I THINK THEREFORE I REMAIN INSANE

I think therefore I'm insane.

JOURNAL ENTRY - THE BREAKTHROUGH MOMENT

I don’t think there is ever one break through moment. I do, however, think bits and bits of pieces, days, nights, weeks, months of living in hell do eventually catch up with you. For me, my moment wasn’t planned. It was one of the strangest, greatest, monumental moments in my life that was really a collection of dark times I’ve had for years.

It all unfolded pretty fast. One day I was walking down the street and every step I took was a terrible feeling of being in my own skin. My brain had finally detached from you body and was ruling it and making it hard to find a way for them to co-exist together. I started crying uncontrollably and could feel my skin crawling on top of my hot blood. My mind was a complete pulsating blur and it emotionally hurt, finally. I called my best friend in a state of heightened trauma and bleed through the phone.
“I can’t take it anymore.”
“Where are you?” I could hear the panicked concern in her voice.
“I can’t take it.”
“Where are you? I’m coming to get you right now.”
“No. I can’t. I can’t take it.”
“Take what?”
“I can’t live in my skin anymore. My brain has melted it.”
“I am coming to get you, are you home?” And like a switch I turned.
“I’m fine. I’m ok. I have to go.” And I hung up never thinking how hard it must be for my friends. I was so blessed to have friends that held on especially when I couldn’t. I walked back home and decided somehow, some way I was going to get help.

The next day I was at the gyno having my regular examine. I sat on the table, completely defeated, with that stupid piece of paper falling off my back, as the doctor wrote in my file.
“I need help.” It came out of the air. I never thought it before it simply released itself into the room, nor did I think it was me who said it when it hit the air. I sat there for a millisecond and wondered where it came from. I must have been the defeated self finally giving up, I had reached that bottomless pit and somewhere deep inside of me something had had enough. It was the hardest and easiest thing I had to say. My doctor turned around and as if I just told him the grass is green and said, “Ok.” Just like that. Ok. And that was it.

The next day I was in a therapist office with the plant and Kleenex resting on a glass table beside me and a clock staring back at me across the room and a woman watching me as I started to speak. Fifteen minutes into my monologue she stopped me.
“I’m not going to be able to help you.” I thought she was kidding.
“Ah, ok.”
“You are going to have to see a psychiatrist.” I guess I was more fucked up than I realized.

The next day I was sitting in a psychiatrist’s office and that was the beginning of my recovery.

THE SHRINK JOURNEY

The radio sounds like a foreign exchange student
I’m totally fine
Wondering why I am uncomfortable in my own car
On a Tuesday early morning.

Ryan Seacrett beams about a woman that loves Mongolian BBQ.

Unbeing.

Unropped
Thinking about what to wear that five minutes in bed before entering functionality
Put together
For all.

Unable to capture myself
As I drive.

Down Burton Way

Not knowing why I am uncomfortable in the world.

Not at easy with a specific situation is like
Not knowing why you are not at ease.

I pull my leg down the side of my car
Then feel control
The only kind I can at this moment
Bodily.

As the mind sits across the surface for security.

But you’re not drunk
No hangover.

Just not sure
If you will ever be
At ease.


JOURNAL ENTRY – THE CONVERSATION WITH MY DAD

I finally had the conversation with my Dad. He already knew about it and asked me if I was “shrunk yet.” I told him I was still shrinking. I ended up hanging up unfulfilled with my argument or truth on my desperation, so I sent an email. I knew he would get it the next morning, but didn’t think he had the balls to call me after he read it.
“Huggums, I got your email.”
I tried to sound like I was not still in bed, 10 am was early for me.
“I was just taken aback that you knew before I could tell you.”
He was so loving and supportive that I chocked back tears that hurt to swallow.
“And I want you to know I understand at times of people’s lives they need a shrink. Just as long as it’s not some Hollywood bullshit.”
The tears dissipated faster than they came. Does he really think I’m some Hollywood cliché?

I had told my dad in the email that I was a miserable person, unhappy in all aspects of my life, socially, professionally, spiritually (I never actually said God or put God in the equation for fear of sounding ‘keshie’ as my Dad called it.) He was in good spirits and took my spoonful piles of mud down his tender throat better than I would expect.
“It’s not that I am suicidal or anything, I just hate myself.”
I was surprised to hear the assertive confident sentences about the terrible state of my mental health verbalized. Bottom line, he’s more than a reasonable person with a loving mind capable of supporting me during challenging times. Fuck, he’s awesome. He made me feel at ease when I told him that I couldn’t even answer my phone.
I doubt he’ll give me shit for that anytime in the permanent future.

JOURNAL ENTRY

Motherfucker.

I don’t want to isolate anyone in my tears of loss, so I have no one to call. It’s much worse to scare someone than it is to scare me with my loneliness and tormented activity these past few weeks. I never thought about it before, but now I have a responsibility to the people I love, and throw my problems at. I can’t do it, and have them stress for me because they “know” I’m fucked up and worry about every fucking second of it when I actually articulate it. This is why it is better letting it reside in me. I feel better with that than causing my loved ones alert concern.

JOURNAL ENTRY

I am gone through treatment and am finally starting to understand the depths of my existence. I would not change the chemistry of my brain and accept that being bi-polar is being me. I only hope I can share something for a person out there that is walking around without help or guidance. Walking around just like me.

TIME AND THE VCR

Tired but awake
Aware but delusional
There are fireworks of thought
Real ephemeral ideas
Bursting from the brain.

Then it becomes silent.

What did I do?
Where did I go?
I have no fucking idea
Because the madness lives in
Mania
Madness that I believe
Earns Truth.

And it does
Somewhere
But it's not a job
It's not productive
It's simply a moment of severe
Thought brought forth through
Incoherence of heightened energy
And it's awesome
And quick salvation
From this world
But it doesn't live in the day by day mind
I will never have a day by day mind
Because time is a nightmare.

Am I going to sleep tonight?
And wake up exhausted
Fueled by anxiety
To do what?
To go where?

Time and the VCR
It's an unreal clock telling me the external world is slow and boring
I’m bored because
My mind is fast forward all the time
Or on pause
While the world walks in slow motion
And I’m left alone
Inside.

JOURNAL ENTRY – I WENT OFF MY MEDS AND HERE I AM

POEM: A DUI IN ALHAMBRA

I ran into him
And ran
He followed me
Into a cold-a-sack
A civilian trying to save
My life
I kissed him to save my ass
But the cop was already called.

He walked heavily
Pulling up his belt
Must get in costume.

All right let’s go.

We drove to the hospital
I told him the cuffs could be tighter.

Blood over blow
The needle goes in
I look up
The nurse says sorry in his eyes.

Put your finger here
I smile
I can’t make life of this.

I wasn’t a convict
Badass jaily with an emotionless face
So I smile.

The camera came out.

The flash burned my eyes.

How will I get my contacts out tonight?

My bare feet don’t cry at the tiles
Yet the smell sinks beneath my nails
Greasy clean
Old muck coats the skin.

I lie on the steel bench
And rest my head on the toilet paper roll
I don’t fit on the deck.

I’ll just sleep.

As I lie on a metal shelf that doesn’t fit
My body
Like lying on a cement dock
Resting my legs against the wall
And wait.

They took my bra, my shoes and socks, then asked me to remove my necklace.

Everything.
Take everything.

I press the call button

And tell the Hispanic sheriff

That I need my medicine
Nothing.

I was released in a day worse off then before.

JOURNAL ENTRY – DRUNK DRIVING SCHOOL

I’m in drunk driving school and I’m so lonely that I look forward to every Wednesday night that reeks hell for everyone else. Deciding what to wear, putting some mascara on with a swipe of lip-gloss. I rule the room. I have the best stories, the most love and definitely the most fun.
I must be terribly lonely. Beyond recognition. Three months, six months, nine month programs. The people are normal. As normal as normal comes. Maybe that’s why I like it so much. Regular citizens with families, friends, a life outside of their DUI hell.

JOURNAL ENTRY – DINNER WITH A WISE FRIEND

It’s fair to say that I recently discovered how to land, and keep, a man. Me, and one of my best friends, C, figured it out.
“I slept with him too early. That’s why I lost a good catch.” C meant every word and I knew exactly what she was talking about.
“I did too. Well..” Now here comes my pathetic justification. “I had a clock because he was leaving, so that’s why.”
Why what…I fucked him the second I got a chance? Oh yes folks, he made ME wait to fuck him senseless, so I lasted about three days, then BANG, ing….began. Is that why I lost the battle of commitment? The allure, the mystery, the lusting….I shall start over. Does that mean I lose the hot sexy vixen tip I sported so damn well? Is there a balance between chastity and naked twister?
So he left. I would’ve made it work but it was never in his pimp daddy cards so the ‘Summer Fling’ attitude took hold. And it remained the card game of choice, making it more than easy, for a gamer, that is, to decide to become Elizabeth Billingsley.

JOURNAL ENTRY – DISSECTING THE MESSAGE

I love how his messages (messages meaning the TWO that have hinted at more than just friends) attempt to appease a soul, a soul that yearns for love, sex, companship, commitment, compassion, and everything else that goes with a ‘relationship.’ Relationship. Sounds harmless; means nice pretty things to me. I am not sure what it means to him but, based on plot, I’d have to say it was derived from convenience, and an acute selfishness veiled in unselfish catch phrases like “I don’t want to hurt you and give you the wrong idea.” Can’t you just say something from the heart; untainted by plot and convenience? No. Maybe I am the idiot. Back to the communication factor, when you don’t communicate all that much, you tend to save more messages than necessary, and play them back a few times then is more than necessary. I take time leaving my messages. I am familiar with the erase and record button. I don’t know what recent invention in the past several years is more useful, ‘cut and paste’ or ‘If you are pleased with your message press one, to erase and rerecord press two.’ Genius. You can erase and re-record indefinitely! Or, as far as I know, which is around…thirty four or five re-recordings. There is no need to write out your message these days. Knowing this new feature on the cell phone, how do tactless messages still exist? Either, he’s not into me enough to care what he says, or sounds like, or he doesn’t know this special feature on his phone. At least I can catch vulnerable moments in between breaths during his message, but, that doesn’t excuse the tactlessness I’ve encountered.

For example, tactlessness like “And I miss you and have been thinking of you”…ha, don’t think you’re the only one. – the only one that what? Did I write or say something that yelled, I am obsessed and think of you all the time? Is my pathetic attempt to be nonchalant and instigate a chase show down loose in its logic? It appears loose when he drops such cocky notions like “Don’t worry you’re not the only one,” which enters my brain as follows: ‘”Don’t let the fact that I know you are obsessed with me stop you from obsessing for I can throw you a sudo empathetic comment that keeps you on the plank.”
What he hears himself say, “You’re obsessed and I can deal with that because I am in the drivers seat.” The truth? “I am not capable of expressing my feelings so use your obsession to communicate an ounce of my heart.” And that is supposed to not only appease me, but be good enough. Too bad the car continues to change in my desperate attempt to reinvent the game to make it educational for all. So I’ll let that pathetic attempt to tell me he misses me go and decide what car is going to ride this puppy home.
Maybe a convertible with a built in parasol. Yeah, that works.

JOURNAL ENTRY – FAKE IT

It’s my lack of a career that might be a problem here but even if you aren’t the career woman, fake it. It’s easy to do. It’s easier than you think, especially if you have the clothes.

Fake Out tips
#1. The cell phone. Easiest fake out in the world. This method comes in handy when you have a man that makes you wait. If you happen to be waiting outside his apartment for him to buzz you in and that bitch makes you wait….out comes the phone. Time is hot, you’re hot so your time is hot and more valuable than the average woman. Take that phone out and fake a call. Pretend you are on the line with a studio head, talk business, talk work, preferably work talk that runs in your circles and bleeds into his work talk so he is interested. You may sound more sharp than he initially imagined. It works, and you know when it works when he inquires post fake phone call about your fake conversation. This makes the fake conversation fun because you can fake any information you want. Just make sure you are prepared for a debate on your knowledge. If he knows anything of your business work talk world he will feel the need to give his educated ego dollars on the subject to add to your penny bank. Stupid guy. Little does he know you faked the whole thing only to school him in what you “already know.” Get it? Besides, when is the last time he asked you about your job. I’ll come back to this idea.

#2. Props aka Homework. Flush yourself with binders, notebooks, contracts, pens, highlights…your basic school supplies turned corporate. Details are fundamental, for example, files. Files must be labeled with care…don’t write on the file, type that label out like your “assistant” did it for you. Materials should be at home with you, and in the car. The car is key. You don’t want a messy car but, a few papers fresh from the office, dated that day, shows you are so busy that you have to take it home, as you move the heap of binders, notes, etc. up and to the back seat, making room for his sexy ass.
“I’m sorry, work is crazy.” Quick, easy; sufficient to sell your point.

#3. Your time rests in simple…hard…lies.
“I have to run, (check watch like you need to be somewhere but you are so high up on the food chain that you determine your time), I’m late for a meeting.” There’s no meeting. You know as an obsessed lover no meeting matters, if you even had a meeting, it wouldn’t matter because you’re obsessed so just fake it. Fake it hard.

# 4. Sex.
No sex. Your innate sexuality is your most misunderstood weapon, thus, your greatest tool. Generations of writers, philosophers, academics, scholars, poets, PHD’s that make a living giving sexual harassment workshops, will tell you how to manage your misunderstood sexuality. Unfortunately, misunderstood power is often suppressed, or educated through fear. Simplified to children: Keep your hands, feet and personal objects to yourself. We are familiar with this rule. We have been all throughout grade school as it was posted for all to adhere to. What you don’t know you fear and through fear, try to explain in a way that hinders the truth. In other words, men fear women. Fear their pulsating sexuality to the point where Rules and Regulations and sexual politics do their damnest to contain. You are smarter than those Neanderthals. You know your hotness, so know it, and don’t let their (man’s) pathetic attempt to interpret it convince you of a lie. It is scary how many fold to masculine hypothesis. Hypothesis: woman are teases, sex distractions…they must be stopped. You are walking sex. Period. You can manifest your hotness, but only as a tease, a commercial of your product to be attained and longed for until the big show.

Text messenger is….well, you decide, “When will you let me make love to you?” Funny how that comment came out of NOWHERE! No, there was no lead into such a hard core, anti everything I’ve preached, statement.

POEM: EXTERIORS ARE VOID

You’re too thin.
That’s why.

You spent a year and a half turning thin
You’re too thin.

Your soft ghostly rolls
Like a horse who knows his saddle.

Having sex
Fat awareness ruins the chance of attention to your details
Are my arms fat?

You’re too thin
You can bite me.

Your red shades don’t fool anyone.
Exteriors are void.

JOURNAL ENTRY – YOU’RE TOO SKINNY

“You’re too skinny.” What? I didn’t know what to say. After a year of busting my fat ass to be skinny for him only to find out the reason he never committed to me sent me over the edge. Over-The-Edge.

Of course I starved myself weeks before he came into town and ran. And ran some more. Mother fucker. Of course I sucked in every line of oxygen and pretended I was fine only to make my stomach flat. I was not skinny, I was normal.

“Are you…” I had no words to describe the shock that I thought would mask the pain but the depth was too strong. It was time. I went for it.

“My mother was anorexic and my sister was anorexic and you have the gull to tell me I’m too skinny when I am the normal healthy one in my family!” All he could say was sorry. I’ll show you sorry.

“That’s the only thing.” He said with a blank silence that followed. I held the silence not knowing what to be. I was ready to pull the string of fairness. I did what any logical person does, I hit back. Below the belt.
“Ok.” And that was my big response that was only a punch to my insides because I didn’t know how to go below the belt.

I hung up and hysterically balled. Fuck. What a fuck. Fuckin’ idiot. You’d think I would be like “Thank you. Thanks for calling me skinny. But it all seemed so ridiculous. And to think the last time he was here he slept in my bed and didn’t lay a fingernail on me while I lied there thinking I was all skinnysexy. Fucccckkkk that.

POEM: MAD

I am so mad I can’t feel myself
And I don’t know why
Is it my fault I spent a year
And a half
Pinning after a man
That never gave back?
I ran and worried
About being skinny
Every day
Sex in bed
Afraid of the rolls
Popping out
In disgust it would sear his brain
And make him rethink being mine
He said I am too thin
All that work for nothing
All that work only to be told
The opposite of my sweaty
Heaving nightmares
So thinking must do nothing
Only words out loud stop such pain
And the energy I wasted on wanting him
To want me.

JOURNAL ENTRY – I NEED A JOB

Unemployment proper. Sleep, drink, sleep, feel the head swim with “what the fuck should I do?”

POEM: INSERCURITY

I don’t know
When this will end
But it must
Because it can’t go on forever
Not knowing
Nothing
At all.

I was out here for a reason
How is it I’m 29
And still afraid.

The brain screams
Bellows something in-between thought and decision
Being lost is not a friend
It’s a dare
To become someone else

Myself.

I clap and feel a release from my brain
To stop the penetration of thought
And move my body some more
Make a focus.

Where do I have to dance to it?
And make it real.

MOUNT EVEREST

Get up.

The faint buzz of foggy nothingness
Is me
A zombie that walks to her home.

I watch an episode of Sex and the City
I’ve seen it…four
Teen times?

I don’t want to die.
But I can’t get up from my chair to return the video.

The bathroom is Mount Everest
So I hold my pee
As long as I can.

My mind is crying and crying
I can’t find the tears
Or whip them away
They just fall down my body
And fill my soul.

The sea of salt
Depression.

I can swim.

With waves,
I may drown.


JOURNAL ENTRY – DESPERATE

It’s times of desperate attempts to find your place in this world that ideas enter the mind like, maybe I should revamp the dead feminist movement and give it a botox brow lift. On a serious tip, I think it’s time to discuss what is going on with the deep seated desperate attempt to land a man, and that that entails, thus giving insight into how we need to adjust accordingly.

JOURNAL ENTRY – NATURE VS. NURTURE

Is it nature or nurture. Both. But I lay on nature and the beast that needs to be tamed. Without emphasis on the beast, it doesn’t matter where you are, you can find a bed to sleep in and not get out of anywhere. You can also find a night open to gallovate throughout the streets picking up and talking to whoever crosses your manic path.

POEM: DEPRESSION IS A BEDROOM WALL

I stare at a wall in my bedroom
And am relieved to find meaning.

That I am doing something
I find hope that my next step will be more than hours of watching a wall
Even entertainment in the red paint the gives me a color
To watch.

It’s doing something
And it gives me pleasure to know
Although I feel nothing
I am doing an action

When I stare at my bedroom wall.

December

I don’t want to leave my bed
Because I don’t want to dress
I’m not happy with my body
I don’t shop
Don’t want to enter a room with florescent mirrors
Deep ascension into a deeper cycle of self
Hate
The sand falls fast
Darkness engulfs me
I breathe in white air
That turns black in my mouth
Ascending down my throat
Into the abyss of my stomach
A void covered by rolls
Of fat that hide it.

Backwards efficiency.

JOURNAL ENTRY - FAT IS NOT FUN

I have gained weight on the lithium and can’t take it anymore. I come from a family that if you are anorexic you are doing well.

POEM: MAYBE IT’S THEM

I’m a rich white girl from Westwood
Boo hoo
There’s no trailer park.

There’s an upper class education
A Jacuzzi in the back yard
Next to old sky poles.

And a big fat roll of lard above my rage.

It takes over my mind.

As my mother looks
Away
And says
With a State of the Union authority

“don’t get any fatter”
“why are you buying the tall half and half, just get the small one.”

While my father chimes in

“keep your face out of the feed bag.”

I’d rather be skinny in a trailer park
At least every day I’d feel
Hot.

JOURNAL ENTRY – STALE BREAD

I wake up after hours, almost a day, of sleeping and roll from my bed to the chair in my living room. I thought dismantling my TV would keep me from falling into a tvpression but now I only watch my one DVD over and over and over to the point that I hope I’ll come to be over it and get my ass up and out of my apartment. But I don’t. I continue to watch it, and am thankful to have something to watch. My brain is stale bread but not hard. It’s just stale, sitting there on the shelf of my head and flat as a pancake. I have no thoughts, no words, no passion, nothing. I thank God I have no phone calls to return because it gives me a panic attack to have to check my messages to hear someone on the other end wanting to know where I am, what I’ve been “up to.” And I can’t say absolutely nothing because they know. The people left holding onto an absent friend know about me and would think things about my state of mind. I don’t want to burden anyone with my sterile world, but maybe that’s a lie. I don’t want the burden of people knowing and having them think about it, or try and talk to me about it, because no one has any idea what my world is here stuck in my hollow apartment where the only thing keeping me cognate of some relationship to life is my cat. I wish I could just cry and let it all out so I can be done with this. But I can’t. It’s worse. I feel nothing but am sure what with all the personal pressure to stay on top of my mental state, go running, be productive (whatever the hell that means at this point) which is void is a deep internal long cry that has no end. I went to Santa Barbara to the premiere of my friend’s film and drove home with light on my cheeks. I wish I knew what was that thing that made me get up and go. I know i'm scared for myself and the myriad of days and days going by with nothing other than some cheese and a screen. Even preparing my plate of cheese and crackers is doing something that makes me feel alive. So it would be nice to capture whatever made me get in my car and drive in a jar and breath into it when I am scared again. How does fear lead to strength I’ll never know. I was anxious when I was trying to get out of the city mostly because I slept 14 hours and was 6 hours behind my attempt of a schedule. I only spent one night out of the city and actually had someone say I was glowing when I went to my usual local market to get some more cheese. Just that little accomplishment brought some life back into my face.

POEM: A SCARY FACE

Crazy eyes
That pump through the air of vision
Watching an unknown
A not so blank stare
But a stare of blankness
Hit with a truth
Out of the head
From the insides
Scary Face.

Not fear
Not knowing
Pure unknowing of the self
And who that is
Why like that?

Is that me?

JOURNAL ENTRY – THE ROLLERCOASTER RIDE

I’ve had some sudo manic nights for the past few weeks. Going out meeting random guys and taking them home or going home with them. I’m not having sex but long for a kiss so do that. I did have two boys in my bed at one point and managed not to do anything with either of them but was in the middle with no space on either side to fall from. Fleeting physical companionship in a night over does make me feel better than no one and I don’t think it makes me lonelier in the end. It is something to hold onto and recall in my memory so I know I am not a total recluse. I even started talking to a neighbor a few blocks down and went out to dinner with him and his pose which I enjoy. I like plummeting myself into other peoples social lives and know that I can hold my own socially without exposing the truth about my silent life. Since I’ve lost weight I do see a significant difference in how men treat me and it should give me some power but it’s more that I don’t want to eat. I’m hungry but don’t care. In fact, when I do eat I cook so I am having some type of social interaction with something, even if it is food it’s something other than just a screen. Food’s a living thing right?

I know that D is onto me and says she can “tell” I’m manic from my text messages. So, there’s another one I have to watch out for. She is the only person in my entire life and journey of shit that is close enough to me and my disease to know when it’s taking hold of my existence. She has enough to deal with than to worry about me. And the last thing I need is for her to tell my parents and have them get that whole can of “what am I supposed to do” opened up all over the sink.

JOURNAL ENTRY – EVERYTHING’S MARVELOUS

One of my best friends from grammar school is in town and I can’t even muster the will power to get in my car and meet her for frozen yogurt. I have nothing to report about my life and am ashamed. Plus, I am pretty sure I can’t pull of the smiley everything’s marvelous and I am full of life and happiness when my eyes are like gray coals sucked into my head as the depression has lodged itself onto my sockets and has managed to slowly suck the life out like a goddamn leech.

I have to do something because death is not a solution. Death is way to scary to even speak of and I am thrilled that I have no intentions to think about death. But, having said that, living in a coffin, my bed, most of the day and night, in a funeral home, my quiet apartment, day after day with consciousness of a living death sucks pretty bad too. I just don’t care and want the days to melt by so I can wake up and hate myself for wasting another week.

If only my music was in me so I could dance around my apartment. Music has always saved me in the past and even that is of no interest. Now THAT is the beginning of the end.

I love dusk. It is staring at me in the face and if I move from my chair to the balcony chair I will be forced to be there alone, with myself. The silence of my brain living in the silence of the balcony and sadness that dusk is slowly fading away to night is too depressing so….I’ll keep watching my DVD instead.

JOURNAL ENTRY – DICKWADES

So I stopped by my local pub to get a beverage and started talking to a guy who showed me pics of his daughters and then he had to go because his wife was calling him and he texted me when he was outside asking me to come out so he could kiss me. I’m not sure why that happened, but if I had a shot of my face when I got that text it would be worth getting it to begin with. Assholes and their dicks and the poor women that fuck them.

JOURNAL ENTRIES – MEET THE NEIGHBORHOOD WHY DON’T CHA

I am meeting some more neighbors. I was on my way home from my taco bar when I saw a couple on the street open a door to a staircase heading toward a party. I smiled like I was also a party invitee and climbed the stairs to a huge loft full of people drinking and chatting. I made my way to the balcony where I found a nice warm seat by a fire and was immediately hit on by some guy. I told him I would make out with him but not have sex. He wasn’t so keen on the idea and I excused myself to go find someone else to talk with. I walked up to a hot guy chilling in the kitchen and the next thing I know we headed toward the bathroom. Clothes flew off our backs as we devoured each other. I felt sexy. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and sure looked sexy. It was just what I needed. Some hot make out time with a hot stranger in a scandalous outpouring of lust all over the bathroom tiles. I walked home feeling refreshed and hit my pillow wondering how I was going to get sex, especially with my “no sex” rule that was beginning to result in wild outrage that ended with me walking out of someone’s bathroom while people in line gave that look, ah, yeah. What I should have done is tell the guy that I was interested in having him as my booty call, no names, no details, just someone to call on a moments notice for some sex. That kind of sex I can justify because it would be with the same person and a way for me to stop having bursts of “why am I doing this no sex thing and is it driving me to insanity” moments in the kitchen when I unload my Portobello mushrooms.

At least I still have my dildo. I even changed the batteries today after trying every way to figure what which way they go. I thought I had just replaced the batteries recently but they were already dead so was thrilled to find it working again once I put new ones in.

JOURNAL ENTRY - CARDS

I realize now when I picked up a few cards on the table by my door that they are more people than I realize that I have interacted with who happen to have significant others early in their relationships. If I had a filing cabinet for every card I’ve ever received from a man it would be like one of those overstuffed recipe index card holders with all your grandmothers recipes stuffed inside and handwritten by herself with her cursive pen and neatly packaged in a clear plastic covering. Maybe it’s because I am thirty that I seem to come across more unavailable men who are in the early stages of a relationship and, depending on their face, part of me wants to get in early and try and show them the light of my jazz. The guys card I hold how was someone from the Santa Barbara film festival who was, not my style, but someone who seemed to be there: in the hotel room chillin’ with some actor I was supposed to know, at the bar grabbing his drink, at breakfast next to me, unlike the guy in the bathroom recently who I wanted badly who also had a girlfriend, or the guy from the bar with pictures on his phone wallpaper of his kids that send me that text about kissing me who I definitely did not want. They all had second date girlfriends and I wasn’t interested in two of them but enjoyed their conversation, which means I only wanted the bathroom guy because he was hot so I can’t say I am being “good” at this point, it is all physical. What I want is a hot booty call. I’ve never wanted that in my life but think my no sex thing is not working. Nor would a relationship right now in my wine and cheese life.

JOURNAL ENTRY – PORTABELLO MUSHROOMS

I like to cook Portobello mushroom in marsala wine sauce and put them in the oven for two minutes with some shredded parmesan reggano from trader Joes and put them in the broiler for two minutes, (anything more than that will burn the top beyond the brown crust you want) and pop them in my mouth. It’s sad, or maybe funny, how something so passing to most people is just that, passing, to me it’s something to do today, tonight, to look forward to, to do, to prove that I am still human and can enjoy the act of making food even if I don’t want to eat it. Anyone would be thrilled to not want to eat, I mean women and the faggots in my hood, but to me it’s a red flag.

JOURNAL ENTRY – THE PHONE CALL

I went for a run for the first time weeks and came home to my voice huffing and puffing behind I'm not tired vocals in the answering machine of my psychiatrist. I sounded ok, at least I think and was not crying when I said I needed to come in before my scheduled time in two weeks. When he returned I was sorting through tulips in trader Joes with my cart filled with four bags of parmesan reggiano and two packs of Portobello mushrooms, the small ones that you can pop in your mouth instead of the large ones that I was accustomed to, and lowered my head when I heard his voice on the line and he asked if I was ok. Ok. Actually he asked if I was alright with a pulse in his voice like he was worried that I was not ok, like suicide or in a bad place to the point where I was in bad company with myself, and he even asked me in the meeting the next day if I was suicidal and I was ready for it when I said it would at least be a thought to have versus not having any thoughts at all to the point where I don’t even care enough to even care that I don’t care. About anything, or running, or showering or dancing or wandering thoughts or analytical purpose in the trees when I walk by sad people or those that aren’t sure why they are disthoughtful. Disthoughtful is the worst way to be, and that’s what I told my psychiatrist today because it takes a trunk to those that want to die and plan something. In the drivers seat you have a choice but in the trunk you have yourself bound and gagged with darkness and no clue who or what is keeping you hostage. But at least you are not ready to die but know that you don’t know when you will be released from the uncomfortable fetal position you live in inside the metal hole.

I took at bath tonight, the first since my days of eating mangos in the bath tub on East 77th and was stared down by the man with his cork screw eyes and his long nose taking down the water that was above the rim. I put a firming mask on and once I got it frozen pack sealed on my face I smiled at my outrageous yellow walls beating out against the mirror and was pissed. I took the tube of whiting and splurged it all over the face pack and sat in the tub spitting periodically to aleve my mouth from the chemical paste of so help me God I have yellow teeth. And then I got out. And I felt good and removed my plastic guard only to save the remaining amount of paste that was probably four times the amount of what I needed and put it in its neon home and smiled. I saw some great results and feared the rest of my wine glass would destroy the chemicals that were still eating at my yellow grinds and took a straw to the matter. It’s harder than you think to suck down a sip, gulp, pour, amount of wine down your cheeks without hurting the white workers at their best to absorb the plastered gel smeared across your franks.

JOURNAL ENTRY – OFF THE PILL

I saw my psychiatrist today and told him I was staying off the pill because I like feeling like an animal with fierce sexuality and he wanted to make sure I was being safe.
“So you do use condoms right?”
“Yeah.” Flies out my mouth with a wave of laughter to make it sound like a ridiculous question to mask the fact that I had sex three hours earlier with my neighbor that I befriended on the street against a shower wall. No condoms there. I did, however, manage to stop myself the night before when I was out w my new roommate and ended up in a BMW SUV with a group of guys smoking a j and found that I was wasted enough to realize that I was severely wasted, which is pretty wasted. He was hot in a presence way and I managed to just make out w him in his home in studio city and was thrilled to find the lines he told me that I said the next day on the ride home thinking he just didn’t get me, not that I was out of the Jupiter red spot. So when my psychiatrist said he thinks I am at a point where I feel the mania and can go with it or decide to steady myself and I laugh now thinking that there is no fucking way I would NOT dive into the mania and thank God I am not that stale, slow, pathetic, lame, lonely, tired asshole I was on the swing shift so don’t know why anyone wouldn’t magnet themselves to the fridge when that its comfortable space. Fuck that. I am milking the wild excursions as long and hard as I can. I am NOT returning to anything. But I will say I cut back on my limectal because I was twitching at night and the guys I have slept with can feel it and think I am just in a REM sleep when really I am on meds that have long term effects which sucks because if my brain needs it, it should not have any affects…..but no one seems to have a grip on bi-polar minds so we suffer as a result. I’ve decided I am going to pull back on most of my meds and see if I can utilize my energy for wild accomplishment. If only I didn’t open my Charter School Teacher interview with a soliloquy from Shakespeare to be or not to be speech and say
“To live or to die, how many people think this is the opening to a suicide letter?”
Didn’t think it was a problem at the time, but now, wonder why I never crossed my mind that it might just be a little too much. It was still a good speech so fuck it.
P said his neighbors think I am negative and now I wonder how I can balance honesty with smile. It’s hard to view the world honestly and not laugh with a fake smile to confuse the person to the point where they are not sure if I am kidding or actually meant what I said, honestly and smiles are bi polar. Honestly is real and smile is fake. Why would you pick a view that pasted a smile on your face to be “positive” when you can bright smile your chops and shine your gleaming pearls when you knock back a smile.

Why would anyone decide to stop a manic delight and pull themselves in? It’s not a release; it’s a lease on yourself. Take it and lease it until you can’t afford to anymore because you have bad memory.

JOURNAL ENTRY – BRITNEY SPEARS IS UNDER SIEGE

Britney Spears under siege. The narrator discussed her behavior as manic. It’s hard to tell since she is under drugs and alcohol and god knows what roots from hell and it gives the wrong voice for bi-polar disorder. All you have to do is sit with her in a room and hear her speech, her mannerism, and start to deconstruct her brain. And there are people all over the world walking around with more severe conditions.

It takes a pop culture icon to bring a magazine cover “Britney is bi-polar” to add to the constant confusion about this unique disease and make it seem a question and a new buzz world. It is bad. Why do we have to have a fuckin E true Hollywood story to contemplate conditions? They should all go fuck themselves and stop raping people for dinero.

JOURNAL ENTRY – THE DEFINITION OF DEPRESSION

I am searching for cheap therapy help since my psychiatrist thinks it sooo needed for my ANGER and everything else. I think when P said I was negative it stuck a chord as did some personal attention to my ingestion of information in this world.

So… The term depression is used to describe a persistent sad mood and/or loss of interest or pleasure in most activities.

They forgot to add….a stare at your balcony and wondering why you are not able to crawl to your chair and be alone in the night. When being alone is part of depression but being alone in your dusk is too much. Most activities? There are NO activities and since your activity is watching DVD’s then you are actually doing something. It’s an activity you enjoy so that’s not depression, it’s senseless noneness. That’s what they should say as a description:

Depression is a place you are and don’t know it is, not you, until you get a line of thought that crosses the blank field that says, ah, this is life and I don’t know anything else and so fuck it.

That’s it.

JOURNAL ENTRY – CODE WORDS

I went to visit my best friend today and she suggested implementing a plan. A code word when things are bad. She is the only friend that actually was persistent to reach out to me and that was beauty. Sheer beauty. I can be sometimes and not in that state and told her I can’t have her see me like that. Like a blank wasted out face that stares back at me in the mirror when I try to find me. When that’s me. You could not ask for a more amazing force in the universe to keep attempting and knowing when to leave a message that states, if you are not talking to anyone just let me know that so I know. And I got messages from my dad when he was at the beach with the dog in Malibu and sharing his time in an optimistic message about the beach, which he hates, but goes to with the dog. And yesterday I am at lunch with my parents and not able to tell them the dark January and now at S’s patio table folding my face in my hands as I cry and fight back falling forward because if I do than I will not stop crying because the memory hurts, but more the memory of these people trying to help me, call me, talk about the beach or chipper life.

Having said that, I don’t regret talking about all the badness this past month, despite my psychiatrist suggestion to clue them in, and now I am in a war, once again, with the cut and paste go to line that is now a night that always comes “I don’t’ have any money, so I’ll write you a check after X.” It’s like my older sister that always has a deadline. Such bullshit. Or maybe just something they are used to. Regardless, my mother didn’t want to write me a check for the last two emergency sessions because it was a whopping 300 dollars which is so much to her after spending twenty dollars at Ross on clothes that night times…what, a week? Sick. Now I have to go back to G in two weeks and now that I am catching up in checks it’s only going to be that worse. I want to send an email to my Dad and tell him I need him to send checks in advance for G but don’t want to shit on anymore of their relationship that is already fragile. I can send an email claiming furniture from the house but not state the fact that I need checks for my mental health. I will do it. I have to. If my shrink thinks I need therapy more than music than at the very least I can set up a system where I can get my, wake up in the night and want to leave a everything’s not ok message, on my shrinks phone, thus have to go see him and know that I can get a check to reimburse it. It’s ultimately sad that I can’t have a free flow of necessity to myself and to them to ensure that I don’t have to battle for help.

JOURNAL ENTRY – EMAIL TO AN OLD FLAME

Is it that much easier to hate me, than to love me?....at least I know you'll never have apathy, just yet.

Erica

And that is my solution to a back alley dripping dirt off the fire escape water that is mine. It’s myself and I’m tired of thinking about it or him and not doing or being or saying anything. It’s boring, unknown, unplaced and not what we should live for, to be, to be alive, action driven, sweaty, crying, pathetic, lying, expressionless, dirty. Without that why do people even think to stop and drop those inside of their bubble of known.

JOURNAL ENTRY – LATE NIGHT AT NORMS

I got through dinner with my dad without thinking about the big J issue and had a good time. We ended up at Norms on La Cienaga and had beads thrown on your backs while I slide a chocolate milkshake down my throat and tossed Tabasco on my eggs and left a sausage half knifed so my dad could take the rest and enjoy our time at a diner on La Cienaga.

JOURNAL ENTRY – CHARTER SCHOOL INTERVIEW

POEM: A WHITE WOMAN AT A SCHOOL IN A BLACK COMMUNITY

They looked at me
With open hello’s
The students
In their shuffled uniforms
And pigtails held together with
Those bulb rubber bands
Like marbles
That people with careful hair
Had in grammar school
And big gold hoop earrings
Long nails
Painted green
And hot pink.

"I can give you some polish."
She said
After I showed her
My plain crusty tipped
Finger nails
Reaching out of
My argyle sweater.

I sat waiting to talk to the principal
For my teaching interview
And some students walked by
Carrying boxes of milk duds
Hot tamale
Red fire gummy candies
Heaving it up
To their chests
To take out.

I’ve seen
Those kids
Walk up to me
Outside 7-11
With courteous bravery
And here he walks.
Next her
Holding the box high.

During their recess.

The end

I had my first charter school interview today.
“I like your sweater. Is it attached to your shirt?”
I was wearing a brooks brother’s argyle vest and an Ann Taylor long sleeve shirt.
“No. “
She was one of the teachers. She was real and made an effort to make me feel comfortable. I was sitting at a table with six students, one parent, and three teachers. The students weighed heavy at the table, and they went around to introduce themselves.
“I’m Makeisha.”
“I’m Erica.”
“No. Makeisha.”
The parent and teachers burst out laughing and I realized that she thought I couldn’t pronounce her name.
“Erica. My name is Erica.”
An embarrassing smile crossed her face with a slight head drop. She was living in the environment she knew, an environment with only black people and was honest about it, without even knowing it. This is why I am here., I thought.

I spoke about my love for poetry and Topac and how lyrics are poetry and the great Shakespeare. I was worried about talking about my love for African-American literature since I was a preppy sitting in a black crowd but I think that was my problem.

“I like to write movie scripts.”
“What kind?”
“Comedy.”
“He writes about us, don’t you.” A teacher chimed in and he smiled beneath his calm demeanor. It was time for the students to ask me questions.
“What CD are you listening to right now?”
“Willie Nelson.”
Again, the teachers laughed out loud.
“And the Killers and this morning on my run Beethoven.”
Next question.
“What do you feel about spiritually?”
Probably the greatest interview question I could ever even dream of. She was sweet with ironed hair and a quiet chord.
“I was raised Catholic but that went out the door when I graduated high school and entered college.”
“Amen.” The parent smiled through her nod of resonance. I noticed the girl sitting next to me had green and hot pink long nails.
“Are those the school colors?”
“No.”
“Oh. I’ve never really had nail polish.”
“I can give you some.”
I was out of my league and I’m sure they thought I was out of theirs.

I saw the world underprivileged people live in and thought to myself…Wow. This is how it is. This is the plate people have to eat for dinner.