lillian m. blakey moon_window




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Sunlight on Earth

� Copyright 2006-2012
Monday, Jul. 07, 2008 - 2:25 am

=*=


My heart feels like it's being squeezed out of my chest. I wish I didn�t have a dentist appt tomorrow. I really need to cry this shit out. But I have to get to bed soon.

It�s a bit obvious that the �what I did with P� entry is not happening. I�ve tried to write it for days now, and I wish I could get through it. I�ll write the parts that mean the most to me, later. For now, I�ll just say that it was a little too good having P back here for the few days he was. My stupid heart is not capable of saying goodbyes, even just short goodbyes. The second I saw him, I re-experienced the happiness I felt having a real friend here � the kind who includes you in certain events they partake in, the kind who calls you just because they were bored with homework and thought talking to you would be more interesting, the kind who you can call to ask favors of and who usually find a way to help you, the kind who gets really happy when they bump into you in the hallway at school, or gets to drive you there, the kind of friend I haven�t had since he left a year ago. The kind of friend I haven't gotten to be. On Wednesday, he was the kind of friend who got happy at seeing me again and ran out of his car to give me the biggest and best hug. We spent about 16 hours together over two days. And so I�m grieving re-losing that level of closeness and safety that I feel with him. Really badly, actually.

That, and I�m in the process of doing something I�ve only ever had to do to my dad � I�m preparing myself for the end of talking to W, as in cutting off contact. I wrote him an email, and we�ve �discussed� it on AIM and a little by phone last night because he had to call me to apologize for being such an asshole and blowing up at me again. He doesn�t seem to get just how much he hurts me, and he just tells me he will stop and that he doesn�t want me to cut off contact with him. I really can�t take anymore of his lying, which he claims he doesn�t do but does, his blowing up at me, his shoving the fact in my face that he hangs out with all of his other friends but me, he doesn�t ever email me back, or call me back, or keep his promises...Like the promise to be friends that I stupidly took seriously when he broke up with me � I never agreed to be internet friends with him, but that is what we turned it into. We�re not even that anymore, really. Being that he�s the only person I know here who does �talk� to me when he feels like it, even though he usually ends up being mean, but he would be here if say, my mom dies on me, so this is hard. Mostly, it�s because I have to kill my dreams that involve him. And I have to create an illusion of the things that meant anything to me between us. I feel I need to pretend I made it up so that I can let it go. And I let go knowing that I no longer hope for more to replace it. He pretty much killed any chance of my trusting another new man.

I�m not very good at this; in a way hanging myself would be less painful. And I have a thousand thoughts on this, myself, my life, my circumstances, and whether I�m giving up or not. Because I do feel that I am.

I�m grateful that Josh talked to me tonight. I felt so scattered. I still do, but...cared about despite it.

Something that Josh said made me at least have a possible legitimate answer for why I�m not writing. Because at age 18 I hadn�t left the house for 6 years straight, I wrote a lot. By age 22 I also played piano fairly well, self-taught. I planted flowers in my bedroom window on a table. I would sit on my window-table, as I thought of the trees below. I drew them, and my flowers. I painted them, and I made up stories about them to turn into elaborate poems. I wrote to keep sane in my literal utter isolation. I wrote insanely detailed poems in perfect rhythm and meter. I wrote poems that gave two stories, for instance one about the rain if read one way and suicide if taken the other way. They both tell perfect stories regardless of which way you take it. I often stayed up till 6 am with these stories and words rummaging around in my head, creating situations and people and events � all because, at 23 years old, I had literally never had any of those things. But at 28, I have, and I have lost those people and things and am grieving those losses, and am saddened at the distance between other friends and myself. I�m no longer happy with made-up people and events. I want something tangible, even though my hope of really ever having that is dying. And in the case of relationships, is taking its last breath. If I�m no longer happy with writing because it makes me re-live the isolation, and I sit here friendless (in my town) yet hoping for and afraid of people at the same time, and feeling despair regardless of what I do � the remaining question is: what do I do now? Whatever it is it needs to not involve trust or isolation.

And I think I�m relapsing and becoming further agoraphobic in a whole new way, and Josh thinks it�s all a part of my getting better � being so unhappy with my 10x12 foot box. My room feels more like a coffin now than it ever has. And I�m realizing that I'm going to make a really bad dead person some day.

~e

=*= one day i'll fly away =*=

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yeah so, stuff is happening... - Monday, Sept. 18, 2017

my mind is on the blink - Tuesday, Sept. 12, 2017

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finally breaking down - Monday, Sept. 04, 2017