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what_really_happened
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stork daddy
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i called lauren first. she told me, you've called five times today, what are you doing? i said, "i'll let you go" she said "yes, let me go" with an inflection that suggested i didn't understand my choice of words to begin with. i wanted to call nicole after hearing her message, but figured it was too late, and knew ahead of time that i had nothing sufficient to say or give, because i don't dare and adventure and do things, i talk about them, which sometimes isn't enough. i called marjorie and she was at a party which was loud and we could barely make anything out, so really she had no way of hearing my crest being all fallen and whatnot, and so could i really blame her for not following up? especially when i dug the grave all on my own? she said, "i'm at a party with steph and andrew and his naval academy friends." of course, navy just played today at pac bell park. riotous perhaps, although the conservative mindset it takes to shine your shoes and stand in line at 6 in the morning prevents any reckless abandon beyond a night here or there which isn't a good match for marjorie's cautiousness and she loves me and i could beat andrew up but feel petty mentioning it at all except that he always tries to compete and show superiority because he studies submarines. i assume the same or less of the rest of the cracker jacks buying shots for cute girls. she asked "where are you coming home from?" i lie and say i was at the friends of the family christmas party i attended earlier. really i was with my friend lee watching life aquatic. but how do i explain that? how do i explain that as much as i'd rather be all of the above mentioned places, i feel most comfortable watching a movie with someone as estranged and awkward as me, and then driving home alone smoking a cigarette? because there really isn't much i hate more than being charming. which i'm good at, but feel fake doing all of the time. because if someone does find me interesting, i don't really want it to be because i was able to read what kind of jokes they'd laugh at. few people ever really pay attention to what you laugh at. unless they want something from you.
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041231
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stork daddy
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and then right after that, i get a bunch of calls, someone wants to come over, and as usual, my paranoia itself is the cause and effect of my loneliness.
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041231
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black
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I didn't cheat.
From the moment I saw this girl I thought she was interesting. I use that word because she wasn't that hot. She was a conglomeration of ideals, really. She was an expert at putting together an image.
My problem with what happened isn't that I feel guilty.. It's that I wanted to cheat. I would have cheated. My defenses failed. It wasn't by luck.. it was my own actions dictated by logic that prevented me from doing anything regretable. My head was good. My heart was not.
It's a self building cycle. The more I think about her the more guilt I feel. The more guilt I feel the more I think about her. It's a building poison.
I want to see her again. I want to go back there and tell her that song was perfect. I want to close my eyes and fall off the ledge.
So in my heart, I've already cheated. I won't do those things, but my heart has cast the stone already. It makes me feel vile.
I will never go back. There or any place like it.
I have to let this go.
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101204
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peyton
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" i feel most comfortable watching a movie with someone as estranged and awkward as me, and then driving home alone smoking a cigarette? because there really isn't much i hate more than being charming. which i'm good at, but feel fake doing all of the time. because if someone does find me interesting, i don't really want it to be because i was able to read what kind of jokes they'd laugh at. few people ever really pay attention to what you laugh at. unless they want something from you. "
I don't think anyone has summed it up as well as what I just read. I think I'm making myself learn how to read people just so I can tell what jokes they like. But I don't laugh at their jokes. They make me a little sick. If I say what's really on my mind they don't laugh. They give you a weird strange look and then start a new conversation about the Sox.
It's lying. It's trading something I like about myself for something fake. It makes me sick.
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101204
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perfectly_chaotic
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umm
and the cave crumbles down around you.
Really? Again? Then when I hit my browser's back button everything I've written has vanished. Boo. There's no way I would write it exactly the same way a second time.
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101205
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perfectly_chaotic
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I guess I will try though because I can completely relate with what you posted Peyton. It has been my experience that most people do not really want to hear what I am truly thinking. When I do try to open up to people I often hear that my thoughts are "too deep" or "too serious" for them. Oftentimes, due to my social nature as a human creature, I bite my tongue and choose a more numbed down conversation topic.
Rare is the finding of a soul which I feel I can share my thoughts with. As egotistical as this statement as well as the last one sound, I have noticed that many people seem to prefer a more numbed-down version of myself. So these days, as much as it churns my stomach to do so, I often keep my more emotional thoughts to myself, little bits of paper and a bunch of .docx files. I feel afraid to even show most of these words, except the tamest of the herd, to most people because I am not sure I want to know what their reactions would be.
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101205
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starjewel
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hey jude
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130214
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unhinged
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we were both sitting in our separate places
unsure if the other
liked us
insecure
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130215
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FA113N
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I already had a broken femur. I'd had a pretty hardcore operation on it a year ago, where they had broken it in six places and put a rod down the middle of it. All the muscles in my thigh have wasted away. So I was not well to begin with.
On Monday, my wheelchair wheels got covered in god shit because dog owners are inconsiderate idiots. I spent twenty minutes on my kitchen floor cleaning them, on my hands and knees. Then I cleaned the floor. Later, I went to hydrotherapy and pushed my body as far as it would go. Then I went to someone's house, which involved a lot of stairs.
When I got home, I was exhausted. I tried to sort out my bag, but only succeeded in spilling hot chocolate powder everywhere. I wheeled into the kitchen to sort it out, and the washing machine was beeping, so I opened the door. Water flooded out. I put a towel under my left foot - my good leg - and started trying to mop it up. Doe to a combination of soap suds, the cleaning product and the powder, the floor was incredibly slippery. I put too much of my weight through my leg and fell out of my wheelchair.
I landed with my right leg underneath me, and I heard the crack. I screamed, but the scream was cut off halfway, as though my body couldn't fully process it. I knew I had broken my tibia and/or fibula. Badly. My leg was at an impossible angle. I realised that I needed an ambulance, but I had no mobile phone signal. So I snapped my shin back into alignment, and got back into my wheelchair. Standing up to sit in it was one of the hardest, most painful things I have ever done in my life, and I have broken 34 bones. When I was in my wheelchair, I realised that the doctors were likely to cut off my jeans, so I tried to change into a different pair of trousers. When I nearly passed out trying to do that, I realised that it was a very very bad break. Because I have often suffered the indignities of being told to wet myself onto an incontinence pad, I went to the toilet, then I went outside of my flat and waited in the road and called an ambulance. It was 23:40.
At 00:15, after I had spent 35 minutes crying at the operator, my ambulance arrived. The crew were lovely, and gave me a lot of morphine and entinox. Due to previous medical screw ups, I had a letter from my specialist asking people to listen to me more, and give me the meds and respect I asked for. It seemed to work.
In the hospital, they told me I had a bad fracture - two, in fact, one in each bone, at different levels. They needed to put it in a plaster cast. Seeing as I'd had 25mg of IV morphine at this point and screamed every time anyone touched my leg, they gave me a drug that made me forget the trauma of them putting on the cast.
I woke up on the ward, and then remembered the indignity of bed pans, the indifference of agency nurses, the bland taste of hospital food. The doctors here ignored my letter and treated me like a hypochondriac drug addict. I called in the pain team - I know them well - and they upped my medication. The doctors told me they wanted to put on another plaster cast. The pain team prescribed the medication they thought I would need. Three hours later, in the plaster room, the plaster team thought I had already been given my meds. I had not. They suggested trying without, and I firmly declined. We went back to the ward. The doctors gave me a third of the dose I had been prescribed, then too twenty five minutes to find a canister of gas and air, by which point most of the medication had worn off. Halfway through the procedure the gas ran out. They carried on, even though there was a spare canister a few metres away. One of the nurses later told me that there was so much screaming she thought she was back on the maternity ward.
They let me go the next day, and to be fair it is easier to manage at home - at least I get to take my painkillers regularly.
The hardest part of it all was being totally alone. My father is dead, my mother was on holiday on another continent. My phone had no battery, and I only knew two numbers off by heart, one of which belonged to a 75 year old who lives in another county. Even at 26, even though I am an old hand at this stuff, it is still terrifying to be alone when you are in pain. To have no one fighting your corner, insisting that you get the right treatment... it is so, so very hard. When I finally reached my friends and family, they were lovely, but of course by that point I didn't need so much help.
I have to go back to the hospital on Monday for another cast. I will be alone again. I am terrified.
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130216
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