How does Linkin' Park know what to say? They are so insightful; I just want them to tell me how it'll all end. Crawling in my skin, these wounds they will not heal, fear is how I fall, confusing what is real.
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Again, LP insightful while I drink another drink.
I wanna run away
I wanna know the truth
I wanna know the answers
I wanna shut the door
and open up my mind
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Oh, a note to myself to remember:
fuck, I just forgot. Nevermind. I have a constant need to write. Something that is driving me to write is driving me mad. I'll see Virginia.
I teach other people to write, act, and communicate, and look at me. I'm sitting here tears running down my cheek in a stream that is constant--not the sniffling, loud crying kind that happens in movies. I'm giving birth to a new fountain that no one will see. My family would not be proud of me right now. I'm ashamed that I'm who I am. Thank God (haha) for people for advice on the internet... Social stigma and prejudice are our enemies. Every human being is taught from childhood that suicidal people are shameful, sinful, weak, selfish, manipulative--taught that we are contagious, that we want to harm others. None of these ideas are true. No scientific study has ever confirmed that a significant proportion of suicidal people have these qualities. But children *aka known as "sandbags* believe what they are taught. Each person we seek help from has been conditioned to respond with fear, contempt, and aversion. Worse yet, when we became suicidal, we applied these ideas to ourselves. Much of the content of depressive rumination -- �I�m no good, I�m stupid, I�m a failure, I�m weak, I don�t have enough will power,� -- is simply the reflexive response of internalized stigma. Stigma causes us to inflict pain upon ourselves and deters us from seeking help. It causes those around us to shun us, to be afraid to talk with us, to abuse us. While thousands of years of social oppression are an enemy, our allies include millions of years of biological programming. We are born with the desire to stay alive. It is the most basic thing about us; we share it with all living beings. At each moment, millions of events take place inside our bodies and inside our minds that are designed to help us stay alive. Until the present, at least, the forces that are life-preserving have been stronger than the forces that are life-destroying. Many of us endured bleak periods during which inner voices cried out, �Kill yourself. Your life is nothing but pain and misery. You might as well end it all.� Yet we did not die. The desire for life is pre-conscious, pre-verbal. It keeps us going even when the voices tell us to die. We must be, at bottom, fundamentally healthy or we would not have stayed alive this long. Like all living creatures, we can heal from our injuries and our suffering. If we have a healthy environment, healthy behaviors, healthy relationships, we will recover. We need to identify our histories of trauma, abuse, neglect, grief, and loss. We need to overcome denial on all of our addictive behaviors. We need to provide ourselves with good health care. We need a safe place where we can be who we are, and be welcome. We need quiet, respectful attention as we tell our stories in as much detail and as many times as we need to. If we get these things we will not just stay alive, but we will have good lives. Lives that are free of the curse of depression and suicidal ideation, lives that are productive and creative, lives that are filled with friendship and love. ---------------->Well if that last paragraph means taking my night meds, making friends with the bottle, and writing a bunch of meaningless shit I'm all in. Linkin' Park tried so hard and found that in the end it doesn't even matter. They are open, taking it in, and explaining it to me. Losing it all doesn't matter, falling doesn't matter. And how do they know about my lack of self control and my fear that never ends? Fuck wounds. There is something in me that isn't right! I'm not supposed to be here. I was supposed to die; Darwin told me. I feel like I'm writing the a long suicide note. Now I recall (from my teachings in poetry) a poem--Preface to a Twenty Volume Suicide Note by poet Amiri Baraka, who writes under the name of Everett LeRoi Jones. His poem: Lately, I've become accustomed to the way The ground opens up and envelopes me Each time I go out to walk the dog. Or the broad edged silly music the wind Makes when I run for a bus... Things have come to that. And now, each night I count the stars. And each night I get the same number. And when they will not come to be counted, I count the holes they leave. Nobody sings anymore. And then last night I tiptoed up To my daughter's room and heard her Talking to someone, and when I opened The door, there was no one there... Only she on her knees, peeking into Her own clasped hands --------------------------> How does one become that insightful? Pain? Genius? Genetics and upbringing? I need to quit whining and actually try to do something with myself or donate my body to science or necrophelia. Why is the world so far away from me? I cannot feel at home and do not belong. Nothing fits. Size 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1, 0, 00. Double zero...a two-time loser. And another dead poet that I admire... Sylvia Plath I, Mirror I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions. Whatever I see, I swallow immediately. Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike I am not cruel, only truthful � The eye of a little god, four-cornered. Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall. It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so long I think it is a part of my heart. But it flickers. Faces and darkness separate us over and over. Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me. Searching my reaches for what she really is. Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon. I see her back, and reflect it faithfully She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands. I am important to her. She comes and goes. Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness. In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish. Painfully beautiful. Beautiful verisimilatude or something like that. Really, I've been writing for a couple hours. I sometimes skip other people's diaries when they write too much on each entry. I guess I could have just written: "I am a sad, so-called instructor trying to live life, but continuing to fail successfully. So I drink and continue to crash and burn."

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