Sunday afternoon external monolouge
Apr. 20th, 2003 04:27 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kimkaliJust thouhgt I'd pop in a hello. I've been writing for a couple of hours and thought it best to get out for a while, and seeing as it's a little chilly out, cyber space seemed the best bet.
Oh, and it was Gillian Anderson and Meat Loaf in that naff film.
Looks like I am indeed going out later! WooHoo! All the little things...
Hmm. I seem to be teetering between euphoria and dispair again. Managed to fone mother earlier to chnage offset our easter thing until tomorrow, and I spoke to Anna when she called, and replied to a few txts, but I don't feel like leaving this room much. I miss having a pet, which i know is silly because they are not people. especially when your like me and like conversing. but hey. i think I'm going to have to get my beloved fishes from mothers house.
Manic depression sucks. I know that is not the most creative or intense description of the condition, but it sums it up pretty well. it makes me feel physically sick. i just wish i could be selfish for an hour, really self-indulgent, and sob, weep, wail, release all my sorrows, let the singing bird go free. she went mute long ago.
and yes, these are metaphors shoud you choose them to be. read as deeply as you like.
okay, so i was writing my autobiography again today. I started it about a month ago. it is difficult, very difficult. i am used to recording my life in forms and being a statistice, being objective. not here, not any more. i am writing as it shoud be written, subjectively, emotionally, truthfully. and it is difficult. being all grown up now, it is easy to forget just how crushing it all was. i never forget, but sometimes i dont recall everuthing. it is as if it happened to someone else, then i remember that was me. knowing a young girl now (my landladys 11 yesr old daughter) has really brought it home. i can empathise with my mother better. i understand how horrific it is from the outside. it makes me, it has made me, more patient.
i have some to a decision, i would rather no one ever understood me. i really would rather be a freak, an eternal mystery, an outcast, than have anyone know what it has been to be me, to crawl through my life. i hope that the disengagement of self will help me to weep, to get the pollutants out of my system, into the open, to engage my emotions with this child in me.
There is a child in my head
She dies long ago
But I can still hear her cries
Everytime I close my eyes
They give me paroxetine hydrochloride tablets to dull her sobs. why are they trying to hide her pain from me? i still cover my mirrors. i hide from reflections. i would rather see my mind, be judged on the last realm of purity i have that i can call mine.
that girl, who grew up to be me, was hurt. i can cry for her, because she died, she died that i might live. my flesh may be a hand-me-down, but my soul is still my own.
ah dear.
you can always tell when i have been writing. my fingers tingle, needing to write, my mind whirrs, everything flashing though, there is so much to say, so much to do.
is there not somewhere i can go where they will tear me appart? rip me to shreds? crush me to nothingness, so there is nothing but atoms left. destroy them too. free me. sometimes i just don't think i can breath anymore. it hits me. me whole life, all the little horros, the touch, the pain, the fear, above all else the isolation and the fear, and i dont want to share it, i dont want to keep it, like a wild animal in a cage it paces around inside, tearing at me, bleeding from the inside.
and im not crazy. sometimes, actually quite often, i know i would feel better is i was. if these feelings and thoughts were extreme and unatural. but those with the right letters after their names to judge such things, just tell that this is okay, that these feelings and thoughts are perfectly normal, more than normal, remarkable. they love to tell me i am strong.
well, i dont want to be strong. cant they see that? ive been strong my whole fucking life. for once, for one hour, i want to be weak, i want to cry, i want someone to care and to look after me for that hour, to let me cry, not tell me to hush or hoe it'll all be fine, or that they know, i just want to be weak, and not alone. i am tired of being strong and independent. i need someone. do you have any idea how difficult it is to write those words?
but i cannot ask for this. i cannot expect anyone to hear the words or console the sobs. to do so would be futile. and i cannot burden anyone with that. it is hard enough allowing people close enough to be my friend, i feel guilty about that. friends end up knowing things. although, i have managed to, not conceal, rather not reveal, too much.
ah dear. i am actually in a good mood.
i think im going to have a smoke now (ciggys only). even my doctor has told me not to stop because of my stress levels. i know its bad in the long run, but it is the safest short term measure of dealing with stress i have.
Sometimes too hot the eye of heaven shines:
When you look at me, I burn.
I tried to write you a poem,
But the words, they wouldn't come,
I think Shakespeare ate them,
Or perhaps Keats, Shelley, or Donne.
X Kim X
Oh, and it was Gillian Anderson and Meat Loaf in that naff film.
Looks like I am indeed going out later! WooHoo! All the little things...
Hmm. I seem to be teetering between euphoria and dispair again. Managed to fone mother earlier to chnage offset our easter thing until tomorrow, and I spoke to Anna when she called, and replied to a few txts, but I don't feel like leaving this room much. I miss having a pet, which i know is silly because they are not people. especially when your like me and like conversing. but hey. i think I'm going to have to get my beloved fishes from mothers house.
Manic depression sucks. I know that is not the most creative or intense description of the condition, but it sums it up pretty well. it makes me feel physically sick. i just wish i could be selfish for an hour, really self-indulgent, and sob, weep, wail, release all my sorrows, let the singing bird go free. she went mute long ago.
and yes, these are metaphors shoud you choose them to be. read as deeply as you like.
okay, so i was writing my autobiography again today. I started it about a month ago. it is difficult, very difficult. i am used to recording my life in forms and being a statistice, being objective. not here, not any more. i am writing as it shoud be written, subjectively, emotionally, truthfully. and it is difficult. being all grown up now, it is easy to forget just how crushing it all was. i never forget, but sometimes i dont recall everuthing. it is as if it happened to someone else, then i remember that was me. knowing a young girl now (my landladys 11 yesr old daughter) has really brought it home. i can empathise with my mother better. i understand how horrific it is from the outside. it makes me, it has made me, more patient.
i have some to a decision, i would rather no one ever understood me. i really would rather be a freak, an eternal mystery, an outcast, than have anyone know what it has been to be me, to crawl through my life. i hope that the disengagement of self will help me to weep, to get the pollutants out of my system, into the open, to engage my emotions with this child in me.
There is a child in my head
She dies long ago
But I can still hear her cries
Everytime I close my eyes
They give me paroxetine hydrochloride tablets to dull her sobs. why are they trying to hide her pain from me? i still cover my mirrors. i hide from reflections. i would rather see my mind, be judged on the last realm of purity i have that i can call mine.
that girl, who grew up to be me, was hurt. i can cry for her, because she died, she died that i might live. my flesh may be a hand-me-down, but my soul is still my own.
ah dear.
you can always tell when i have been writing. my fingers tingle, needing to write, my mind whirrs, everything flashing though, there is so much to say, so much to do.
is there not somewhere i can go where they will tear me appart? rip me to shreds? crush me to nothingness, so there is nothing but atoms left. destroy them too. free me. sometimes i just don't think i can breath anymore. it hits me. me whole life, all the little horros, the touch, the pain, the fear, above all else the isolation and the fear, and i dont want to share it, i dont want to keep it, like a wild animal in a cage it paces around inside, tearing at me, bleeding from the inside.
and im not crazy. sometimes, actually quite often, i know i would feel better is i was. if these feelings and thoughts were extreme and unatural. but those with the right letters after their names to judge such things, just tell that this is okay, that these feelings and thoughts are perfectly normal, more than normal, remarkable. they love to tell me i am strong.
well, i dont want to be strong. cant they see that? ive been strong my whole fucking life. for once, for one hour, i want to be weak, i want to cry, i want someone to care and to look after me for that hour, to let me cry, not tell me to hush or hoe it'll all be fine, or that they know, i just want to be weak, and not alone. i am tired of being strong and independent. i need someone. do you have any idea how difficult it is to write those words?
but i cannot ask for this. i cannot expect anyone to hear the words or console the sobs. to do so would be futile. and i cannot burden anyone with that. it is hard enough allowing people close enough to be my friend, i feel guilty about that. friends end up knowing things. although, i have managed to, not conceal, rather not reveal, too much.
ah dear. i am actually in a good mood.
i think im going to have a smoke now (ciggys only). even my doctor has told me not to stop because of my stress levels. i know its bad in the long run, but it is the safest short term measure of dealing with stress i have.
Sometimes too hot the eye of heaven shines:
When you look at me, I burn.
I tried to write you a poem,
But the words, they wouldn't come,
I think Shakespeare ate them,
Or perhaps Keats, Shelley, or Donne.
X Kim X
