The weed helps when you're trying to asphyxiate yourself with a pillow to truly end your life and crying. Not crying for the reasons why one would try to kill themselves so adamantly. Not because of an event in your life. But crying because you have no idea why you're doing this. Crying just because you're trying. Even though it's your choice. You can chose not to do that. You really can. Your brain controls your motion. To remove the pillow would be so simple. To take in air again would feel so sweet. So reviving. It's only natural to not want to. Or to at least understand WHY'D you want to. But not to know why and yet not be able to remove the pillow. To fight your own mind, your own brain away from the motion is so difficult. Like lifting your own weight and then some off from you and make that very fine attempt at surviving. To tell you're brain that it isn't all right for it to do this to you.
That was possibly the most depressing thing I've ever written. The most dramatic and fucking depressing thing. I look at it and even I laugh at myself. At how terribly immature and naive it sounds out loud. And I don't understand why.
I then went into the bathroom and took a hit. I smoked a cigarette while I sat on the shitter. I wasn't really doing anything. I think I might have wanted to pee but I can't recall. Whilst I sit there I thought about what I wrote above. Almost verbatim to it. And I thought about writing it somewhere to never ever forget.
After I thought about that I wondered about how ironic it is that I want to be a research psychologist. I guess that's what leads a lot of 'crazy' people into it. The rest it must be for the money, I know someone like that. His name is Dimitri, he's Greek. Like, Hella. But yeah, I started thinking about how I wanted to research the human mind. Find out why, how, where, when. Find out what triggers them emotionally and chemically within the human brain. I don't want to help people, I don't want to sit there and listen to all your problems and try and help you fix them. Although, oddly enough, I've done that all my life. For all my friends. Even for people I hate. I've been that shoulder to cry on for so long it's ridiculous. But, as a career I don't want to deal with it. I just want to study it. To watch it. To see stupidity. To study religion, society, philosophy. I want to write books and tell the people who are helping others 'WHY?' I want them to be able to give them reason. I want to write books doctors will have to study for their PHd.
And then I thought about the oh so stereotypical irony of it all. How it almost bled from the sentence. Another looney who wants to be a looney doctor. I then began a conversation with myself. Where I HAD reached my goal. Where my book was famous in the world of medicine and psychology around the world. And a man, a reporter or interviewer would mention my past. How bad my mental history had been throughout my life. How could I call myself a doctor if I was as insane as the people I studied. And if I thought everyone who studied it was just as crazy. More or less.
And I imagined myself smiling, my legs crossed, wearing spiky heels and a nice suit. And how I'd tell him that the point was that 'crazy' people aren't really loony. They're people who know more, who have more, who ARE more. But they don't know why, they don't understand it and cannot control it. They're people who can see other things, who have the emotion all of us is capable of having but just a malfunction or an evolution made that serum or chemical so much so in his body.
I want to change the 'why'. I want to change the way people think about others they call insane. I want to revolutionize something.
And then I imagine the incredulous look in the man's face. The awkward laughter, as if it were all joke. My book, my words, my theories. And I think of myself smiling at him so assuredly, so non-chalant about what I just said and how calmly and assuredly I said it.
And then I thought about the people who read the interview, or saw it on TV. And I wonder if they think I'm crazy. If they think I'm terribly insane. If maybe they think who better to tell us than someone who knows what it's like to be there? Maybe, just maybe, she's right and she proves her own theory correct. She herself being an example, and many others we've noticed in society. In everyday life.
Then I thought about witting that in here too. I imagined writing and felt so great. I was glad everyone was asleep. I'm glad I'm by myself. I feel very uncomfortable within my own skin ATM and I needed some me time. Some thought time. Time to be ok with the fact my life is a bit abnormal, a bit more shit full with chaos than that of others. I thought of the music I would listen to. How an epic quest for my iPOD must commence once I was done with the cigarette.
Well, there wasn't much left of that cigarette, and I had already decided what important task was next in my agenda for the night. Followed by writing.
So as I sat there for some more time I thought about Steve and Ananda. About how they were the two people who taught me to never let go. To love and always love. To do anything within your power to hold onto someone so strongly and with so much love. To make it work till that rubbed off and dulled like a knife. But treat love violently, harshly, attentively. Nourishing it.
I remembered sitting on that fuzzy white rug in Ananda's families (because all of her family are welcome there. No matter when or how. This was important to mention. They are loving human beings.) home. Ananda's dad playing the drums to the Beetles in the background. I was cross legged and had a permanent smile on my face. I had Ananda's toy, which she had exchanged my phone with. She had called my phone a bad toy. And she loved me so much she gave me her favorite toy and hid mine. I remember looking up at Steve. His eyes were closed, he had head phone on, with his iPOD in his hand. His head beat with the music, his foot stomped in rhythm. He was chewing on gum. He chewed on gum all night. I remember looking down to Ananda and her eyes were on Steve. As if he were the only thing that existed in the world. I felt it so assuredly. Like there was nothing else there. He was her fascination.
I remember feeling such a pang of love, followed directly and almost on top of an ocean of envy. A tsunami of jealousy. I was so very happy for them, don't get me wrong. I did not hate them. I did not look away. It was a beautiful thing and I was glad it was so alive. So FUCKING alive. But behind my joy I felt such a great sadness.
And now it's different. Now I have that. That strength to hold on. To do anything for someone you love as long as they're willing to do the same. And they're not. What I learned and cherished so well that night and from knowing them for all those months didn't work.
That night was so beautiful. It will always be magical to me.
I think that might be a reason why I've been so down lately. And I thought about how selfish that sounds of me. I think about how Steve must feel. And I remember how I felt when Noah did the exact thing to me. I thought about how they were there for me. How shattered and battered and hurt I was. I was in such bad shape and they were there for me. And now I have it, and it's our turn now. To help them. To be there for him. It's my turn to be there sitting next to Steve on that curb outside of Great Escape Games, in front of the trash bins smoking a cigarette in the harsh cold weather. The roles were reversed. This time he would not be telling me not to kill myself. Not to think of it and to move on. To know I was loved, that I wasn't crazy no matter what Noah had told me.
I remember it all so well right now. I miss California so much. A piece of me was left there. A huge chunk. And I need it back.
My cigarette was out, so I threw it in the toilet and flushed, wiped and picked myself up from the john.
The search for my iPod lasted about...I'd say maybe an hour, maybe less. Being stoned makes you lose track of time really well. But I finally found the iPod and here I sat.
I'm really glad I wrote this. That was a lot to get off my chest.
I miss a lot of things. I'm sad a lot, and most of the time I have no idea why. I hate so hard, but I have so much love in my life I'm drowning in it.
I'm just glad all that love is there to balance whatever chemical in my brain is making me topsy turvy. I just wish all the hate and all the violence would go away.
I realized, also while in the John, that I spend a lot of time doing things. keeping occupied. I do a lot of art, a lot of hanging out with people, mostly and especially with Virgil. Which is grand because I love him. But since lately I've been a bit out of it to do art, a bit uninterested and uninspired and Virgil's been terribly obsessed (kinda OCD) on his pipe crafting/widling wood, I've had a lot of me time. To think about myself and stuff I don't usually think about. I guess I should think about me more often than ignore it. Because when I get the time to do so, man, it's like a closet full of shit you've been stuffing into it for months. I guess it's why I e-mailed Noah today. Why I stopped talking to Jacob some days ago...
But yeah, this definitely helped. I'm glad I got to write here. I'm not sure what I'll do now. Maybe some TV, another cigarette to think on it some more. But I feel much better now.
Heh, I think about the song that's on right now [She wants Revenge - 'Tear Me Apart] and I remember the night we danced for the first time. Our first kiss. I remember how we danced. Like we were supposed to be dancing. Like we had fucking practiced something epic, sensual, full of so much emotion and sexuality.
God that memory makes me smile so hard. Hah.
