wonder what’s wrong with me

One time, instead of getting ready for school (8th grade, I think), I locked myself in the bathroom and tried to kill myself. I laid at the bottom of the bathtub as it filled up, not resolved but terrified. I don’t think I was scared of dying, I was scared of myself…that I could have that much hate and anger in me, to take a life. I’ve thought of suicide before and after this episode, but this was the only time I ever actually attempted it. Thankfully I screamed my intentions to my dad, who was furious and broke down the door. Strangely, I don’t remember what happened next.

This is the problem I have with writing a memoir, or any story. I have gaps in my knowledge of the events. I think it has something to do with the bipolar, but it’s very inconvenient.

I don’t know why I’m thinking about this today. Probably because I’m still trying to figure out exactly what went wrong in my novel writing last night.

Gambling

It’s done, the pastel dust has settled…and I lost. I learned a lot. Like heavy black lines are NOT always a good idea. A light color will never cover a dark color. Bigger is not better.

Trust your instincts.

The truth is this painting died moments after I sketched it out and outlined it in sharpie. That’s when the itch to draw had been scratched and I remember thinking that the design was too weak to go on. But I spent too much money on the canvases and had no other inspiration calling, and so I plowed on, unhappily, until tonight when at sometime before 8pm I called it.

I’m frustrated still. I hit when I should have stayed and I busted, but can you blame me if I was only at a 16 with this painting?

Does that make sense to anyone else but me?

I’m not posting a picture because in a rage I shoved the pieces out of sight and I’m not ready to look at them again.

Oldies but Goodies

I found my old profile(s) on fictionpress.com, and wow…there are some gems, but mostly it’s all just good old fashioned teenage angst posted there. But I kind of like it. It tells a story. So I’m going to share it all here — the good, bad and ugly. Whenever I’m feeling guilty for not posting anything in a while, or that writer’s block will be the end of me, I’ll just post some oldies but goodies.

Here’s a favorite…

Melancholy

She was always thinking of that limit in the sky
Wondering why the one who set it only dared to go that high
She wondered if a human soul can outgrow its mortal shape
As she outgrew the threadbare life all others hoped to make
How relentless were these hungry thoughts chewing on her mind
Evolving into ardent dreams that consumed her every night
She dreamt the clouds were packaging and the world was a box
And heaven was a blanket that lay across the top
She dreamt she had the strength to break out of her confines
But as she opened up the box the blanket fell aside
And there was another limit at the edge of heaven lay
Beyond that there was nothing but hills of empty space
The starred pattern on the blanket said she could finally rest
That the warmth and bliss of heaven would end her daunting quest
Instead of lying down to sleep the dream ended and she woke
She raised her head up high and to God in heaven spoke
“The happiness of heaven may be more than I have known
But how can you offer paradise that’s less than what I own?”
Dejectedly she decided that her dreaming days were through
Not knowing that God in heaven was once a dreamer too

This is really about me wanting to be a Sailor Senshi or another such superhero…which at the time was the only way I thought my life would have meaning. I thought there had to be a bigger picture and that I should be an essential piece. I was also struggling with whether or not there is a God, or heaven and hell. I submitted this poem for competition in college and got an honorable mention, I think. It’s cute and I like it, even if it is a little “melancholy.”

And for fun, here’s a really corny, bad poem that I remember being better than it is.

Written

There’s a sentence on her countenance that remains incomplete
While dressed in that pretty paperback hiding a novel underneath
With a scant summary printed in the perfume on her wrists
The grammar is in her smile, the words glitter on her lips
Spelled by hands in conversation, then published in her eyes
In a lovely cursive hand still wet with ink of light
At night I duly worship the author of her skin
And ugly bookmark reaching for every secret there within
And the hours I’ve spent plagiarizing to honor her in rhyme
Compared with such perfect sources seems hardly worth the time

I really wanted someone to write a romantic poem for me, so I just up and did it myself. Think I could have beat the horse any deader with the metaphors? Jeez…

One more — an angry open letter.

Garbage

There are some things that were meant to be
And I guess this isn’t it
How could it take me all these years
To get sick of all  your shit?
Too bad your IQ could not keep up
With all your fucking lies
So here’s the end
Fuck you then
I’m done wasting all my time
I can’t help you one bit if you don’t want to help yourself
And why should I try for you if you won’t try for me?
Having friends should never have been hazardous to my health
And this, the poem I wrote for you, is the one you’ll never read
Too much of my life has been thrown away for you
I hope you know the rest of the world is sick of your garbage too
I pray someday you’ll finally catch a fucking clue
But who knows? You’re pretty thick
It still hasn’t clicked that I’m fucking pissed at you

HAHAHA! I love this. It’s so basic and fun. I don’t even remember who it was about. I guess that goes to show you that the small things really are just small things…

That’s all for now, folks!

 

 

I still want to live on a vineyard with a bunch of goats…

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Okay, so I fixed the painting…! But seriously. Then we could make goat cheese to have with dinner every night. (And goats are so cute! I love those videos on Facebook.) And I assume that we’d make a ton of money and have a never ending supply of wine. People would visit and buy our wine then buy my paintings because they’re drunk and on vacation.

Build it in the Rain

Someone told me that if you pick one wall of a maze and follow it wherever it leads, you will eventually come to the exit. You could end up walking the entire thing, dead ends and all, but you’ll get there.

I guess I could Google it and find out if it’s true. But I’ve come this far, what would be the point in discouraging myself? I’m sure of so few things in my life… Let me have this one. Because if you mean to tell me that I’m lost…