2004-06-28 - 10:56 p.m.

so last night I thought it�d be a good idea to call my mom while she was bedding down for the night and complain about how she and my dad never gave me any life skills and how malfunctioning I am and how I probably need meds and how much I detest myself. Then I cut it short by saying, listen, I�m walking into a friends to watch six feet under. I apologized today.

Yesterday my mind was so reeling with self hatred, that it would not be a good idea to have a gun in my house as I couldn�t gaurentee that i wouldn't have flirtated with using it. My head, my anger just got that bad.

And what is weird is I feel different today. I made up with my vendor in Compton and met my line deadline and relinquished the other deadline. But now with the creative project I�ve got another person, with whom I don�t trust, re-doing it and I have to just let go and trust that it will evolve into the best state possible. it's hard to let others change things you gaurd. it's fucking agrivating. the whole fucking process is agrivating beyond repair and all i want is the best in the end and i'm holding my breath until i know, which i no longer can take!!!!!

i just need to take things slow, because i get these idea's of how much i have to accomplish with the line and soon i'm fallen under the weight of what i expect of myself. that was a part of my bulemia back in the day. i'd collapse under my own thinking and dig out relief. but not without thrashing out some anger first. there's this latent anger in me and beneath it must be horrific sadness. i remember wandering around for days not speaking to another human being, lost in booze, pot and bulemia. completely disconnected from any interaction, numbing out and falling so far away.

no one could reach me, no one could even find me because i was training it around europe. that was years ago. the last time i threw up was this night i was speaking to surfer and i was filled with it once again, with the anger and depressive low thoughts and i had binged to quiet it. and i felt ill by the compression of my feelings churning within me, suffocated by the lethargy of too much food. he said just throw it up. so i got off the phone and did just that. after years of 'abstinence.'

for me it was about control. it was about showing others how much they couldn't touch me, effect me, because i was beating them to the chase. i did it at christmas because i wanted something private, something they couldn't touch and could reach about me. and i wanted silence and violence.

i want violence on me. i am violent to myself. it's amazing that i'm not throwing down dope and then some.

how?

how, did this level of hate of me grow up. where did it start, from this innocent, playful, sensitive, creative, conscious toe head, who helped old homeless women find jobs, and talked for hours to the elderly and had idea's and private creations and made wooden forts in the field under a million stars just to pretend that i didn't have to live in that house for a few long suspended moments with my first friend. how that felt, under those stars, how that was the safest moment of my life, in a fort i built, far from anyone finding me, with my best friend, just quiet and quietly talking. it was safe. at what point did i start to say you are so bad, everything you do, say, think and act is bad and wrong and you should walk each step with shame and hide as much as you can. that everything you are and everything you do should be hidden.

i'm just not on that track. the track where you meet and marry and have dinner at eight. my place is a disaster, i can't seem to beg myself to have a routine or to even wash my car in three months or do taxes in three years.

i actually feel better today. went out to dinner with girl friends, ate too much desert, felt normal again. felt loved. i think i wist off for too long wondering if anyone loves me or if there's a collective hatred. a collective judgement confirming my inner suspicions. and yesterday i wondered about med's. but, for the most part i enjoy my highs and lows. i like feeling that much, i like that elated, spinning excitement. and i like the attention to life when i'm deeply sad, but the anger and the depressed, low feeling of draggin and refusing to get anything done, unload my car, drop off something for work is unbearable.

this one person who has a psych backround said that children of alcoholics don't develop any self esteem or any qualities that they can feel good about themselves becuz they are caring for the parent. and that hit me like a frieght. and it pissed me off. i want to rebel and deny. and each day i live i feel a bit like i'm fighting off a legacy that owns me. the legacy to drink myself to a sure death. i feel robbed of the one sure method to quiet these gyrations of my mind.

a big bottle of jack daniels. a bottle of chianti. that numbing, flirtatious feeling of the lead settling down my skin. but for me i'd have to chase it all the time. i remember that chase.

anyway, it's inconsequential.

but my mind torturing me like it did yesterday is not. i've got to do something, and it's not just 'go exercise' cuz i forced myself thro yoga, and the whole time, the best thing i could repeat was a vehemit "i fucking hate you, i hate you" to myself over and over. and i tried to errupt the anger out of me and it just seemed to camp within and churn with criticism.

i'm far too effected by the outside world. i'm rocked by good or bad news. i want inner stability and some normalicy in my space. i think i need some "discipline." the funny part is that when i try to recall that word, i *never* can think of it. surprised i just did. i didn't grow up with any. the house was always a mess, i never had to be to bed or have a curfew or brush my teeth or eat dinner. i refused to have friends over, as i was terrorized by the state of our house, the hair balls the size of southern tumbleweeds.

i'm listening to the song< this is the part of me, that needs medication, by modest mouse. this is that part of me.

your borred with me aren't you? you'd rather hear about three somes and asian girls, and parties and flavors. all i have for you today is this truth. and how do you know i exhist anyway?

how do you know i am really here at all?

i'm going to go read 'norweigan wood' now by murakami and sink away into the issues of someone else's myth. because isn't the whole world just one long myth unraveling in each of our own minds?

uh oh we know we're in trouble when i start dipping back into my nihilist moments. but you know all of the everything is just sedation from those questions and from the fact that we don't exhist at all. all of the drama's and importance and deadlines, it's all a distraction so that we don't see what this really is, this thing we call life.

do you see that?