some analogy about swimming (drowning)

Last weekend I blacked out for the second time. It's taken a lifetime, but I really believe now, that I am not in control. Suppression only works when you lock all the doors.

I sit here sometimes, and wave my fists in the air. Write these empowering bullshit letters to myself about how interesting and strong I am and all the things that I might deserve. But I don't feel strong.

I've been in the Midwest for 6 years now. I thought I had outrun the dark imbalance, but I still haven't found my footing. But here's the thing. I'm 32. Will I ever? I have been in this mode of Don't Worry It'll Happen for over a decade, and actually making efforts for the last 5 of those years but.

I'm still just this. Good jobs, friends, a great man. And I can't pull myself above the water long enough to gulp the air and see the skies. I'm still feet below. Haunted by the warmth my fingertips feel above the foam, the sun exists, I need her. Just knowing the atmosphere is really there might have to be enough. I have a vivid imagination.

I am taking steps, I promise. I quit drinking, I am writing again, thinking about drawing. But I'm not working, I have become wary and paranoid of people, I am lashing out at my partner, I am weighted down by this strange winter. I have nothing to give, I can't follow through. I know this.

I feel better for my self awareness, though. Long thoughts in a quiet house have brought me closer to understanding how my madness works. I think about cutting everyday, but I'm doing good, I'm steering clear. The summer was harder, I forgive myself for that. In a constant state of restart, I have to be. Do you know what it is like, to try to describe this fog to another? Watching them struggle with the automatic responses - Don't I give you everything? Don't I make you happy? What have I done? And you can reach over and say please, it's internal, this is chemistry, goddamn it I'm suffocating and I'm the one tying the concrete block to my legs help me, and it won't matter. When it's this hard to talk about, you keep it to yourself. It festers.

And you learn that really, no matter how much people love you, you're on your own with this. Some try to stand valiantly with you. But it only takes one step too far for them to throw their hands up and say Fuck this, THIS is fucking crazy.

I'm just working through this, hair drifting around me in the deep cold water, I keep my eyes closed and retreat into my head. The room, do you remember it? The windows are foggy and dripping with condensation. There's nothing out there anyway. I love the way it smells, like wood and maybe pomegranate body spray. The boxes are scattered, the closet door is open. The animal is out and she purrs into my hand as I stand in the middle of this cluttered, stifling space. I talk to her, because she is me.

Maybe, for the first time, she'll talk back to me. Instead of screaming, instead of attacking. Silver eyes and my own heart. Maybe together, we can find balance, start kicking, and find the air.

lately

I am
-trying not to feel bad about anything i did to him. not even feeding the dumpster his junk.
-attempting to slay the stafford dragon of sallie mae to in turn rescue the damsel that is my education and future.
-laughing at the last line.
-trying to explain to my mother what a BLOG is.
-starving, shaking and smoking too much today. those commercials were right depression hurts.
-missing my dog. shes right here and we both seem to know she cant come home with me.
-worried about tom. hes working too hard. supporting me. trying to find a way to love me when im so goddamned combative. hes a trooper. i love him in ways unknown to most.
-waiting to go home so i can finish that new painting. its so pretty. urrrg.
-dreaming of women. alot.
-tired.

ive been trying so hard to get work. lets hope im successful soon. we finally got cable. i am now a hermit. too much americas next top model marathons. their ruining my life. good eats, no reservations, project runway. kill me kill me kill me.

heres to the stomachache and the headache.

heres to the chipping nail polish on my fingers and giselles pictures from another country with the works of my idol. heres to the acrylic on my jeans. yes i am one of those girls.

i should have said thanks career point. then i wouldnt have to be so poor. just embarrassed.

hah. what an ending.