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.

(750 stats)

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.

(750 stats)

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.