it's just time to go out
and scream from the top of the moon
one more time

well, what do i say.

i was able to write a really awesome piece of prose two sundays ago. it was the cw assignment that we had to do for exams, and i didn't want to write a bad piece again (i've pretty much blown off all of our assignments so far), so i figured i'd just sit down and write, write like i used to when it all came so easily.

it didn't come very easily. some lines were strained, a lot of pauses were made in the process of writing a one and a half page "story" in the notebook that i currently do all letter and story type writing in. i had to stop a couple times and really think about what i was writing, but i never, ever, considered not writing it.

when it was done, i felt really good about the writing. i still feel that i could have made it much better than it was, but it is good as it is. it was writing, real writing, something that i've rarely accomplished in the past few years, and i felt good about it.

as it turned out, everyone had to read their story in class. i already knew this, i was sure of this when she first gave us the assignment, i was sure of this while i was writing. i was sure that, as a supposed creative writing class, i would view all stories first as stories (effectiveness of language, etc.), and second as real life experiences (or not). because of the content of my story, though, i wasn't sure that my writing would be criticized in an objective way, in relation to style and effectiveness, instead of just a big freak out.

and so i read. as is my nature, i didn't like being the center of attention, but after i started, got into the flow of it, i forgot that anyone was around me, listening to me. and i kept thinking, before, how i disliked the mode of repetition that i chose for this piece (i use repetition a lot in my style. it's just always been like that, and it works for my writing. at least i think so). cold night, hot night. i knew there was a reason, somewhere in my head, that i wrote it to begin with, that i didn't delete it in the rewriting. when i was reading it i remembered exactly. i had just come back from being raped by the physics exam, and i was cold. my fingertips were cold, and my nails (skin under my nails) were turning blue. the coldness ran throughout my body, and i started shaking. and when i got into the reading, got up to the switch, i could feel it. i could feel the cold turn instantly into heat, the heat in my face, in my chest, in my hands. it was such an awesome experience. and i felt good about the cold night/hot night repetition in my paper, because i could feel it. i finished reading, thinking that i came off pretty good, writing wise, and there was this dead silence. and it wasn't regular silence, i can deal with that, i feel quite comfortable with that, it was a loaded silence. like you can feel the air pressure in the room pushing on you with all the force of what other people are thinking. but no one was saying anything. just the customary "true?" from t and the hands that went up. and honestly that didn't surprise me at all. not at all. what surprised me was the speed in which it was all swept under the rug and they moved on. no criticism/comments from anyone. not even t.

and this is supposed to be a writing class?

and i went on like always. it was over, no one opted to bring it up with me. and honestly, that's what i like. writing is writing, we can have an intelligent conversation about it or take it as it is (writing) and go on like always. i don't like clouding the line between writing and reality.

i'll explain more on the writing vs. reality thing later, when it becomes more of an issue (which i'm sure it is).

come today. things were over, exams were practically over for me after wednesday, and i was feeling good.

here's your letter of recommendation, and ms. tapia wants to see you after exams.

and i automatically knew what it was about. and i figured that she'd be cool enough to talk to me before she took the issue to the next level. and she did.

i'm concerned about your short story. like that came as a shock (actually, it did throw me a little off. i was always in the way of thinking that writing was taken as writing by a creative writing teacher. but hey, go figure). what do i say? i don't talk about myself. i'm a listener, not a talker. but one of my rules is that if asked about something (reasonable, by a reasonable person), i will always tell the truth to the best of my ability.

[rant] i'm watching this little green bug walk across my screen . it's got these little suction feet, and it's cleaning its antennas one at a time, like a cat would, seeming like it's licking its feet and then wiping down each antenna to its end. it's got green transparent wings and a long thin body. what the hell kind of bug is this? anyway, it reminds me of a cat. i was about to smash the damn thing when it started acting like a cat. weird little thing. [/rant]

sorry. had to do that.

so, i did, while trying to talk as little as possible yet make her slightly understand so she wouldn't drag it out any longer than needed. she seemed sincere, as sincere as a teacher can be in a situation like this. i'm afraid that something might happen to you in the future. i know you are. you're afraid because if something did happen to me, you'll be the one who gets blamed. but trying to explain that nothing will ever happen to me in the way of suicide is a futile act. honestly, like she'd believe that i made a promise to myself to never do that and stick to it. because i could never keep my word like that. ugh. i'm getting sarcastic. back to the point. i'm sure that she is sincere to an extent, but just as she said she doesn't know me. and just as i tried to explain to her (in vain), no one can really understand anyone else. unless you could merge your soul with someone else's, i don't think it's possible to truly understand someone.

i wrote the story from my point of view. from what i felt at that time. it's only supposed to make total sense to me. other people won't know what i mean when i talk about noise in my head. about promises to myself. about instant gratification. about almost daily thoughts of death, mine, others', everyones'. about sensations. about control. about how the body doesn't exist. about how nothing exists. about the act itself. other people don't know the events leading up to, the idea behind, the reasoning, or the present thoughts about the act. and for the purposes of the story, they didn't need to know.

it seems the need to know thing has changed.

things i realized during the conversation with her: 1) objective people can really see my mood swings. i know they've been way out of hand for the past couple of years (which i'm pretty sure is because of the birth control pills and my whole hormone thing), but i figured i was pretty good about keeping things... even. apparently i'm visibly all over the place. at least in that class. 2) people have become more comfortable with crying for help for other people. instead of talking to the person first and seeing where they are, they head to authority. hey, i get that. they don't know me. people that do know me don't know me. i'd just like to get a little headstart before i start getting called into people's offices. 3) people view this as a symptom of a bigger problem. a problem. i've recently gotten over the whole "something's wrong with me" trip i've been on since seventh grade, and don't see any problem anymore. i just see me. this is me. it won't change. and sometimes i think i don't want it to change.

so, what now. i've been instructed to write, and rest, and see thirteen, and talk with her again after break. and then she'll decide if she's going to take this issue to the other authorities at school (as is her job). and i'm positive that that's going to happen, for the simple reason that i don't see anything wrong in the act. people see s.i. as a cry for attention, a cry for help. i just do it for myself. i'd rather not bring attention to myself, and i'm not asking for help. i wanted help a long time ago, and i'm over with that now. and so i can say, honestly, that i see nothing wrong with that. that it isn't a product of my "depression" (not my word). that it's just me. you tell that to a bunch of therapist nuts and "adults who care" and they just think you're in denial, and that by denying it you're crying out for help even more.

so i know where i'm going to be in the days after spring break. and i'm fine with it. yes, it's a big inconvenience. yes, they won't believe me. yes, my parents will be made aware of it. yes, it will totally obscure everything i was wanting for the next five months. basically, i'll have to become the center of attention and deal with it. but i'm going to be very honest about things, try to explain things as clearly as possible, and tell them exactly what i think about them (if it comes to it). i'm actually going to try and put this off as much as possible (six weeks of school, being busy with homework, "sorry i don't have time today", and flat out refusing to comply). i figure they're not going to want to kick out someone who's third in the class and only has one quarter left to graduate.

long rant. well, it had to be said. i think only two people from my cw class read this blog, so you know what i'm talking about. for you that don't, well, i might as well post it. let the chips fall where they may.

keep in mind, i'm doing this because i feel good about this writing, and a bit of understanding is needed for those who don't know what i'm talking about.

The Clarity of Pain

Cold night. She sits alone in her room thinking on the day, trying to shut out all the background sounds that seep under her door, trying to figure out which sounds are real and which come only from her head.

Cold night. She sits on her bed with her legs crossed under her, sits up straight with the palms of her hands facing up, the tips of her fingers cold. She can’t sleep. She’s tried laying down, staying still, relaxing, staying calm, but every new position brings an ache in her joints and a burning strain at the base of her skull, brings more noise and confusion.

Cold night. Confusion turns into frustration, anger, sadness. One emotion gives way to another, each one more powerful and soul shaking than the last. Thoughts race through her head, crashing together and gaining momentum like waves, leaving her weak and powerless.

Cold night. She feels the sting of tears on her cheeks, looks down to see that her open palms have turned to closed fists, nails digging into her skin. But it’s not enough, the noise is still there, the emotions slowly tear away her soul and mind bit by bit.

Her shallow breathing makes her sobs come in waves, first small and stifled, then full and hysterical when she has to gasp for air, body shuddering as she coughs and cries at the same time. She needs to make this stop. She can’t control any of the situations she’s in: what other people want her to do and want her to be, what she can wear and what she can say, what beliefs she’s allowed to own up to. She can’t control what emotions she feels and when she feels them, she can’t control the endless thoughts that zip through her mind every second that make it impossible to think or listen or remember or function. The only thing she can control anymore is her person.

Hot night. She stands up, heat pulsing through her body. She walks to her dresser and with a shaking hand reaches into her purse, fingers searching for the one thing that she knows can make the noise stop and let her get some peace, if only temporarily.

Hot night. She walks into the bathroom and shuts the door behind her. A wave of dizziness makes her grab the sides of the sink to brace herself so that she won’t fall. She looks into the mirror and sees a familiar face, a familiar expression, familiar tear stained cheeks. Same face that’s stared back at her too many times before. Too many times.

Hot night. She rolls up her sleeve past her elbow, working quickly. Her right hand holds the answer to her problems, and she’s going to fix them the fastest way she can. Right thumb slides out the top two razor blades and replaces the top one. Never use the first one, only the one after it. The second blade changes hands, the cardboard cover taken off.

Hot night. She takes a look into the mirror and back down to her arm. It would be so easy, so easy. One long cut down my arm, one deep cut, just add water, and all of this goes away forever. Shut up you idiot, you know you can’t do that. We’ve been over all this before. Before isn’t now. Before isn’t now, but do you really want to go back on your word like that? Just hurry up and get this over with and we can go to sleep.

Hot night. She wipes her sweating palms on the front of her pants. She raises her arm with the rolled up sleeve up and holds it out, clenching her hand into a fist. She brings the razor blade up to her arm and makes a horizontal slash. Red blood seeps out of the fresh cut. But there’s no pain. Another cut, and another, and another, all next to each other, all uniform. The pain finally starts to kick in as the blood starts to run slowly down her arm. But it’s not enough. Five, six, seven, at an angle to the rest, more reckless than usual. A wave of pain shoots through her body, and for a moment the pain is all she can feel. She focuses on it with all of her mind and soul, makes sure that she experiences every facet of the pain, the heat and the sting and throbbing sensation on her skin. The noise in her head stops, and she feels free from all emotion. She looks down at her red arm with a sense of peace and accomplishment.

Cold night. She washes the blood off her arm, watching the red streaks lighten and disappear under the steady stream of water. She covers the cuts with large bandages she bought for times like this. She looks into the mirror, looks at her eyes and the blank expression on her face, looks at the reflection of her wrapped arm, watches in the mirror as she rolls her sleeve back down.

Cold night. She opens the door of the bathroom and turns off the light. She walks across the living room and tells her parents good night, as if this night was just as calm and normal as most every night before. She walks to her room, climbs under the covers of her bed, and falls asleep.