Diary entry, May 5, 2014

I feel nothing.  I will cut it out of me like a tumor, this thing in the middle of my chest.  All of the empty hallways.  Mile after mile of empty hallway.  The boy continues working on his own.  He doesn’t care if I know.  He doesn’t care if anyone knows.  He is a genius. 

We are all quietly sitting in an auditorium.  We are waiting for the presentation—for the balding man to come and turn on the projector and show us transparencies.  He will write on them in marker, circle the important bits, underline words, draw arrows.  We will all sit quietly but make no notes, because notes are not allowed.  We will just hear it again and again until his lecture is all we know.  And it is always the same lecture.  The same lecture again and again, with the same arrows and underlined words.  I have heard it so many times the words mean nothing to me.  It is almost as if they are in a foreign language.  They just roll past me like tumbleweed on the road.  I will stare straight ahead and hear nothing and turn written words into straws that represent intersecting hallways, each one leading somewhere I am not allowed to go.  If you stare at words hard enough you don’t see them.  You can read words out loud and not hear them.  I can read the same pages again and again and again and not recognize them if someone read them to me.  I am a master.  I am a genius.

Draft letter, 1992

I acknowledge your request for a meeting etc.

In response to your request

I am not ready for a meeting or to have any contact with you to discuss anything.

I don’t need you to decide if I need therapy.

Away

'Hope' is the thing with feathers—
That perches in the soul—
And sings the tune without the words—
And never stops—at all—

--Emily Dickinson

Diary entry, March 25, 2004

Today I saw Dr. Winston and then Carrie.  They are all on the same page about the Lexapro.  I have four boxes of free samples sitting on my counter.  I am told that this is not a failure of strength or will.  Hopefully one day I’ll believe it.

Triumph is for Dreamers, Pt. 2

I left you                                                                    

                        I did

that was me who limped behind

who whimpered and begged as

fear threatened me blind

            but I left you

                        yes, I did

Your voice now I must ignore

oh, and it sears and it soars, and it

roars with the ferocity of a

jungle cat

            because I left you back there

            with the imploring stare

            on your face

                        yes, I did

Old truths fill the

black hole where

I buried the leaking need

for you

I know all about incurable wounds

            So much and for so many weepy and

            lonely afternoons

            I meant to leave you

            for so much, my friend

                        and I did

It cost me the ravage of an atomic rage

poisoned the air with its smoke-orange 

memories

maybe it will melt my blistering heart

maybe it will leave me to freeze in 

the drift of its nuclear winter

when the death that crouches in wait 

for me

crouches close for you, too

            forgive me for pulling this scratchy scarf

            over my eyes  

            forgive me, love, because I was made to 

            leave you

                        and I did

Childhood dreams

Diary entry, April 15, 2004

My relationship with my family is basically premised on lies—and I don’t want to be a part of that anymore, particularly since the lies just go on and on.  But at the same time it’s really scary.  I had this dream last night where I was trying to make all of them happy, but when we got together they put a shroud over me while I was sleeping and said that I was dead.  When I got up and tried to interact with them, they wouldn’t acknowledge me.  I knew I wasn’t one of them anymore.  It felt sad, and just a bit lonely.