she muttered.

At the time, I'd never heard that before. It was quite obvious what it meant, though. And even if I didn't understand, she and the rest of my family proceeded to label me as such. I rolled my eyes and slammed doors and glared and shouted. But it hurt every single time. I don't just bring people down -- I kill their very happiness. And it isn't just my actions -- it's me; I'm the joy-killer. There's a murderer and there's someone who has committed a murder. Like the former, I am defined by my actions.

What am I now? What does my lack of action paint me as?

I don't know.

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So So Terrified

I'm still scared. I've been trying really hard to put on a brave face and do what needs to be done... but there's still a part of me that just wants to curl up in a corner alone and sob. And within that is a piece of me that keeps whispering "I can't do this anymore. It's too hard."

That part of me keeps me lying in bed awake, keeps me from getting up to quiet my starving body. It keeps me from really being able to give a shit about anything. It keeps my lips closed when I need to speak and dulls my mind when I need to listen.

Whenever I get my vitals taken, people always say that my heartrate is very fast, even at rest. Physiology says it's to compensate for low blood pressure, but I have a sneaking suspicion that it's from living my life in constant, sometimes paralyzing fear.

I know that I need to help myself. But part of me has already given up and it's difficult to give up this misery because by now I've grown accustomed to it. Its consistent presence is almost comforting, especially when I feel like I'm spinning out of control.

Fuck.

help me

Update from my brand new iPhone 4s, bitches!

Step by Step

Oh, no, I don't mean the family sitcom. I mean the way that I am currently taking life, in order to focus on what I need to focus on and to process the world in a way that will not overwhelm me completely.

Breathing shallowly

i found myself watching the skin around his eyes, wondering what my own face looked like.

"Whatever you want, Chel."

"I just want," shielding my eyes with a trembling hand, i surrendered to my eyelids' importunity, making sure in the back of my mind to keep track of how much more water i would need to drink to fight off the dehydration so badly built up from the insomnia-ridden nights that had brought me to this moment--this sad, sad moment--of clarity, this small period of unusual clarity and unselfishness, in which i would confess not only my desire to separate but my deepest uncertainties to the one person who has kept me alive, "to be happy."

"I'm sorry."

don't be.

Before Dawn

I began to cry. Thomas shifted slightly and opened his eyes with some difficulty. He looked at me.

"I'm afraid that I'm going crazy," I confessed.

"Why?"

"Because I've just completely lost it."

"Why?" he repeated, as stern as he was honest.

"I know what I should be doing, and I know what's wrong," I blubbered, "but I just can't get myself to do it. I feel like I've lost control."

"You'll be fine," he said, stretching an arm over my torso in a half-hug, "just play on your iPhone or something until you get tired."

"But I am tired -- I can feel it in my eyes--"

"Just do something to keep your mind busy for a while. Lying awake worrying won't solve anything."

I knew he was right and his calm was infectious. I layered an arm over the one across my stomach and laced my fingers into the hand on the far side. I gripped it tightly, holding onto it as if it were the only thing keeping me from drowning -- and, in a sense, it was -- he was the only thing keeping me from being carried away with the current. The current of my own creation, that spiraled out of control and grows stronger and never calms. I tried to slow my breathing. I tried to clear my mind. I tried to focus on what I had beside me -- what, or rather, who, was keeping me afloat.

I nodded,

and said nothing.

"...but you should be proud of your accomplishments. You've had to deal with this for the last ten years of your life."

I stopped nodding and gazed at the floor.

"And you need to remember that it's not you -- it's an illness. It's not your fault."

I pressed my teeth into my bottom lip and blinked my eyes clear. I nodded again, slowly, and in my head I wondered how he knew I thought it was my fault.

Later on I realized, while swirling frozen yogurt around a raspberry in my cup, how much comfort and hope I found in that little phrase. It also occurred to me that, had he known me better, he wouldn't think that way. I swallowed the last of the yogurt.

Tom stood and offered to help me up. I took the hand (and I think it felt like life's).

Monday, Monday

Woke up in the middle of the night, crying again. Couldn't get my brain to shut the fuck up for a minute to let me fall asleep. Great way to start the week.

Looks like my desktop computer's still got problems, meaning it's probably the motherboard that's bad. My birthday's coming up, though, so maybe I can get a new one. What does it mean when you have internal computer parts on your wishlist? For me, I'm thinking it means I'm getting old. Getting practical, getting boring. Losing my imagination, my light, my spark. What the hell? I'm turning 24. How is it that I'm so down on myself?

I've gotta figure this shit out and turn that light back on, I guess.

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The Sylvia Plath Effect

Sylvia Plath was an American poet in the early/mid-1900s, known best as an author of "confessional poetry." She also wrote short stories and novels. One day, at 30 years old, she committed suicide. Stuck her head in the oven and died. Her two children asleep only rooms away.

I read something the other day that mentioned "the Sylvia Plath Effect," and was intrigued. I adore her poetry and prose. Of course I had to look into it. It must've been exactly what I expected it to be, because I was horrified and amazed and calm all at once. It was from a study done in 2001 where they had determined that female poets were significantly more susceptible to mental illness and any other women.

I'm not sure what I think. But I am fascinated.

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Blog Import Complete

Well, I finally did it. My apathy has reached the point where I don't see any reason to maintain both a public and private blog. So I imported all the posts into "universe." I know that I can tell which posts were on which blog, but hopefully it's less obvious to others.

What do I have to hide, really? What am I afraid of? Why do I go to such great lengths to keep things private? The amount of narcissism in believing my personal blog has any organic readers is simply sickening. What I intended to do with keeping my blog entries online (as opposed to a personal diary) is exactly what I've done with my poetry and prose -- kept everything together, backed up, accessible from anywhere. No sheets of papers casually tossed away or ruined. No files and folders lost on a dead hard drive. No passwords to remember and inevitably forget. It's for my reference, really, and anyone curious enough to peek.
Privacy, shame? Ha! I don't give a fuck about myself any more, so here it is: this is my heart, exposed to the world.

Fifteen minutes

(11:52:15 PM):
i'll try to keep it short.
i guess i've just been really depressed or frustrated or irritated or upset or angry or whatever and i haven't been able to really just bitch to anyone other than my cat or a couple pages in a notebook that i rip up afterwards

"hmm. Yeah the cat just kinda pokes you and wants to be pet."

okay. i love facebook. i enjoy being able to catch up with my friends and family members who are far away or busy or whatever.
but at the same time...

    ...it depresses me.

Slightly concerned

I'm afraid that I'm going crazy.

There's a part of me that started to panic when I realized what my last entry revealed to, essentially, the whole world.

But there's another part of me, a strong, overwhelming part, that doesn't understand what the big deal is. Who gives a fuck? It's not like my blogs get visitors beyond the handful of people I've led directly to it. It's not like I can fake being okay for much longer. They call it "major depressive disorder" (MDD), "clinical depression," or, as I like to refer to it, "being fucked up in the head." Inability to experience pleasure from most aspects of life. Severe insomnia, and sometimes hypersomnia. Delusions, social withdrawal, an overwhelming feeling of apathy towards anything and everything. "Chemical imbalance in the brain," they said. "Not your fault," they said through the pills in the tiny paper cup beside the plastic cup of water beside the meal brought up to the psychiatric ward in the hospital. But that was over a decade ago.

I'm fairly certain that I'm just losing it.

What's my motivation?

Thomas came home from work the other day particularly upset instead of exhausted as usual. He didn't return my greeting when he walked in the door or look at me while I stood and watched him remove his shoes. I remembered the status he posted on Facebook a few hours prior – something about disgust at having to "pay for other people's sins." For a moment I thought that the church across the street must be projecting too much Catholic onto our apartment, but the thought passed and I asked him how work had been.

Some noise, a mixture of resignation and fury whose portion sizes I couldn't determine, escaped his lips. I listened to him, agreed that the manager—I never quite understood what went wrong—was stupid and that this was the final straw. I offered to get him something to eat or drink. He declined.

"What now?" I asked.

Spotify = MY NEW OBSESSION

@cheldoll and here I go following Chel like a lemming to spotify too.. /facepalm :P

I was right on board with Pandora even on my Wii console, bought a car with a Sirius satellite radio, and hit up Last.fm's community. Went through free trials of Rhapsody, eMusic, etc. Made my own custom Winamp skins for years, married and divorced iTunes, had an affair with Media Monkey... I'm running out of metaphors here. Needless to say, I've messed with enough music players to know what I want. And I want Spotify.

I've got a clean, simple player with an adorable name and icon. Social media's already integrated for me -- I don't even have to abandon Last.fm completely, since it's even got a fucking scrobbling option right off the bat. Device syncing?? Yes please. $10 a month is over three times Last.fm's subscription price, but it's better than the $15 a month I pay for Sirius (+$2.99 for internet radio) and is just so much cuter.

I haven't been listening to much, but now? Music binge.

You won't find this anyway

I sometimes wonder if I've made a mistake.

For months these thoughts have haunted me, yet the fear of the consequences for voicing them has kept me silent.

(but now that i know you dont read my writing any longer i speak i cry i scream i create something from the nothing; now i take refuge from neglect in words that you have interrupted)

oh god

I need help.

bite your lip

and fake that smile, honey.

Tiny Thursday post

Picked Thomas up from the airport Tuesday night, and of course they have him working a full shift like twelve hours later. His birthday's tomorrow, though, and they actually let him have the day off. I have no idea what to get him or what we're doing to celebrate. I'm a pretty shitty girlfriend.

We will never forget.

To me, 9/11 was never about politics.

It was about innocent lives lost during an attempt to strike terror into the hearts of people whose beliefs are different. You want to argue some conspiracy theory that it was our own government that orchestrated the whole thing? Fine, whatever. That doesn't change the fact that people who did not deserve to die met their end on that day. That doesn't make those flames less real.

The most important thing that arose from the mess that cold morning in September is the purity of the human spirit. I was and still am in awe of the bravery of rescuers, the unity with which the country collected itself, the respect with which the survivors honor the lost, the passion and empathy from those who were not directly affected. We took some hard hits, but we did not go down. We rose, together, and continue to rise every year in anniversary on this day.

I am never more proud to be an American than on September 11th.

The Bell Jar

The last book I read was Sylvia Plath's "The Bell Jar." It hit a little too close to home for me to be able to finish it in one sitting, despite how short it was compared to the 900-some page monster that is "2666" I read before it.

An excerpt:

"I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn't quite make out. I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn't make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet. "

I suppose, keeping consistent with the contents of the three personal blogs I maintain, I should've posted this under "listen." But there's just too much here that screams my name that I can hardly tell I wasn't the author.


I've always wanted to be everything -- I wanted to be pretty, popular, loved, well-known. I wanted to be brilliant, clever, funny, generous. I wanted to change the world.

At this point in my life it feels as though I've stopped at a fork in the road and I just can't choose. I just don't want to choose. What if I choose wrong? What if I get lost on that path? What if it takes me away from the people I love most?

And while I am paralyzed here, fear, cold and wet, falls onto the doubt I stand on. From the corner of my eye I can glimpse solid ground. The land is dry there, lit by the sun. But the distance between this respite and I deepens with every shallow breath that teases the tightened mass that is my lungs. Drenched, I hardly notice the fear falling harder around me. It seeps into the uncertainty and turns into mud under my feet.

I feel myself sinking, but still I cannot choose.

Web Design (or lack thereof)

So I've been plotting (planning is actually more accurate, but it sounds less entertaining) another section of le website de Chel to archive the last year or so's worth of my poetry and prose. The problem is that I can't get it to look right. I've always had to work around not having SSH for my navigation, but what I've been envisioning for this webby just doesn't seem to turn out right.

Worst-case scenario I'll just slap up some ugly page. Actually, I might just not upload anything at all. I'm a bit of a perfectionist, you know.

Seaside

Thomas and I are at Lincoln City for a two nights in my family's oceanfront condo.

I needed a break. We needed a break.

Life's stressful. Money, work, school, etc. Since his hours vary from week to week and his days off are on Wednesday and Thursdays, there is little we can find to do together. It's frustrating. It's depressing.

But looking out at the ocean, watching the waves come in, I feel at peace.

I needed this break.

It was a writing exercise...

...but the more I think about it, I find applicability daily.

"Completely uninspired, sentence creation is impossible today."

Excerpts from Richard Hugo's book

I was reading "The Triggering Town" again yesterday while brushing my kitty. I haven't picked it up in a while, so I just opened it up at a point where I'd folded down one of the page corners. It happened to be the chapter called "Statements of Faith."

"Behind several theories of what happens to a poet during the writing of a poem—Eliot's escape from personality, Keats's idea of informing and filling another body, Yeats's notion of the mask, Auden's concept of the poet becoming someone else for the duration of the poem, Valery's idea of a self superior to the self—lies the implied assumption that the self as given is inadequate and will not do.
How you feel about yourself is probably the most important feeling you have. It colors all other feelings, and if you are a poet, it colors your writing. It may account for your writing.
...
Many American poets seem to feel personally worthless unless they write. One can easily imagine that, given the conditions of the mind, the feelings of worthlessness may become indistinguishable from the impulse to write."

So that's been turning over in my mind lately and trying to think of other poets I know personally -- there really aren't many, much less any who have confided this to me. It did make me think of someone who was a quite terrible poet—there are only so many times can you use the word "soul" before people stop taking you seriously. Is it possible that he was far too full of himself to think of poetry as anything other than venting over a broken heart? Is it this one-dimensionality that turns me completely off from his abab quatrains, or causes any new poem he writes to be indistinguishable from all the others?

That is not to say that you need to hate yourself to be a poet, of course. But however you see yourself will inevitably be all over your poems. So try not to think of yourself as such a douchebag hotshot.

Improvement(?)

Things are better. I suppose.

Still have ups and downs, but ups are a little more frequent and downs are a little closer to home. This is, of course, purely my opinion -- Thomas might think differently. I try not to bother him too much with my sad song after he's been working all day so I imagine he'd agree.

Handling school and the financial aid refunds from the past term has been very stressful for me, as well as switching my PCP since we're going to a closer Kaiser office. My back/shoulder/neck keep me in constant pain and my head likes to chime in on (all too frequent an) occasion with a pulsing that essentially paralyzes me for a few moments. Fantastic. Fan-freaking-tastic.

Been trying to eat more often and healthier, taking very hit-or-miss stabs at regular exercise, writing more. My kitty makes for excellent company (that is, when he is not whining at the ceiling when he hears the air conditioner kick on) til Tom gets home, and he is of course selflessly helpful, albeit exhausted.

Anyway...  here's to taking life one day at a time.

Parks and Ballrooms

Jimmy Eat World concert at the Wonder Ballroom last night. My ears are still ringing. I've never been to the Wonder Ballroom before, and I would've been happy to live the rest of my life without spending a night in a sold out show there. Regardless, they put on a great show.

I had this professor once (in my Rock History course, actually) who said that music was never meant to be recorded and replayed -- that there was nothing like a live performance, no matter how high your kbps, you're doing yourself an injustice relying on the convenience of your iPod. That is not to say that these means of reproduction don't have their uses, but he made it a point to express his frustration as a musician as we covered the development of recording devices while technology improved over the years. He was an enthusiastic professor and his passion for the subject was clear. I liked the idea -- it echoed the idea of using pictures as to try to replicate an experience or capture a moment.

So no, I didn't take any video, and while there were some perfect shots with the way they used the lighting on stage (I suppose that's one good thing about the venue) I didn't pull out a camera. People are usually disappointed when I don't take photos, but if you really want to know what it was like -- what it really, really was like as -- we're going to need a pot of coffee and a couple hours.

She's not breathing back

I didn't get a chance to write about it on Wednesday, but Thomas and I celebrated our one year anniversary on the 11th. We went out to dinner then went back home. It was pleasant. I had fun.

But throughout the entire day I had this uncomfortable, restless feeling. I couldn't (and still struggle to) articulate it properly, and I absolutely didn't mention it to Tom. Thinking more about it, I suppose I just didn't really know what I was supposed to feel. My last boyfriend didn't particularly give a shit about ours (though you could argue that there wasn't much he did) and the relationship before that didn't last six months. It's not that I'm being bitter or cynical -- I just don't really know how I should be feeling. Do I mimic other young couples, reveling in conceit over monthly landmarks? Do I downplay the event, pointing out its insignificance in the long run? Why celebrate a year when you intend to spend the rest of your life with someone?
Does that then mean that you should never celebrate any landmarks? Is it possible to celebrate every day and not risk overly cheesy sentimentality?

I guess I forgot how to be a girlfriend.

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Dry fingertips

New keyboard. Wireless—I like it. I suppose I could get around to some web design now, but I don't feel like sitting for very long. The apartment could definitely use a good cleaning, I guess. I could do that? Just a little restless today. Or maybe a lot of restless. I don't know.

Started doing morning pages again. It's nice. I missed it.

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Smooth

So apparently keyboards aren't fond of being spilled on. Huh.

this sweetness will not be concerned with me

So after the untimely death of my previous website, chel.lunatic.nu, I decided the years of telling myself I'd get my own domain and host were finally worth something. In the interest of sustainability, I opted for an eco-friendly provider (Captain Planet would be proud) -- GreenGeeks. I didn't get a chance to backup the most recent files off lunatic, but I had most of them saved on my laptop, so after a little CPR my personal website is back up. I'm still in the process of updating stuff and way behind on designing the layout, but it's functional! Hooray!

It took me a while to come up with a domain name, since it's just a personal website and my options are theoretically limitless, but I settled on thissweetness.net. We'll see if I get tired of it in three years. If my adoration of the Jimmy Eat World song is any indication, I should be in love with it for at least a decade.

Deterioration

Broke down to tears again last night. Rather than be comforted I had a shoulder to cry on, all I felt was shame -- I don't want anyone to see me like this. It's not that I am ungrateful, of course. I've just been raised by people who value other people's opinions to the point where they compromise those of their family. And yet I can't place the blame fully on them -- much of this is directly from me.

The History Channel has this special series that covers the historical origins of the 7 Deadly Sins. I started watching them on OnDemand, and they're pretty interesting. The one on Sloth, however, hit a little too close to home. People always seem to think Sloth is a more minor sin in comparison to the other six. And it makes sense, right? Not like you're hurting people. But apparently it's the one of the worst. I know Dante put the slothful in the same river as the wrathful:

"...That others lie plunged deep in this vile broth,
Whose sighs–see there, wherever one may look-
Come bubbling up to the top and make it froth.

Bogged there they say: ‘Sullen were we–we took
No joy of the pleasant air, no joy of the good
Sun; our hearts smoldered with a sulky smoke;

Sullen we lie here now in the black mud.’"


That is to say that sloth, sullenness, depression are just another form of wrath -- only directed inward. Yeah, that sounds about right.

They go on to define sloth further... initially it was two different sins: acedia and tristitia. Essentially apathy, listlessness, melancholy, hopelessness, etc. It was a pretty long list and description, and each increased the amount of saliva I swallowed as I stared at the floor.

These "sinners" were cast out, punished, shamed. Countless attempts to "cure" the sorrowful were an expensive waste at best, and a painful end at worst. Now we know better, but the stigma is still there. I can still remember my family's faces when I was at my lowest point. I see them sometimes when everything is fine and good. It's like those expressions of disgust contorted their faces in a way that I can never see what used to be.

But I'm just rambling at this point, pitying myself for no real reason.

Get yourself together, damn it.

A change of scenery

A lot's changed over the past two months. Don't get me wrong -- it's all been for the best, I think. I don't know that anything else could've pulled me out of that rut. (so why am i still stuck?)

I got permission for a medical withdrawal from all my courses this term at the suggestion of my professors, who wanted me to focus more on getting well. All in all, things have been improving... but I'm still not stable.

Thomas flew out from Indiana to look at apartments with me in early February. I fell in love with the Cyan building in downtown Portland and applied with my daddy as a co-signer. We moved in on the 24th, with only a handful of bags and some unassembled tables we bought from IKEA.

We also adopted a cat -- a 6-month-old domestic shorthair from the Multnomah County Animal Shelter I got attached to the day we met him. The name they had given him was Avery, but I thought he looked more like a Higgins, so that's what we call him now. This kitty is currently vying for my attention, so I suppose I can type up more later.

Staring at a grey city sky

I guess I sometimes wonder why I can't get myself to care at all enough. I imagine what it would be like if I could wake every morning filled with energy and feeling renewed with life -- I could meet people, do things, make a difference in the world. I could learn new things. I could have new experiences, or reminisce about old ones with old friends around places we all remember growing up. I could feel connected with people, connected with the world. And I could be happy.

And yet this stigmatized illness leaves me staring at the sunless sky while all that was once so dear (and in all reality, still is and will always, always be) to my heart drifts by; I dream without sleeping.

I suppose

that it certainly could be much, much worse.

Less than 30 days, new year's resolutions broken: every fucking one of them.

First report of 2011

Misssed classes for two weeks now. Doctor appointment Feb 16.

I lie in bed, unable to care or eat or go out. The pain from my right shoulder is flaring again.

My eyes are tired despite only looking at nothing all day.

My mouth, much like my spirit, is dry.

PROMPT: The Story of My Name

It's Chel. Not Chelsea, not Shell, not Michelle or whateverthefuck you want to extend it into. Just Chel. I sort of picked it, actually -- I was born Renchel Regene Marie. But I was born to parents too young, who attempted but failed to maintain commitment after accidental child. I haven't physically seen my father since I was four. I hated him for it, you know. Just a little less than I pitied myself. I didn't even want to talk to him for the longest time. And that was just over e-mail. It was easier that way. When I had the opportunity to change my name, my mom let me choose it. Somehow it made it more special, I guess. It gave me control after lacking it for so long and being miserable because of it. That's what the doctors said the anorexia was. My feeble attempt at gaining some sort of control over my life. It went terribly wrong, of course. I'm all too familiar with the scent of hospitals, too familiar with the policies in the ICU. They don't even let immediate family in, you know. Not until you're stable. And they can't be bothered to come out and give them updates. I don't even remember the ambulance. My mother cried and cried all night. It was Mother's Day.

OCD meets pen and paper

Lists, lists, lists
organization, categorization,
chronology, importance
numbers, numbers, numbers
spilling over to the next list
objects, events, people
names, positions, relationships
remember, remember
                 and do not forget
   tie a piece of string around
   your finger (instead of that
   noose around your neck--)
so it stays imprinted into your
mind,  so you can recall, with
some accuracy,whatever you
kept on your list
          list list lists.

PROMPT: "I can't believe he said that to you."

"That dick."

"I don't think he meant it like that," I began, but already the two brothers were nodding at each other slightly. They had this look in their bright blue eyes that told me they'd already made up their minds. I immediately regretted showing them his picture.

"Don't worry. We'll take care of it."

I leaned forward, pressing my forehead into my palms. "At least keep your masks on this time, please?"

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PROMPT: I've never seen a sky quite like it.

I let my left foot catch up with its other and just stood there, head angled back, smiling like an idiot. I burst into laughter. Some women sitting together in a car paused before a red light in a black box turned and stared. Their lips took turns moving under their fixed eyes, but I angled my umbrella to block them out of my view. The clouds resumed their glow, and their sparkles fill all that is around me.

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First day of classes

So tired.

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One day I'll stop waiting til I'm done writing the blog to write the title.

So I've been addicted to this app on my iPhone called Opinionaided. It's this thing where  people post questions (or in reality, anything at all) and you can offer your opinion and/or advice. I tried it on a whim, because the screenshots the developers posted had it being used for fashion advice and I sure do love fashion!

What I've really been into, though, was giving advice in the Dating & Relationships sections. I'm not sure who the target audience is for the app but I've been seeing a lot of teenagers using it and they have pretty much the same problems I had when I was a teenager, so I felt compelled to offer advice. I guess I didn't really know what to expect when I started -- I'm sort of used to all the trolls on WoW and stuff -- but I've been getting a lot of sincere people who really appreciate the advice. Actually, most people I offer advice to really appreciate it and seem to benefit from it.

It got me thinking, thanks to Get-It-Done-Guy Stever Robbins and his book, if I could somehow turn that skill into a career. That is not to say that I somehow want to make money off of these people -- I just want to do this for a living! It makes me happy helping people. I want to be able to do it all the time, not just whenever I have free time. I often don't really find myself with enough free time to spend anyway!

New Year's Resolutions

* No skipping classes
* Study more
* Write daily
* Chat with more people one-on-one
* Volunteer at the high school
* Read/listen to books for fun

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