Stay tonight

I cry myself back into sleep
Where dark crows circle, and snow falls deep
And even lonely gray clouds weep
Along--and I am theirs to keep,
In restless, silent, icy sleep.

Words fail. I don't want to be this person.

Words

She stared down at the pen in her hand.

Why this morbid delight in destroying myself? Why the sick, twisted pleasure in pushing my body past driven and into hurting? Why? Why am I doing this? It's almost demonic. 


I think I do it on purpose, somewhere deep inside. Punishment, though for what I don't know. Maybe rebellion against my own limitations; maybe a perverse enjoyment of cruelty.


I stare bleary-eyed at the girl in the mirror, swaying with lack of sleep, lack of food, and dare her to stay awake just one more minute. You can do it, you have no limits, no boundaries. You are stronger than everything, even yourself. One more minute.


Just one more.


She dropped the pen beside the crumpled sheet of paper and walked away.

Bitter

Allow me to indulge in a bit of whining, with a touch of bitterness and self-loathing thrown in to make it well-rounded.

I don't want to be here right now.

I am, quite simply, tired of it. I am tired of studying. I am bored with days that are filled with words on pages, and learning isn't fun anymore. I walked out of class today because I'd had enough. I've been in that seat, in that room, every single weekday morning since August, and I'm done. Just done.

It feels like I'm missing something. The more I think about it, the more I realize that the something is just, life. The things that make my life worthwhile, and exciting, and interesting, where I wake up eager to figure out what the day is going to bring. And I don't roll out of bed anticipating what our next genetics lecture is going to cover. I crave interaction with people, and doing things with my hands, and going and seeing. Instead, I see the same four walls every single day.

It's harder when the things I'm missing are concrete, and not just ideas. I talked about Andrew and Tara's wedding, and my disappointment that I can't go--it just gets harder when I realize that friends are going to be there who I haven't seen in years. Every single one of mine will be at that wedding, except for me. They're going to be the first of us to get married. And almost closure for me, in a way. A final validation that, yes, things were hard, but it was worth it, worth fighting to keep those friendships, because the end result is beautiful. Perhaps I'm being dramatic, but it would have meant a great deal.

I want to leave for an entire weekend. I want three days in a row where I don't worry about studying, or my lack of productivity--where I wallow in doing absolutely nothing, or everything, whichever feels better.

I suppose what I really want is to remember the point. Why any of this matters at all. Why I ever wanted to do this, to be here, to sacrifice pieces of life for this. I don't know. Perhaps I don't have the drive everyone keeps saying I need--but what really kills me is that it doesn't matter if I do or not, if I'd rather be a thousand miles away or right here, or if I want to wash my hands of everything for a little while. I got myself into this, and it doesn't matter what I feel like. Still have to keep doing it.

3000 miles

Disappointed...heartsick. What I wouldn't give to be in Tennessee, with all of you, on May 13th. I thought I'd gotten over it, but I had a sudden urge to go check flight prices, just in case. Amazing things happen sometimes, right?

It's funny, really--I've never gotten upset over what I can't afford. After all, "stuff" doesn't matter, and I can do without most things. But this...this is different. It can't be replaced, or substituted, or experienced in any way except to simply be there. And I cannot.

last night

screaming until the world fractures
and comes apart
(every seam breaks)
the dark leaks drips forces through the cracks
filling in
the low places, and rising
(the dark is rising)
higher
and colder than the ring of
shrieks on ice
(muffled like snowfall)
the breaking of this lost world
ends trembling
rimmed in dawn.

I'm out of practice at this writing thing. Severely. Also, it is a terrible, terrible idea to drink Coke just before bedtime. No trouble getting to sleep, but I dreamed all night and woke up drenched in sweat from a particularly nasty little nightmare. I blame the Coke.

Soccer

I'm studying by the window. A girl from my class is on her lawn, just down the street, and she's kicking a soccer ball around. Bouncing it on her knees, practicing shots. She's probably on a study break. I wish I could go and join her, but I can't.

The problem isn't that I have too much to study, although that's certainly true. The real problem is me.

I loved being homeschooled. I never discovered it was a  handicap until I went to academy during my junior year. You see, all the way thought eighth grade I had never played any games that involved a football, baseball, racquetball. I grew past the age where most people begin to learn how to kick a soccer ball, and then suddenly everybody knew what they were doing, and I didn't have the first clue. And then I was old enough that the gap between what I didn't know how to do, and what everyone else did, was huge. I could have fixed it, but I was afraid. Everybody else that played soccer at the academy had been going to a summer camps to prep for intramurals, and I had never so much as kicked a ball in my life. And the last thing a shy, insecure teenager in a strange school wants to do is to draw attention to a flaw. I couldn't do it.

I had the chance again to play intramurals in college, but I passed because I didn't know how. I refused to learn on a team with girls I didn't know, and so I missed my chance, simply because I fear ridicule. I am incredibly afraid of looking foolish, and it drives a great many of my actions.

So I watched the girl down the street, and remembered all those moments I'd felt inferior and worthless, not only because I can't play, but because I couldn't overcome my fear and learn. And I cried, because I'm tired of living that way. I don't know how to stop, but somehow it's suddenly very important that I do.

I'll figure it out. Somehow.

Adrenaline

People like me probably shouldn't be allowed to control anything with wheels.

My boyfriend, however, thinks it's a good idea for me to learn this.

I agree.

Usually, I'm cautious--irritatingly so. I run off the board at anything more than a 1 % grade--I complain that there are too many people (one, that is half a mile away), too many obstacles (a sign about 10 feet off to the side), or that the bumps in the sidewalk will make me fall (snails wouldn't notice these cracks). I even scream sometimes, an obvious sign that I probably shouldn't be doing what I'm doing. 

But, it's fun. Incredibly so. And today, bookbag slung over my shoulder, I decided to follow Ryan down a way I shouldn't have. In retrospect, his "I'm going down this way, but you probably shouldn't" was most likely a dissuasion towards me following. But I was on a roll (literally), I was even carving (which I have issues with occasionally), and I didn't want to stop (I never do). So I used up my five-second bailout window with rationalizing and a transient bravado. After all, I'm invincible, right?

Well...no. I shot down into a parking lot, and there were ridges in the concrete and I nearly fell, so the valuable time I should have taken to carve and slow down, or stop altogether, was taken up by me trying to catch my balance. And then I was going too fast to stop, and I actually got scared. Really scared. I could see it ending very, very badly. 

But I didn't count on Ryan. He caught me, and the longboard shot on and hit the wall, and I ended up in a little bit of a heap. No scratches, though, no cuts, no bruises. Just a lot of adrenaline. And a deeper appreciation for boys who move really, really fast. 

I'm not sorry I did it. I'm tired of being too cautious to take risks, and if only for that reason, today was good for me. Keeps the heart rate going strong, you know. My hands are still shaking. 

Grey

Religion class today was about personalities.

The professor chose seven of us to line up at the front (I never fidget when I'm nervous--too much attention towards breathing and watching the dozens of faces staring at me. It's fun, but nerve-wracking). She then told the class, "All right. I want you to arrange these people in this order--if you asked one of them to do something, and they said no, which would you quickly take at their word, and which would you ask again and again, eventually changing their answer?"

"Oh, Alyssa goes on the "No" end for sure!" I might have actually taken a step backwards--that's how shocked I was to hear my name. At any rate, half-dozen people voted to move me to the beginning. One girl, when pressed, said that I seemed firm and steady, just in the few conversations we've had, and that she couldn't see me changing my mind unless it was very, very important. Another said I have a backbone of steel, and the third just stated that I was stubborn.

Enough people agreed that, when the game was over, I was either the strongest or the most impossible, depending on your point of view. I don't think I disagree.

I've been tentatively skirting the edges of depression these past few weeks. I know what it feels like--I know it well enough to be wary and uneasy and worried. I can also see it affecting the way I relate to people, how I handle conflict and stress. Some days are better than others. Today isn't one of them.

I don't understand how this dichotomy works. How can I be both things, strong and weak, all at once? Intellectually I can see it, how it can be so, but when it's me it feels...wrong. Something is off. I am off. And yet I have every reason to be happy. I am happy--but right now, it feels fragile.

I hate this.

So, I'm going to counseling. Just left my name and number, which is a step, at least. And while today has been grey in a multiplicity of ways, at the moment, I feel...hopeful.

Galangal

Tonight I had the unique pleasure of poking my way through an asian supermarket. For a sensory person with a penchant for the unusual and a deep love of food, it's delightful--the colors, patterns and textures, languages, smells. Especially the smells. I stared through the glass into the dead, hollow eyes of a fish which rested in ice next to hunks of meat and bones, the scent of docks and scales just barely edging past the breath I was holding. I didn't want to completely shut it out, however--that would somehow have stolen from the moment.

Nothing is organized in a place like this. Twenty brands of noodles are piled on one shelf, no price tags anywhere--a dozen types of seaweed occupy the next aisle along with rows of hot sauce. There are products stuffed in every conceivable corner, even draped over the edge of the cash register. A small can of FriChik made a home next to freeze-dried sardines, just under the shelf of cans with a name I didn't recognize, a hysterical panda bear panicking on the label. Two ladies rapidly discuss something in a lilting language, while the asian man digging through the tomato bin is singing "Baby, It's Cold Outside."

I pick up yellow curry paste, several cans of coconut milk, tofu, and potatoes. This week begins my hopefully-a-bit-more-healthy regime, and I'm beginning with thai food and a two mile run, just for luck. When you consider that I define the last time I ran based on a period of years, it's a significant change.

I think it's going to be good.

The asian market is really exciting.

Airport #1

On every world, wherever people are, in the deepest part of winter, at the exact midpoint, everybody stops and turns and hugs. As if to say, "Well done. Well done, everyone! We're halfway out of the dark." On Earth we call this Christmas. --Dr. Who

I'm in the exact same place I was the last time I wrote, except now I'm flying into the past, and my face is pointed west. Those three hours I gain--I wish there were a way to make them more useful, some brilliant act or thought that would leave me able to say, "I had three extra hours of life, and with them, I changed the world." Instead, I'll be thousands of feet in the air, most likely sleeping, probably drooling just a little. Oh, gosh, I hope not. But it could happen. Gross.

I'll be writing more later. Nothing like airports to bring forth large quantities of nothingness. Although, the last one was written in an airport, and I'm rather fond of it.

Flight

I rather feel like I'm living someone else's life.

I think I like this person, though. She's occasionally moody, sometimes uncertain, but always gleefully surprised by the good things that drift into her life...or come crashing in, dancing in, or walking in like they have always belonged. I've been told she's interesting. Good.

The quality of this post is going to be sketchy. This other person who I am is currently sitting in the airport. It's half past nine--there are two hours before my second flight takes off. I have another layover in Charlotte, NC, and then I'm with Mom, and Mandy, and home.

It's bewildering.

Am I really done with the first half of this year? Did I really survive this past test week? Am I actually going home for the first time in months? Twelve hours from now, will I be landing on the East Coast?

I can't quite process it.

But, I'm so glad.

Home.

Three lefts do a right make

I really like this picture. The colors just make me want to jump in, swirl them around, make things, play music. I guess that's a pretty good indicator that I mostly live in the right half of my brain, with occasional forays into the other side so that I can make sense of the world. I like the unexpected, the vibrant, the emotional side of life. It's all color and possibility, desire and laughter. Even the sad moments are washed in the darkest purple hues, like the sky just on the midnight edge of twilight. Oh, the structure of the left is comforting--it makes sense, helps me know where I am and where I'm going, and why. But I like scribbling over the black lines and filling in shades and adding texture to what is linear and concrete.

This week, I feel like medical school has forced me to live on the left side. And I hate it. Not the schooling itself--not what I'm learning--but the fact that I haven't found a way to make the intense days feel balanced. Instead, they are black and white words on a page, words without rhythm or rhyme, no music or flow, hour after endless hour. That's why I highlight so much, I think--trying to bring in color to make sense of patterns, to create a simple work of art that both halves can understand and, hopefully, commit to memory. Here's to hoping it works.