Saturday, February 17, 2001

i saw the world spin beneath you 3/29/00

I'm just going to write. Don't read this if you don't think you'll like it. The air here was so cold today that it burned your skin to be outside. It numbed you after a few minutes. Maybe a few seconds. The day seemed to drag. I sighed a lot and watched the clock. I think time went backward for a while during a few classes. Maybe I'm just being melodramatic. Maybe I just have ADD. (I do, at any rate.) Eventually I resorted to writing notes to everyone in the class and passing them when the teacher wasn't looking. I'm a badass. I felt like I was in second grade. Tina told me that Jon isn't dead. Jeff told me he hacked Jon's AOL to see if he got the mail he sent. So that's neat. He doesn't remember what time. I don't know what I'm supposed to think. He brought some things Jon left in his mailbox (last night?) over. Letters. There was one for me. I haven't read it. I don't want it to be a suicide note. I don't think I could handle it. Jeff is holding on to it for me. There was something for a few other people. We're trying to figure out what the names on them are. Kinder, if you read this, you have horrible penmanship. Evidently he didn't do what he said he was going to do. It doesn't mean that he's alive, but its hopeful. Jeff started to tell me about something in his letter, but I wouldn't let him. I hit him. Because I DON'T want to know. He ended up going home. And I'm crying. If I could hate him, I would. If not for this than for the other times. The other notes. The times he hit me or threatened to kill me. The times we fucked. I don't regret it. But I can't hate him. It would be too much if I hated him and he was dead. I would feel responsible. I think I still consider him beautiful. I cringe when other people say that he is, but I think that I do. He was beautiful. He said some very beautiful things, wrote some very beautiful things . . . he was pretty. Tonight I have to make an appearance at a concert. I'm doing my solo for the school board so that they'll give money to the arts department. And then I have to go to Amber's. I don't know why. She said we need to talk. I have this feeling that Nick will be there. I can't stand Nick. Godammit. I should go now.


every word is nonsense but i understand 3/28/00

[I'm upset.] I need someone to tell me that everything is okay. I need the ocean to cover over me. I want to let my lungs fill with water so I can sink to the bottom of the ocean. Maybe then I can be a dolphin. Maybe I'll come back as the Goddess . . . made of sand and pieces of shell that look iridescent in the harsh sunlight. I want to be iridescent. I want to be infinite. Godammit. (I can't please myself and I can't please nobody else.) Jeff and Tiffany kidnapped me tonight. They were really upset. One of our . . . well, one of their good friends died. His name was Brian. Anyone who read my other diary . . . all three of you . . . Brian was Heidi's dealer. I went to a party at his house once. Anyway we went to ihop. Drank a little on the way and once we got there I drank endless cups of coffee (my hands are shaking worse than usual now) and we all cried a little. Jeff is really shaken about losing Heidi and Brian in the same month. Its all a lot to deal with. Tiffany didn't talk a lot. She cried softly over her coffee and looked like an angel. I still want to be her. I need to get my pictures developed. I have pictures of everyone. And of my room. And me licking people. I've been working on my ceiling. It seems so huge as I'm painting. The section I've been doing tonight is the sky. Lots of angels . . . feathered by moonlight. I made an angel for every person I care about or have cared about. There are three angels painted on the wall directly over my bed. They look more like cherubs. People think that I can't paint fat children. I think I have proven them wrong. Someone who I cared about very much at one point may have done something stupid tonight. Exactly two hours ago if I'm not mistaken. He is missing right now. He kind of disappeared. I think that if he didn't do it he should really let someone know. Because there are a lot of people very worried about him, and none of them deserve it. You really were beautiful . . . you're a beautiful disaster. Please remember that. the circus is fallingdown on its kneesbig top is crumbling downits raining in baltimorefifty miles eastwhere you should beno one's aroundi need a phone calli need a raincoati need a big lovei need a phone call


[i look into the mirror, the whore is all i see] 3/26/00

What to write . . . well . . . I fucked Jeff last night. We weren't planning on it. But I was drunk and he was drunk. A good time was had by all, and today I am hungover and sore. I slept over his house last night as I was too fucked up to walk home. I guess I'm angry at myself for it. I feel bad. [Its like, I'm single - unless I'm with him! (giggle)] He told me that I was crying in my sleep last night. I said - "I always cry when I'm drunk." I dreamt about a boy. Its the same boy a lot, I don't know who he is, but he's reoccurring. He came out of the dark as if he was made of it . . . drifting. Only his eyes stood out. He was very beautiful. He came to me as if he was darkness trying to be light, and like the way a ray of light shining into a dark room allows you to see all the particles of dust that are in the air, I could see everything floating in him. It made me very sad, and I cried to him but I only got a blank stare like the one Jarod gave me yesterday. That made me cry even harder. Control is something that I have always needed. Something that I've tried to create for myself, through my eating disorder, through cutting, through suicide attempts, through trying to help people. Control is what is making me so miserable. Spontenaity is what makes so many things so beautiful. Its why the sky is so beautiful . . . I have no control over the sky, and that makes me very sad. The sky, the rest of the universe, has an order. But if my misery comes from control, is the sky miserable too? The heavens have an ultimate control over everything. Maybe the rain is tears. Should I pity it? Should I feel jealous? Do I have a right to? I can't feel sorry for the sky as if it was less than me, because I couldn't wish for anything more than to become a part of it. Maybe I need to figure out what real control is. I suppose the reason that I connect everything with nature is because it is so pure. I would love to be pure. I feel like I never will be, because I always connect purity with innocence, and I think that I'm far from innocent. What isn't natural seems to be unaffected by nature. At night, when the world is still and you can feel silence everywhere . . . the kind of silence that suffocates all of the senses, like a fog so thick that you could choke on it if you inhaled too deeply . . . I have to wonder how some people can transcend the silence of night. You can't break it with a scream. I have tried and failed. Silence isn't a fragile thing, though I used to be afraid of breaking it. There must be something protecting silence, like the clouds protect the heavens. Silence can be like heaven, and breaking heaven would imply that we could all get a piece of it through its destruction. All it would really mean is that when we got there there would be a hole in the clouds where we should stand that led a path right down to the core of the earth. The story of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde has always fascinated me. I've seen movies about it, read books about it, been to themed clubs (very odd . . . ). There is always, in everything we are faced with, a question of human nature and the strength of evil. There is nothing black and white in this world, as much as anyone wants it to be. There is no true good or true evil. No purity or innocence. Hyde didn't corrupt Jekyll, Hyde WAS Jekyll. And neither of them had any control at all. There is no such thing as darkness trying to be light, because without light there wouldn't be darkness and without darkness there wouldn't be light. With no hope of being purely anything, maybe we should all strive to be shadows. Mary Reilly was a shadow. Nothing more, nothing less. and so we start another day togetheryou and i and a million miles between usi train my moods to bloom like flowers unfoldinginstead of fluttering around and slowly drowning

my little spark is cursing my name: i put him out 3/25/00

into your room i stumble nowtoo tired to cowerand its too late to draw you outand there you lie like a painting of christbleeding on the heads of the ones who nailed you down My friend Ben talked to Chris Cornell on modern rock live a few weeks ago. He was so excited that he almost forgot his question. I had an entry all planned out in my head . . . I knew exactly what I wanted to write, and I had things worded, and it all seemed so beautiful that it put me to sleep. After my nap . . . couldn't remember a thing. At times I wonder if anybody is really listening. Or if I'm really saying anything. The words "I love you" are supposed to be so powerful and so meaningful. I don't understand how people can shrug them off. I honestly don't. Somebody tell me. Someone who knows. If someone tells you they love you and that they would do anything for you, how the hell can you just look away? (Am I real? Are you real? Did I dream you? Why would I dream someone like him?) This afternoon, I decided that I dreamed Jarod. He was perfect, and I was perfection in his arms, and that was a dream, too. Because now he hates me. He can't look me in the eye. He won't tell me he loves me, and he won't aknowledge that I love him. [Why don't you just go back to Dennis? Is THAT what this is about? No, I'm just saying, why the hell are you here with me if you have Dennis? Because you're my best friend (you asshole) You sure as hell don't act like I am. I do so. Yeah? Well, I'll talk to you later best friend. I love you. Its this or me. You can't have both. That's not fucking fair. Bye Becka.] Bye Jarod. After he left, I felt numb. And rather angry; more at myself than at him. I took a nap and had a dream that would have resulted in an orgasm had I not been woken up. [More like sexually frustrated than sexually compulsive, eh? My therapist is a moron.] When I woke up I cried, and I have been crying since. I didn't mean to hurt him. I don't even know how I hurt him. Did I? Or has he been looking for excuses to ditch me? Am I Too Much for him? I think I'm Too Much in general. When I look at the sky at night and watch the perfect blackness outside of my window, I have always felt comforted by it. Like the scene in Annie where she sings to the sky. Maybe in a house all hidden by a hill . . . (she's sitting playing piano, he's sitting paying a bill.) As if someone could hear her. HA. Nobody could hear her. Nobody heard except the hopeless orphans. They never got adopted. But hey, you're never fully dressed without a smile. I must be naked. I loved that movie. I also loved I Love Lucy . . . "You the fattest nothing I ever seen" . . . I never thought she was fat when I was little. I thought she was beautiful. Maybe I'm too eager to see the beauty in things. I try too hard to see beauty where there is none. Or to make beauty. To make things Right for people. I try too hard to help. But the sky doesn't listen anymore. My guardian angel statue looks more and more like a statue everyday. I can't see the beauty in myself, as hard as I try to make myself beautiful. To make myself appear beautiful. I always end up feeling dirty. Pretending to be something that I'm not makes me feel horribly dirty. Beautiful and pure don't occur at the same time in me. I wish I was the moon. There's nothing more pure than the moon. [Be like the moon . . . ] When I was little, my mother used to put me in her lap and sing the moon a lullaby from my bedroom window until she had put my entire universe to sleep. That's where I felt safe. I realize now that it won't be fair until the moon sings back to her. Nothing she has done has been rewarded. I think I'm going to sing my mother a lullaby tonight. Pray that I don't put the angels to sleep, too.


wings so i can glide: he's my novocaine ride 3/24/00

Spring makes me want to breathe in the warm air and never exhale. Maybe it would keep me warm forever. Maybe the heat would ignite a spark. But I've never been good at holding my breath. And besides, I've heard that the trick is to keep breathing. [What garbage . . . ] -- Man, I am so funny. I'm laughing right now. At everyone who didn't catch that one. -- Poetic bullshit aside, it was very warm today. I was thisclose to not freezing to death. Thisclose. And as I sat through two study halls so that I could leave with Dennis, bundled up in - not one but two - grandma sweaters, I was asked to the prom. Sorry . . . so sorry Ian . . . but FUCK NO. I think I should count my [lucky] stars that I wasn't killed for that one. I sat and shivered and he sulked in the corner, looking like he wanted to kill me. For three hours. Those beautiful green eyes have never looked so hateful. Jarod is coming to see me tomorrow, after tonight's session with Kli. Tonight . . . I'm going to stay at Dennis' again. If he agrees. Or he might stay here. (God Beck, you could never hide a guy in your room, your bed creaks way too much.) I just want to be with him. Minor setback, I cut myself last night because I wanted to cry and I couldn't. I slipped. But . . . I don't know. I painted today, more on my ceiling, I wish I could show you all. I'm covered in paint. (but sometimes i feel itdo you know how it is?you wake up in the morningand everything fitsi'm still hoping tomorrowfeels like thismy perfect day)


welcome to paradise - americanized 3/23/00

well no one hereis getting out alivethis time i've really lost my mind and i don't careso close your eyesand kiss yourself goodbyeand think aboutthe time you spentand what they've meantto me its nothing We went to the funeral this morning. I cried so much . . . I miss her so so much. I don't want people to have to go to my funeral. People were crying. Everyone was. I didn't think I had seen Ben cry before. She looked alive. It was horrible. She was so beautiful. I realized that I had never seen her so still or quiet. She never sat still. It hurt to look at her. Nobody's funeral has been open casket. Hers was the first. I'm home. Good thing everyone I know is really stupid. I might go back to the hospital later. If I feel like it. This has all become a game for me in the last few days . . . eating and skipping doctor's appointments and Forgetting to go Home and Accidently not being Home In Time to go back to the Hospital. I reached my goal a few days ago, and I've decided since then that I'm going to gain back up to 110 and then try to get down five pounds lower than the last goal. Control, baby. So I force myself to eat. Five meals a day. I occasionally purge, not always on purpose, but sometimes it is. Just to prove to myself that I'm controlling this. I've gained nine pounds already and I have to say that it feels absolutely disgusting to be full. Horrible. I always fall asleep after I eat . . . I feel like I physically can't stay awake. That's quite boring though. Nobody cares, Becka. I know, I know. Dennis wants me to give life a chance for three months. Live for three months. He says I won't regret it, and that on June 23rd I won't want to die anymore. And I won't need my eating disorder. All this as I'm plotting how I'm going to lose the weight again. But anyway. He promised me that. I'm not sure that I believe him. Maybe I do, but I don't want to. I feel too much like I need this. This is how its been for six years. This is how I've lived my life for six years. I'm not sure that I want to give it up. I stayed at his house last night. I haven't been back to the hospital. My parents thought I was . . . I don't know where they thought I was. They don't seem to give a fuck. But I was with Dennis. He begged me not to die for a while. He asked me how old I felt. His response to "Too fucking old" was "You haven't even lived two decades." I started crying. "Maybe I'm not wrong for feeling like this . . . Maybe wanting to die doesn't make me a selfish bitch . . . Maybe you're all the selfish ones . . . You don't understand . . . " So he showed me the scars on his wrists and track marks on his arms. He hasn't done coke or heroin in four years. I cried some more "Its not the same . . . " In all honesty, it is EXACTLY the same. I'm addicted to this, and its killing me. Its an addiction to a behavior, and its probably just as bad as dearest Jimmy C shooting desert lillies into his arm. Exactly like that. I think I realized that when I was in his arms, gently running my fingers along the purple scars stretched along his pale forearms. I want to live with Dennis forever. I want to stay in his bed with him for the rest of my life. And I want to live a really long time. When I told him that he held me tighter, and kissed the top of my head. I fell asleep and slept through the night . . . I didn't wake up once. I went to school on Tuesday and Wednesday. I took state tests for math, English, science, and history. I also auditioned for a bunch of solos in chorus. I sang for an auditorium full of people to audition. I almost started crying, because of the looks on everyone's face while they watched me. Their looks while they clapped. Their looks when the director said "Look like we've got our soloist for this song . . . " and asked me to audition for the play next fall. Well. Hm. No. Sometimes I don't want to wake up because I'm afraid I'll miss a beautiful dream. Or that I'm not prepared to face the day and will take a split second of being alive for granted. Sometimes I close my eyes because the light is so beautiful that it hurts to look at it. Sometimes I have to force myself to breathe, because, while every breath cleanses it also reminds me that I can't stop breathing simply by holding my breath. So I scream. I scream to the angels who overlooked my faults as they were in heaven passing the bundles of joy to the storks to be delivered. I scream to the mermaids who are so content with where they are that they will only come to the surface to admire their reflections on the sparkling water. I scream to anyone who will listen and everyone who won't. I just want to be left without a voice.


winter's cold . . . spring erases 3/20/00

I'm betting that most people know this already but my friend Heidi died last night. So that's not too happy or pleasant. She was anoretic and her heart stopped. May have had something to do with speed. Methadrine is our best friend. We saw Dave Matthews together in Hartford. There were the riots the night we went . . . the real bad ones. We smoked a lot of pot. Ben and Jeff and Amber and Nick were there too. It was when I was dating Nick. And he bought $50 worth of opium from some guy and dropped acid and he was freaking out. Heidi was like "Nick, calm the fuck down" and he . . . couldn't. That's right bitch, I only date winners. Nick got Amber pregnant the night of that concert. We broke up with I found out and we don't really talk anymore. He hurt me so much. Anyway. If I could feel right now I would be sad and angry. Jealous. Why is it that she can die but I can't? Not fucking fair. She was absolutely beautiful. She got so thin but she was still beautiful. She looked as beautiful as she does in all the pictures of us . . . right up to the very end. She never looked sick. Thin looked good on her. They said I could go to the funeral. Its from 9 to 11 on Thursday. I don't like funerals at all but I'm going to go. The aftershock . . . I've only talked to Ben and Jeff today. Jeff was really messed up when we talked, which is never a good sign. I could tell Ben had been crying. I guess Jon's not doing great and Brian is doing even worse. He feels responsible. He probably is. Everyone else is in shock. I guess that's where I am too. sew it onface the foolthe tide breaks a wave of fearand brave songs disappearthe secret voice of dawnthis last timeraise my eyes

you can always wake up before he makes you cum 3/19/00

I can't help but ask myself what people think when they write notes telling me to kill myself. How cool are you . . . You're so fucking cool I can't stand it. Tough love. Hug me and I'll pull away, but slap me in the face and I'm all over you. "My life is the spot during my copy of 'Perfect Blue Buildings' where it skips every word that makes the song so beautiful." (Dennis) I have this thing about making scrapbooks. Journal-like scrapbooks. I glue pictures and poems and drawings onto the pages and write and color on them. Make captions for pictures. Every page is done very neatly and carefully. I cut holes in pages, make pockets in them, write in columns, sideways, backwards, upside down. Entire pages are collages of things that make me happy, sad, angry, apathetic. Things that glow in the dark. Things that sparkle. When I look at this year's, I see two parts. Pre-Jonny and Post-Jonny. I think there is a concrete difference in the writing in substance and style. There's a difference in color schemes. There's a difference in the pictures I used. The difference is like night and day, and that really scares me . . . that knowing him for such a short period of time could change me so much. I can see me in the pages. I used to be so beautiful. I will never have the respect for myself that I did before I met him. I'll never be the same person. I'll never be innocent again. No matter how pure I become, I will never ever get back my innocence. That really kills me. I hate him for it but I hate myself more. I really truly hate myself. I let things get out of control. I would do anything right now to get out of this distorted sense of reality I've made for myself. It feels intensely wrong. Just about everything about this feels wrong. If I'm so beautiful . . . if bones are so beautiful . . . then why can't I look at myself in the mirror without crying? And Christ, I can't even see my whole body. 58 pounds this morning. The nurse was new and let it slip. Goddamn. What does 58 pounds mean to me? Nothing. Because its not small enough. The fact that I can't form coherent thoughts or converse lucidly doesn't mean a thing. The fact that I'm almost dead doesn't mean a thing. This isn't thin because its not 55. And when it IS 55, it won't be 52. Then it won't be 50. Then 45. 42. 40. Oops. Somewhere in there I will inevitably die. And I'm just so goddamned sick of myself. Sick of living like this. I'm not a goddamned fish and I'm not fucking resilient like my fucking literary hero and I haven't seen Barbados but I will never get out of this. Never get myself out of this [proverbial] ocean because I'm too close to the motherfucking [proverbial] rock bottom. I'm too tired to swim back up. I'm not a fish. I can't. I'm not superhuman, I'm dying. Fading. Somehow becoming less than Too Much. Somehow. Is it really so selfish to not want to be trapped? Is it really so embarassing to be burried outside the gates of a cemetary? Is there really a heaven and a hell and is it really so horrible in hell? Is it worse than this? Better? Or just more humid? I have sensitive skin. Several times a day I feel as if I need to will my heart to keep beating, and several times a day after it happens I wonder why I do it. Why I don't just let go. For about an hour after each incident, I feel very dazed. I hate myself for not letting go, wait for another chance to let go, and then forget. Because I'm too chickenshit to let go. Forget and regret. Regret and forget. Yeah. What was it, Luck Fuck Future? "Do this yourself. I never want you to be able to say 'Its Jonny's fault I'm an addict,' so shoot yourself up, babe." [ididloveyouandiwontregretit] the answer to my hunger is starvationthe answer to my self doubt is actioni smash hope with confrontationconfidence is a guessi'm here and we'll see if i fall or notat the end of this we'll all know the truththe gun isn't loadeduntil all the bullets have been fired


she is dancing away from you now 3/18/00

Someone once told me that if you focus on the bad things in your life and try to improve the bad based on the bad, the end result will be bad because you don't know what good is . . . whereas if you focus on the positive things in life and use the good as a [blueprint] for [remodeling] the bad, you will have a much happier [Barbie dreamhouse] at the end. Deep thought. Cheerleaders are the kind of people you meet when you're beautiful and live in Pleasantville. The kind of people you become. (goodthingiwasntbeautifulenough.) Then there's me. While I can't say that there has been no good in my life, I can say that there is no good in me. The hypothetical situation I've been thinking about all day - suppose I was sick and wanted to get better . . . - and Amber's philosophy about life - focus on pink linens and white paper [not so eloquently put] - have made me wonder how you're supposed to use happy blueprints if you don't have any. I can make other people believe that I'm beautiful, but I can't do anything to make myself believe it. Neither can any of you. I suppose I'll go along with therapy. There isn't much else to do, and I don't really have anything to lose except for control that I don't have. Would I rather do something that I hate or die? I think I'd rather fuck you . . . Ha. Sexual goddess humor. If they would let me have pens, I would write penis on my hand and take a picture of it. Goddamn. Maybe I've led you all to believe that I'm less crazy than I really am. I feel pretty crazy. I don't want to be here, so I whine about it. That's all I do all day long. Whine and scream "fuck you" at people. I refuse to eat, telling them that I'm Not Hungry. I'm Never Hungry. You can't eat unless you're Hungry, and anyway how can I be Hungry if I don't even know what Hungry is? I don't know what it feels like anymore. I can't tell hungry from full, or hot from cold, or happy from sad. I cry a lot and I never know why. Earlier I went to see Jonny. He was sleeping. Very pale. I stayed for five minutes. I just wanted to see him in case he dies. That was a bit melodramatic. I'm a drama queen. [I killed Liz. I killed the teen dream.] Deal with it. you can try to suck me dry but there's nothing left to suck just you try to hold me down come on, try to shut me up step and fetch grease my hips i don't even have to pause i don't really miss god but i sure miss santa claus


where the fuck were you when my lights went out 3/17/00

I think I'm going to write about things that make me happy. I owe the world a lifetime of warmth and happiness. The rainbows of love and happiness . . . I see them . . . [cookies are happy because grandmas make cookies and grandmas are happy] . . . I miss talking to minor. For eight hours at a time when normal people would be sleeping. Even though he made me cry because he won't have sex with me. Sigh. Being held makes me happy. Really thick grandma sweaters and cardigans. Glitter on my eyes. Glitter in my hair. The color pink. Red Rover and Crocodilla. Cows. Chickens. Amy's farm. Letters. Painting. Covering myself in chalk. Words of the week. The beach at night. Watching the stars. Going to the playground at night. Sleeping outside. Wet grass in the morning. My bedroom. My bed. Sleeping in school. Sleeping in general. When people run around naked in the snow (and I know that they won't die or hurt themselves). When Jeff cooks for me, just because he can't cook. Reading the bible. Midnight swims. Buying paint. Looking at other people's pictures. Sledding. Orgies. Concerts. Crowd surfing. Hate mail. Talk radio (I don't know a single person who doesn't have a nonsexual crush on Dr. Laura, and we saw her at the MET . . . I'm sexually deviant.) Art museums. People who knew me when I was really little. Talking about "remember when"s - birthday parties, embarassing moments, I'm crying Rachel -wherethefuckdidallthetimego?, when we had reccess. Japanese. Drawing. Live and acoustic versions of songs. Pink leopard printed tanktops. How Jon and I used to be so perfect (art history whore). Saturday morning cartoons. The Radiohead websites (that's such quality entertainment, especially the older ones). That was fun. Fun, fun, fun. There are more, but I'm tired. The doctors before were fun, too. I'm going to a special doctor tomorrow. Yes. Enough for today. and in your eyes thought i saw everything i'll take the blame baby, you're lying do what you want cause i've tried everything i'll take the blame but now i'm dying he said he'd never never ever go away he said that he'd alwayshe would always stay they said they'd never never ever go away they said that they'd alwaysthey would always stay


his sky displayed traces of angel blood 3/17/00

It snowed today. We used to say that snow this close to spring meant someone who loved you had died. We said the snow was the person's ashes being scattered around you by the angels in heaven. So that you could submerge yourself in memories of them and feel their presence around you. Then it would melt away into spring, because they would have wanted you to be happy. Their ashes would melt and return to the earth and flowers would bloom as their gift to you. How fucking sweet. You can't sugar coat death like that. It shows a complete disrespect for it, and I have nothing but the highest respect for death in concept and reality. I'm afraid of it, but I have a morbid curiosity about it. I want to see the other side. It wouldn't be a waste of my work. It would be the reward for my work. I've been called selfish a lot. Would you like me to talk about selfishness? I could talk about it all day. Selfishness is when somebody says that they love you and you tell them they don't - no one loves you. Selfishness is cutting open your arms and sending your friends a suicide note in an e-mail. Selfishness is hoping they won't get it until its too late. I know all about selfishness. Jonny knows all about it too. Too fucking bad he's not awake to write about it. Mishaps with razor blades. Mishaps with heroin. Apparently Jonny Angel has overdosed and almost bled to death in the same night. Fucking masochist. Fucking junkie. It wouldn't have snowed if he had died. If he had died, the sky would have been brilliant red with heaven's reflection of the fires of hell swallowing him. At 5:30 my parents are taking me to the hospital and they're going to do tests there. If they don't like the results I'll be admitted then. They won't like the results. I promise. Went to school today. I probably shouldn't have. I napped through first period, second period, fourth period, lunch, and sixth period. In the other classes, the rooms weren't heated well enough so I couldn't fall asleep. When I wasn't sleeping I was crying. Most teachers asked me if I wanted to leave. Sixth was the nicest. I skipped with Dennis, and curled up in his lap on a couch in the library for the period while he read. He took me home when he was done and I fell asleep in the backseat of his car after stumbling out to the parking lot. "I don't weigh enough to be awake" means something to me now. I have a fever. I guess I'll rest up for later. I'm anemic royalty. nobody sees when you are lying in your bedand i wanna crawl in with youbut i cry insteadi want your warm but it willonly make me colder when its overso i can't tonight babyno, not "baby" anymoreif i need you i'll just use your simple nameonly kisses on the cheek from now onand in a little while we'll only have to wave


smiles are fabricated - i've wasted all my sun 3/16/00

I'm home. I shouldn't be but I am. I've been home since . . . maybe yesterday? Yeah. I'm going back to the hospital tomorrow night (if they can find me). We had a deal that if I could gain 5 pounds by Friday I don't have to go back. I've lost 3. And I've eaten, too. Its fucked up. The child of death and I went out to dinner with my family last night. I ate a quarter of a cherry tomato, a slice of cucumber, a slice of carrot, some lettuce, broth from my soup, and a quarter of a slice of bread. Dennis buttered my bread. I got very mad and locked myself in a bathroom. (I didn't throw up. I haven't since I've been home. They'd be able to tell if I did.) He and my brother talked to me through the door. It was lovely. We're so dysfunctional. He stayed with me last night. I cried for a while before I fell asleep and woke up around midnight to him stroking my hair and kissing the top of my head. When I sleep I sleep so deeply that it scares me. I've basically been crying for the last three days straight. People are mad at me and refusing to talk to me because I'm sick. They don't want to have to go to my funeral as a friend because they're so angry at me for doing this to myself. I'm so proud. I'm my own tragic hero. I found my pastels yesterday. I didn't realize I had them. I was about to buy new ones. Dennis and I drew with pastels last night. Today I drew a mermaid. She's beautiful. She has red hair like I used to have and blue eyes like Tiffany's. Have I mentioned Tiffany? I either have a crush on her or want to be her. Maybe a bit of both. When I was done I fell asleep on the sheet of plastic I had spread out on my floor. I dreamt that I was the mermaid, so I have decided that I am. I'm going to find a river and swim out to the ocean. in your endless summer night i’ll be on the other side when you’re beautiful and dying all the world that you’ve denied when the water is too deep you can close your eyes and really sleep tonight

i want your girlfriend to be my girlfriend, too. 3/11/00

Had my date yesterday. Evidently dearest Debo reads my diary. We talked about it while he drew me. He says his is private and that he never wants to show anyone. (Well then.) Odd, though. He never smiled through the first part of our date, but I saw him smile at least eight times during the second part. Maybe he was high. Or not high. So around four he got to my house. He had a specific outfit in mind for me to wear when he drew me so we went to my room to get it. He was looking around like "wow . . . " and I loved it. He thinks its really good. I'm going to paint my windows next. In stained glass paint. And then take down everything off my walls and do them. And then paint the entire room black again and start over. The outfit turned out to be a skirt and a tanktop. They were both too big so he was disappointed but it was okay. And then he took me to the park, exactly as promised, and we did exactly what we said he would - I sat on the grass and he sat a foot away from me with his charcoals and drew me. We did that for a couple of hours. He drew me a few times and then I drew him once. It wasn't typical. It was really fun. He talks very softly and has a very deep voice. He's very quiet but one of those people who chooses every single word they say almost painfully so that everything they say will have some sort of ambient meaning. When he spoke it was like poetry and every single line had a huge amount of implied subtext. It was awful but beautiful at the same time. At around six thirty he dropped me off at home again and went to his therapy session. He picked me up again vers . . . eight. We were supposed to go out for dinner but he decided that I looked too tired. We stayed in. He turned on the television. At this point we were in my living room. He sat on the chair there and pulled me onto his lap. "Hey now . . . " and I got up. It was uncomfortable so he ordered a pizza. With chicken and mushrooms. We ate, I went and puked and when I got back he tried to get me on his lap again. I let him. I was tired. I spent the rest of the night listening to him whisper things into my ear and smile against my cheek as we watched IFC. Most of the things were about . . . odd quotes from dead authors. Or living authors. He made me feel inferior because often I had no idea what he was talking about. I think that's what made him smile. But it made him seem beautiful to me. He left around 2 am. All I got was a kiss on the forehead and an inferiority complex. It was perfectly lovely.

blue skies bring tears 3/9/00

The word "penis" seems to create a problem with other people and other teachers. Particularly in English. I love my principal. He's a sweetheart. I'm such a bad kid. May or may not have mentioned that since I lack maturity, my parents have left me alone to aquire some. They went to Disney Land. My house has been empty since the fourth. They're coming home on Sunday. I have grown to love this, scary as it was at first. The idea that if I died nobody would find my body until then has kept me alive, because I'm afraid of being forgotten. I think that's what it comes down to. I'm scared to live but scared to die. Opposition. Something I shouldn't have gotten myself into: a new boy. I've been clubbing with him twice. His attire speaks volumes about him, and should tell me to stay away but I have pretended not to pick up on the whole vampire satanist vibes he gives off. Oh well - sweet dreams are made of these, who am I to disagree? (Some versions of that song make me more nervous than pixies sending me Latin prayers about Jesus.) Anyhow, his name is Dennis. Perhaps mentioned as De-bo. Dennis condones my anorexia. Tells me that I'm his muse and that he wants to draw me in charcoal in the park tomorrow afternoon. He writes me love poems about fairies. How I am a fairy. And he is a troll. And everyone else is nothing. Its all very silly. Then he e-mails them to me. They're reminiscent of Jonny's better days - "I can get lost in you . . . so lost that I can't even think to write anymore of this poem. I love you." Speaking of Spike, though, I thought of him when I was buying paint today. I bought vermillion paint. Vermillion, azure, charcoal grey, and the most beautiful rose color I have ever seen. I mixed something like it once and could never get it again. My latest project commenced today - I decided to paint my ceiling. With fairies and trolls and angels and goats trying to cross bridges. So my bedroom is my canvas. I took down the glow in the dark stars and stuck some of them on the windows. I feel like Michelangelo. Sort of. I'm talking to him now, but I suppose he's too busy thinking about the children he has killed in his lifetime to really get into a spirited conversation with me about his character flaws. All the innocence stolen, never replaced, never forgiven, you are blank space. (As am I, as is she, as is Dennis . . . ) dear literary heroi'm slitting my throatover your latest noveldear everything i havei'll dream of youas i take my final breathsand fade into theas i fade into the nighta voice on the line:i don't regreti don't respecti don't regreti don't . . .

never promised you a rose garden 3/8/00

I wrote messy today. Not a fair representation of my handwriting. I don't really care, but I don't like to be messy. Signed some autographs. Sympathy cards. Sympathy fucks. Lost my train of thought. The surrounding area shows an angry glow of orange. Stage directions from Death Of A Salesman. When its over then you die. He loves the Suicide Machines. We had a band. It was all perfectly lovely. I was thirteen and I wore little t-shirts and short skirts and cooed angry lyrics to sexed up boys who were old enough and big enough and strong enough and horny enough to rape a little girl. We were good. We were god. We were golden. Then this prick who everyone hated because he was so beautiful blew his head off and my best friend moved five hours away from me and everything fell apart and I thought that I would die. Matt went to rehab. Becca starved herself down to 62 pounds before she killed herself on the phone with Jarod and I. Fucking bang. Rah. We heard the last breath, a shot, a gasp, blood splattering against a wall, her tiny body crumbling. I went to her funeral. Jarod didn't. Jarod doesn't like funerals. Its more than likely that Jarod won't go to my funeral either. I went. I talked about how happy she was before she died. So fucking happy it killed her. How much I would miss her. About as much as I would miss Jonny. Yeah. How much she taught me. She was my godamned idol. How special she was. I'm special, too. I shine. I didn't mention the fact that I hated her and was insanely jealous of her, because she was my best friend, and because you don't talk about the dead like that. Didn't mention that she had done it because she was HIV positive and didn't want anyone to know. Didn't mention that she gave it to Jay. God I hated her. She was the perkiest little thing you've ever seen. Most likely to grow up to be Beautiful. Bullshit. I am poetry in motion. Bones banging against each other, making hollow noises. Clunk. A bruise painted in purple and blue on my white skin. I was staring at it all day. I'm convinced that there is purple painted on my bones and that my skin is transluscent. Maybe it won't be today and maybe it won't be tomorrow, but I have decided how I want to go. I want to die with you after all, Jonny. Put a bullet in my head. It would be really romantic. Think of it as assisted suicide rather than murder if it would make it more appealing. Be my Romeo. Turn the gun on yourself when you're done with me. Juliette ultimately killed Romeo anyway. We could dress in white. It would be so romantic. Please . . . I want to bleed. I want to bleed forever. I'm going to cut myself so deep later, and I'm going to bleed so much. I'm going to cover myself in my blood and then I'm going to wash it all off. Cover myself in beautiful life, become vibrant red and beautiful, and then rinse myself off. Cleanse myself. Wash out all of the life. As I do, I'll become white. White skin, dead eyes, white light. I'm down another few pounds today. I'm so beautiful. I'm so perfect. I could be more perfect. I will be. Rest assured. I'm so close that I can almost see it. I'll be a skeleton. All bones. Sunken cheeks. Beautiful ribcage. There's no way to describe how all of this feels. Its incredible. I feel like I'm melting. Fading away. Becoming nothing. This is all about becoming a visual representation of what I actually am. I'm nothing. Beautiful nothing. Blank space on a beautiful canvas of bruises and tearstains. Simple, naive, pure, chaste. I'm becoming purity. I'm going to wash everything away tonight.
lemon yellow sun, arms raised in a V 3/7/00

alone, listlessbreakfast table in an otherwise empty roomyoung girl, violencecenter of her ownmother reads aloud childtries to understand ittries to make her proudshades go downinside her headpainted room, cant denythere's something wrongdon't call me daughternot fit to be thepicture kept will remind me I think that Jeremy and Daughter are the only Pearl Jam songs that I really like. Indifference is okay. Maybe Rearviewmirror . . . i couldn't breatheholding me downhand on my facekissing the ground There now. That one seems to fit a bit better. Jay's funeral is tomorrow. I'm still deciding if I want to go. I don't have very long to decide. Its going to be a very small, private service mostly just for his family. I'll scan a picture of him and put it on my webpage one of these days. I disappeared for two days. With Drew . . . the actor and my husband, evidently. We eloped on Sunday night and then he bought me an ice cream cone. Strawberry. He ended up eating it. "Ice cream, bitch? Where's my diamond ring?" When I went to the religious school before I decided that religion is bullshit, I took a class about spirituality. My teacher had breast cancer and she taught us how to meditate. I learned a lot about Buddhism. Karma. Samsara. Nirvana. And it was all very beautiful but all I saw in it was beauty and there was no solace. Just aesthetically pleasing. I don't know. I suppose that when you can find solace in beauty . . . that's what its all about. I can find beauty everywhere and still feel empty. Feigned happiness. The story of my life. I wish I could stop pretending to be something I'm not. I hate that people think I'm beautiful. I can't stand it, because nobody knows the truth. Nobody knows me. Or if they do, they ignore it. And its all about as beautiful as drugs, to borrow one of Jonny's . . . whatever . . . because you're so enchanted by what you think you see that you don't want to question if its even there. For example, if you see a house sprout wings and soar off into the green and purple sunset. Right. The point of that being that any beauty any of you sees here is in your head.

you're just like an angel, your skin makes me cry 3/3/00

Sometimes it seems as if the last few weeks have been a shipwreck that I'm watching played back in slow motion. Sometimes I really want to sink to the bottom of this ocean, so I can look up into the debris and laugh at it all. I would love to be able to laugh at the way I've been struggling to get closer to the surface of the water but drowning anyway. Have you ever laughed? Really laughed? Maybe I'm just being crazy. Jarod used to tickle me . . . before it hurt to breathe and move and kick him. He used to pin me down and tickle me and I would laugh and laugh until I couldn't breathe and my lungs and ribs hurt so bad. When we dated, he would kiss me at that point and completely take my breath, and I would have to struggle to get it back. He would hold me and breathe gently into my mouth. I like to compare that feeling to drowning. I'm going to try to describe a moment. A split second. Words can't do it justice, but I'll try. The feeling of sand under your feet. You feel like you're sinking into it. You can't run, or you'll trip and fall. One night we played Red Rover on the beach when it would have been too dark to even see the sand if it hadn't been for the moonlight reflecting off the ocean. When you're sitting on someone's shoulders, looking out at an ocean reflecting the beauty of the sky at night, its possible to feel infinite. Connected with the whole world, and sure that every single person who looks at your face at that exact moment can see into your soul. Fucking scary, so eight feet in the air, supported by the body of someone who could see my soul through my eyes at any given moment but for a time couldn't look into them, I started to sob. Because it was all so beautiful that I couldn't stand to look at it, but I couldn't turn my back on it either. Everyone looked at me like I was crazy. Petite girl, black sweatpants, white tank top, long red hair dyed brown, sitting on the shoulders of a boy who wasn't wearing a shirt and sobbing into the dark. All I could do was point at the ocean and cry. When I began choking on my tears they got worried and made me sit in the sand. I burried my feet in it and wiped at my eyes with flexed wrists. Sometimes I feel like I'm drowning in an overwhelming happiness that eventually perpetuates fear and depression, because its honestly too much to handle. Its a lot like being tickled, and a lot like feeling infinite. Entirely too much emotion. I'm only sad because I'm so happy. So lucky. So lucky that my life is a catch 22? Classic opposition. Until I cry I feel like I'm drowning in emotion, and once I do I drown in my tears. head at your feetfool to your crownfist on my plateswallowed it down

slit my wrists and die a whore 3/2/00

oh yeah, another day oh yeah, what a waste what it is, it never wasi don't care or give a fuck Today. Trying day at best. (God, does she ever stop complaining?) Ha. Yeah. I don't try to be a drama queen, honestly. I could write about the kid who I have a crush on in my seventh period math class. I could transcribe our daily conversations. His name is Nate, by the way. That wouldn't be half as interesting as anything else I could write, though, correct? Silly people. Be shiny and happy. i'll be your stumbleine, i'll be your drama queen Today was all my fault, so I have no right to complain. It was my fault because of the way I dress, the way I act . . . It wasn't me and a gun and a man on my back, and I won't pretend it was the worst thing that ever has happened to me. I won't complain, because my dress today was a little too short and a little too low cut. My lips looked a little too full. My glitter made me feel a little too much like my day would be okay. I was a little too confident that I would have a good day. My wintery pal, Ice, decided today that we would go for a little walk during second period. We left after first and walked into the woods. There are beautiful woods near my school. His car was parked in the parking lot near them and he decided we would go to his van to get something. He smoked a cigarette, offering it to me and then, after I turned it down, taking one last drag before he pitched it. I don't smoke. I'm a good kid. He opened up the back of the van and told me to get inside. Told me that if I yelled he would hurt me. He looked around and climbed into the van after me. Closed the door and took off his pants. I had instinctively backed all the way up against the back of the driver's seat and the side of the van. He pulled me closer to him and, gripping my arms too hard and jerking my body too fast, pinned me on the floor. "So I hear you were in the hospital?" as he licked my neck. "I can make you feel better. You're about to make my day after all. It would be the least I could do." I closed my eyes and he laid on top of me, kissed me, felt me up through my dress, and then began to grind against me. "If you grind too, this will go faster," was whispered in my ear. I laid limply on the floor. I do mean limp. Like a rag doll. I knew it was useless to try to fight him. He rolled on his side and pulled me with him. Again, useless to fight it. When he took my hand and guided it inside his boxers, I was detached from the situation. Completely detached. I was far away from the van. The smell of cigarette smoke had become the smell of dew. I was in a beautiful park a million miles away from there, and I could see all of my monsters but they couldn't see me, and I was safe and happy. I was laughing at all of them and they couldn't hear or see me. I was invisible. It was so perfect. Mark was there. So was Zak, and Mr. Anderson. Mike and Rob and Dave. They were all there. The heat his body was radiating became sunshine on my body, as did his hot breath on my neck and face. As his hands wandered up the skirt of my dress and found their way into my panties, I shifted uncomfortably as the images in my head blurred. I blurred too, and, still in my head, for a moment I thought the monsters could see me. But he paused and I became invisible again. His whole body tensed and his hand that was guiding mine shook and he came in his boxers and became the wind blowing against me. As he put his pants back on, I was still in the park. The monsters looked lost, confused. They were frozen still and I ran around, going right up to them and laughing in their faces. He kissed me and I realized too late that they were just playing wax museum. I want to disappear.


stars falling around me. this is heaven, angel. 3/1/00

I'm so frustrated. And sad. I can't concentrate at all. Beautiful's on repeat. I'm supposed to go home at five thirty, but I don't want to. Going home means facing my parents and school and working. This all comes down to the fact that I'm lazy and worthless. All I want right now is for everything to be okay. I sat with Jon today, for five hours. Sat with him last night, too. From 9 to 10. I watched him sleep. I don't even think he knew I was there. I also talked to him. I hope he heard every word of what I said. When I was with him, I kept thinking about his funeral. Wondering how his mother would react to losing another baby. How awful must that be? I can't even imagine. The nurses say that he's slipped in and out of conciousness for the last couple of days. I don't know what that means as far as his health goes. That's how I was a few days after the last big overdose, but that's not what he's here for so I have no idea what's going on. They wouldn't tell me if he was dying. I hate this so much. And a stray tear runs its course down my cheek. Most people will tell me that he's not worth this and that I should be happy if he dies. He's not a monster. That isn't him. I was thinking about him last night. He hasn't been himself lately. He used to be such an asshole. A superficial asshole. That's Jon in a nutshell. It really is. Deep, tortured and motherfucking superficial. Before he was in the hospital last year, up until maybe mid-November or December, he was so fake. As fake as his parents. Very pleasant; liked to pretend things were okay and then probably cried behind closed doors. His family is very well off and he had everything he could ever want and a four hundred dollar a day cocaine habit. He seemed okay when I first met him except that he was an addict. A lot of people here are closet drug addicts. Its the norm. Perfectly acceptable. He lives in a house on a hill that overlooks pretty much the whole town and its very beautiful and big. So when I met him, it was because I was friends with his friends. I was a cheerleader last year. I quit mid-year because I fucking hated who I was around them but for a time I fit in. He doesn't associate with people who don't fit in, just because he thinks there must be a damn good reason why his friends don't like them. Very much a follower, a sheep if you'd rather, very VERY pissy. He was always pissy . . . moody. Like an Australian rock star (anyone else have a similar experience with Daniel Johns? The Australian Eddie Vedder indeed). We didn't get to be good friends until he came back to school May of last year. We dated on and off for a while, but nothing happened really. It was before his OCD therapy and I couldn't kiss him or hug him or breathe on him . . . it was horrible and when I left for the summer it was good for both of us because he got so much better. Dated a bit in September, then again in October. I had a boyfriend in between. Jay. Yeah. And somewhere between October and now, he became a fucked up bastard and decided to start hitting me and planning to kill me to save my soul. I keep thinking things can get better, but I don't know if he's capable. I want to believe that he is, believe in him, believe that everything will be wonderful again. I don't want him to die and I miss how things used to be. Guess I'm fucked up. well i'm sorry for the way things turned out and the way i turned on yoube careful what you wish for cause it may be granted it may come truereturn to innocence is calling my nameits calling out to mesay goodbye to all of the bad


listen to jon, do what the clouds do 2/28/00

I need to scream because I'm so happy. I feel like I'm going to start crying because I feel this tightness in my chest and, god, its so fucking beautiful. She and I talked for a while tonight. I was talking to her online and gave her a number she could reach me at, and she called me and told me. She said she wanted her best friend to be the first to know. Little things like that, and everything is perfect. Things like that and orange Jell-o. Yes, Steve, ORANGE. I had orange Jell-o with my dinner tonight. They love to give me Jell-o. I didn't eat anything except the Jell-o and half of the ensure they gave me. I was too tired to protest with my argument that ensure has a billion calories and I'm going to expand like a huge blimp from drinking what I did. Picked at the rest of my food. It was grilled cheese. Hard to eat because my throat and stomach hurt. Not that I would want to eat anyway, but that isn't the point. I love my room at home. The whole apartment. Its very small and very much mine. A living room, a kitchen, a bedroom and a bathroom. My room is perfect. Tiny and cozy. The only furniture is my bed, and a bookshelf. My walls are completely covered with posters and drawings and pictures and ads from evil magazines. One is a very odd poster that Jon got me that's based on Japanese characters. Several of the drawings are his. Many of them are dragons. You can't even see the walls. My books . . . I have so many books. I love books. Glow in the dark stars on my ceiling. The murals on my door are almost done. Jarod did one of his own on the back of my bedroom door the last time he was over while I worked on Alice. Its beautiful . . . birds and fish and dolphins . . . all overlapping, very abstract. He did it all in different shades of blue and orange. I'm seeing Aztek on April first at the Webster. I'm happy about that. I feel sleepy now, so I'm going to go to sleep. Lovely to be able to decide that I'm going to sleep, even though I'm very drugged.
i ate jello before and it was the weird red color again and they felt bad for me so they gave me a plastic knife and flat jello and a plate and i made the jello into a gun and then i had to talk to a doctor because they said i was being angry but i was really just being myself so they should have been fucking happy
morgasm is coming to visit me. im so fucking excited. were going to steal cows. and wheelchairs from walmart. and one of those big machines that you can ride on if you put a quarter in them.
things that would be more productive than dying
teaching blind children to read
self help classes at the community center
going to alcoholics annonymous meetings
rehab
getting cat scans and mris
drawing on the computer
writing bad poetry
finishing the book im writing about heroin. or something
group therapy
pet therapy with big dogs
seeing how much longer i can use before i overdose by accident
email my aunt and my adoptive mother
drawing dragons and stuff
trying to get a date with my bitch morgan lander now that shes famous

i dont know what to write. just need to write something. shit happened last night. as my night nurse friend cathy tells me online. me and my hospital connections. i was talking to erica and then i wasnt. and i was pacing and when i wouldnt lay down they strapped me to a bed and drugged me. it was all beautiful. stars exploding behind my eyes. fucking beautiful.
i have this thing about how beauty doesnt exist because when you strip everything away its all bullshit. so theres no beauty, no love, no "wonderful" to be added to anyones life and we're all fucked so we might as well jump off a bridge somewhere.
about fifteen miles from here theres a bridge. its a really nice one. there are sidewalks on the sides of it. i think they just redid it recently. id want to jump off that one but i dont think its high enough. it would be so easy though. so fucking easy. dying is so easy if you know how to do it right. ive been making this hard for myself.
my funeral is going to be just like russ's. a lot of people who never knew me saying how horrible it is that something so unfortunate could happen to someone so young. a prayer or a poem read over the loudspeakers at school by senior class president, the principal, my dumbfuck english teacher from junior year. a lot of people pretending to be upset and a lot of class discussions about death. support groups. its ALL fucking bullshit. three weeks and my 'friends' wont remember my name. if they ever knew it in the first place.
im going to write about heroin someday. everything about it. other shit too. it will be so fucking beautiful. thats real beauty, kids. the chemicals I puts into This body so that I don’t have to deal with people while sober. im going to sleep now.

Saturday, January 06, 2001

im.bleeding.i.love.repetition. im always bleeding in some way from my eyes when i remember tonight its from my wrists and everytime i move my hands it stings so i try not to move my hands too much im always bleeding in some wayf rom my head onto paper or onto this tonight its from my wrists and the blood is running down my arms and i cant even feel it im always bleeding in some way from my nose because of the drugs tonight its from my wristsand my head is getting cloudy and i feel dizzy and im floating off the chair