I don’t want to put my thoughts into words.  I want them to linger in my mind.  To float around in my head like clouds passing by, warning of a storm.

No sun, I am not lettin you out.

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You know its a good thing when I dont write.

There is no aching desire in my body to make sense of something.

There is no pain so deep that I have to write it out to let it go.

There is no fear. There is no lost in thought. There is no chaos in my mind.

I am just living.

And sometimes I wonder.

There is no mystery.

There is no love.

There is no heart ache.

There is no magic.

Is it really worth it-to not write?

Is it really worth it to live such a boring tedious life that I cannot take the time to reflect or explore.

I am exhausted.  Busy.  Exhausted.  But I have nothing for you world.  Just work and sleep and activities.

Is it a good thing.

Is it?

Remember

I remember the night.  I was angry.  I was so tired of the mess.  You would put food on a plate, eat it in my bed, and leave the dirty plate on the floor.  You would never pick up that plate.  I would wake up, step on it, get pissed.

Why are you so damn dirty?  Its driving me crazy.  I cannot live in filth.

And then that night.  I lay in bed at 2 am, and you start touching me.

NO.

What do you mean no?

I am not having sex with you.

You never say no, why.

You didn’t do the dishes.

Are you fucking kidding me?

I am not having sex with you until you do the dishes.

What the fuck?  Are you some type of housewife-denying sex until I will do what you want.

No, I just want you to do the dishes.

This is bullshit.

I don’t care.

And I hear a BANG BANG BANG on the wall.  Its the neighbor.  Apparently she heard our whole conversation next door.  Its a hint.  Shut up.  I am trying to sleep.

And we both laugh.  The tension is gone.

She got to hear us have sex.

Cyclical

I realized my life is in a constant cyclical pattern.

For a few months I will be obsessed with music.  Then I will stick to my new 10 ten bands and listen to thenm over and over again for a year.

For a few months I will be obsessed about writing, updating a blog, creating short stories.  And then it will just stop.

For a few months I will be obsessed with playing the piano.  Learning cords, practicing songs.  And then I get stuck on a song and give up.

It never ends.  I guess I am a quitter.

I cannot stick with a hobby.

But my brain does not work like that.  I need motivation and inspiration.  I need something to keep me going.  AND on top of the constant stimulous, I am moody.  My emotions go up and down.  I might hit two weeks of depression and stop everything.

It will take me another month to crawl out of that depression-and I have to start all projects over.

I am a quitter.

But at least I don’t quit people.

I wish I could.

I wish you would get out of my day dreams.  I would I could stop loving you or you or you.  Why can’t I just drop a friend or a boyfriend like I drop everything else?

The Smell of Death.

There is something rotting in my room.  I can smell it.  I took out the trash and searched my room but I cannot find the source of the smell.

You can only smell it when you first walk in.  After that, you stop noticing.

And I can’t stop from thinking its my soul and my body rotting away.

I need to go to Seattle for work.  But I cannot bring myself to buy the ticket.  I cannot bring myself to commit.  Despite my claim of lift of guilt, it is his words that make me afraid to go.

Blog, did I tell you what happened?  Probably not.

In brief, my first love confronted me.  After 4 years of no contact, he confronted me for going to a place he was at. Like my presence, which had nothing to do with him, was torture.

He lives in Seattle.  And despite the fact that I told him that I will not back down if we run into each other again.  I still cannot buy that ticket.

And I keep thinking its my soul or my body thats rotting.

A tiny part of me wants it to be cancer.  Terminal.  Just so I can be done.  Done with the world.  Done with getting out of bed everyday.  Done with trying to be a better person.

What a great gift to not worry about tomorrow.  What a great gift to go out with a bang, instead of a wimper.

I am an asshole.

Please.

Dear Arm,

Please stop hurting.  Its been two years and 7 months since you were broken.  Its been two years and 3 months since I had surgery.  Its time to stop.

I don’t appreciate the fact that every time I lift up my arm I feel a sharp pain.

No, not an annoying, “oh, this is sore” pain.  But a sharp pain.  A pain that makes me cringe.  A pain thats makes me want to cry a little.

I can only deal with one pain at a time.

I understand.  Maybe I am sleeping on my left shoulder more.   But it hurts on my right side.

Don’t you know, I have a bone tumor in my hip.  A tumor thats causing me pain.  A tumor thats hurting more and more and I still can’t see a specialist until August 22nd.

Don’t you know that I am already stressed out.  I am getting my first cold sore in 5 years, from the stress. Don’t you know I am trying very hard to keep it together.

Don’t you know that bone tumors are rare.  Rare and hard to treat.

Don’t you know that I am just hoping its nothing.

Why do you have to hurt.

Its not just one day, its been like 3 weeks.  What the fuck?  Give me a damn break already.

I am just trying to get through the day.

It never ends

Part of me is happy when I am sick.

I am not happy to be sick, I am happy when there is something actually wrong.

I am under constant fear that I make myself sick-psychosomatic illness.

I had anxiety attacks as a kid, in which I couldn’t breathe.

I got chest pains-so my doctor sent me to therapy.

I get sick to my stomach a lot. -my doctor said I might be bulimic… I wasn’t sticking a finger down my throat.

So when I am really sick, it means I am NOT CRAZY.  It means that the pain I feel is not just in my head.

I need to be diagnosed with something , at least when I feel physically sick, because it makes me sane.

So today, I find out I have a gall stone.

Which would explain why I have been sick to my stomach on and off for years.

I also have something mysterious from the x-ray in my hip.  I need more tests.  Which means, that pain in my hip is not in my head.

Its horrible to be semi-happy to have something wrong, but its much much worse to always wonder if you are crazy.

Fucking Doctors

My hip started hurting about a month and a half ago.

During physical therapy, I had to do some random stretch.

“I kinda feel a pinch”

“Stop then”

Then the pinch did not go away. It just kept hurting.

I went to the Doctor, she said I strained my groin. Take some ibruprofen, it should be fine in two weeks.

Well I took ibuprofen, I kept taking ibuprofen, and then I used up the entire bottle.

Next thing I know, its been a month and a half, now that I am out of pain pills, it still hurts-except worse. Instead of just a pinch, its my whole right side, around my hip.

So I do to the doctor. New doctor, since I moved to San Francisco, I had to change. I am not driving 50 miles to see my doctor in San Jose.

We do a bunch of tests.

Nope, no, no, it just hurts. No. No exact point, it just hurts.

So we do some blood tests. Being that San Francisco is the liberal haven it is, she offers me a complimentary HIV test. Being the slut I am, more HIV tests can never hurt. Although I gave blood six months earlier, and I have only slept with one person since- and extra test can’t hurt.

So I get a call Monday morning.

“I got the results from your blood test, I need you to schedule an appointment this week to discuss the results.”

No one schedules an appointment if its negative.

So, naturally I think the worse.

I have HIV

And despite the fact that I took several other blood tests, my assumption was it is HIV.

FUCK

So of course, in my stress. I semi-accuse the one person who I have slept with. Which naturally, freaks him the fuck out. Which is fucked. I should have just kept my mouth shut until I got the results.

And then I go to the Doctor this morning.

I don’t have HIV.

I have an elevated White Blood Count. Which might mean an infection.

“No, I haven’t been sick”

“I need to do a pelvic exam then”

…Nothing.

“I am worried you might have an appendicitis. It could be this or this but it wouldnt explain the white blood cells… I need you to go to the ER. Today.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yes, I was worried before, but with these tests, you really need to go”

So I go to the ER.

Its San Francisco, there is no parking on the street and all the street parking is a 2 hour limit. I just did not feel right taking the bus to the hospital. Especially when there was no direct route.

I park in the $1+ per 30 minute garage.

Blood Tests. CT Scan. More Blood Tests. Wait for the results. Do you want pain pills? Emergency, you got pushed back. Drink this giant beaker of apple juice + mystery fluid for the CT. Sorry another emergency, you got pushed back. We have to wait for the results.

Naked, in a hospital gown, in a tiny room. Waiting.

5 and a half hours later, $17 in parking (that isn’t validated)

I am fine.

I go home.

My hip still hurts.

Fucking doctors.

A Romance Movie

I want to wallow in my bitterness and fear.  Its safer there.

I can sit at home alone, afraid of falling in love.  Never taking a risk.  Never giving myself fully to anyone.

It hurt to much last time.  It hurt so much.

And in my imagination, my future love will save me from my isolation.  He will do everything it takes to win my love.  He will break the ice surrounding my heart.  And my life will be happily ever after.

Like a romance movie.

And until that happens, I will be the cold isolated person I am.

I will be like the Miranda July story, in which I go home to check my mail, even though everyone I know is throwing me a party.  Even though everyone is saying life was a cruel joke, and you made it.  I will rather sit at home alone in the bath.

And thats who I am today.

The Loneliest Moment in the World

The loneliest moment in the world is when you wake up at 4 am while in the depth of depression.

When you are depressed, sleep is an escape.  A great 8 hours free from sadness.  Free from thoughts of suicide.  It is one of the few sweet reliefs from agony.  But nothing is worse than waking up at 4 am while suffering from depression.

Your relief is stolen, and you are thrown in a temporary hell.

At 4 am, you are completely alone.  Not a soul is awake.  You cannot pick up the phone and ask for help.  You cannot go to work/school, talk to your family, or find an activity to stop you from thinking about being dead inside.

And in those three hours until your alarm goes off, you can only think of one thing, killing yourself.  You are in such a horrible state that the only comfort you feel is the thought of death.  If I am dead, I will no longer feel this saddness.  I will no longer feel this pain.

And its not that you want to die.  Its that you want it all to stop.  And the world gets so overwhelming, you get so drowned in your own sadness, that you do not see any other way to end it other than to end your life.

And for those three hours, you are dead inside.  Paralyzed in your bed.  Just trying to hold on to life because deep down inside you want to live.  Maybe the day will bring a smile or laughter.  Maybe the anti depressants will kick in. Maybe everything will be better.  That hope lingers somewhere in the back of your mind.  Just enough hope to keep you paralyzed.  Because if you moved, you would end it then and there.

Thats the loneliest moment in the world.

(By the way, the last time I felt that way was when I was 20, five years ago.  Things get better.)