BAD TIMES WAITING FOR GOOD TIMES

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.

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.