Pointless.

I am trying very hard to see the meaning behind things. I am looking at the small picture, scuffling around in the larger one, and categorizing details, feelings, and experiences. Right now my hands feel leaden. My fingers pick through the words and press keys to write this out. It feels like too much work for something I have already concluded.

I won't tell you what I have come to understand recently. You have to understand your own things. You will never understand mine even if I told them to you. The thing is, we are never ready. We are never ready to do anything, and this is mostly because we are afraid of what will happen and what people will think of us. You are no more ready for my conclusions, than you are ready for yours.

I have started to realize that things are not going to go the way I thought they would go. This is how life works. We adjust when this happens. We change. I am going to make the adjustment in the larger picture, so don't worry about the smaller one. I am adjusting. I will adjust. Leave me alone like you already know how to.

In the end, it's not really that bad. It's like stepping back to admire a building or a sculpture. You nod and think its not that bad, its not as bad as you thought it was when you were making it. You just had to get used to it. I'm counting on you getting used to it. I'm already used to it. Don't be surprised.

Breathing.

She said,

"Please?"

You said,

"Maybe.."

She said,

"Baby?"

You said,

"We'll see."

To be honest, today I am legitimately depressed. I woke up this morning sad. Sometimes when I feel this way, I trace lines on my arm with my fingers like I would want to trace them with metal. I saw my arm against my blue pillowcase, and it shocked me. It didn't look mine. I realized I was tanned, more tanned than I had been when I left. Tanned, healthy, sun-loving people don't feel this way, do they? They do. I do.

To be honest, reality is becoming too much to handle right now. I am going back to camp tomorrow morning sometime. Tonight I am straight girl again. I should paint my fucking nails and put on lipstick and hum some tune they play on the radio. Going out tonight. I am dressed like the straight, hooker version of me.

To be honest, I have started writing everything out. I've started writing, and I'm going to finish someday soon, and then I'll give you a copy and leave. I'm just going North, remember that. Just going north. Tears freeze in the North, so no one will cry.

I am not ready to go, but I go anyways. Isn't that the way it works? No one is ready to go, but we all go. Afraid, unprepared, ashamed of ourselves, we go. Happy, fulfilled, with expectations met, we go.

This summer has been great, but afterwards it will not be so. I am not ready to go, but I will go. Can I live like this? I go away and the sadnesses heal slowly, and I become confident.

But it takes a day and a half to recover from home when I go away. I am not ready to go, but I go. Bags packed, pens in my pocket, sleep deprived I go.

We all go. Alone, sad, hungry for something different, we go.
I come back to go.

I'm letting you know.

I'm not ready to go, but I'll go.

When I come back, I'll go.

Little boys

Little boys are hilarious. They laugh so hard they pee on the floor and keep laughing. They miss their mothers and they have pretend girlfriends.

Specifically one night I heard the story of the tall, blonde Russian girlfriend. She wore high heels like the models from Deal or No Deal, wore a short yellow dress, and was very beautiful. She liked to do things with him like act in adventure films. She spoke five languages and was particularly good at English, French and of course Russian.

Another boy and I were rivals of imagination. We were teaming up from two different galaxies trying to fight invaders that didn't like us on Jupiter. Don't worry, we beamed the 50 people on the planet who were our allies to safety. We both wore invisible backpacks that carried our energy scans in it. Our energy levels were sometimes at critical meltdown.

One boy could not really speak. He made noises and was in his own little world. I would pay someone someday to trade us places so I could understand what he thinks and sees. I can't even explain it to you.

Little boys, little boys. Little boys grow up. They grow up, and it only takes a year. Hormones, and they become men.

Feelings are complex.

I am just reminding myself.

Two steps forward, one step back.

Just so you know, it takes a long time to be stable again. It takes a long time to feel worthwhile, loved, cared for, and appreciated. I am not stable yet, but I'm getting there. I am getting there taking two steps forward, one step back. This is my own pace.

When I come here, its one step forward, and four steps back. One step forward, three steps back. One step forward, eight steps back. I wonder why I take any steps forward, or why I try. Maybe it's to fuck with myself. You know, to make myself believe that I'm ever going to get out of here, out of this cycle.

I got some clarity stepping forward and not being dragged back. Maybe its a fantasy, but maybe I'll be able to move to the slow progress club one day. Find other two step forward and one step backers. We would still make mistakes, still hesitate and worry over things (hence the step back). But at the end of a month or a year we would be somewhere. We wouldn't be like those people who dash through life and lovers and end up stuck. Slow progress, slow measurable growth.

Here, that doesn't happen. Here is shaking, yelling, stress. It's the tone of voice that makes me feel worthless, the yelling at 10am. The sighs and rolling of eyes. Body language lets me know that you didn't want to hug me. I tried for positive conversation, and ten seconds later I was criticized for it.

Girl, it's too early in the morning for tears. It's best just to accept it. Progress here is negative. It's negative, and its hard to understand that we lived like this all our life, and will continue for whatever's left of it.

In making progress last year, I made anger. Made people angry, made people think. Made people ask themselves, "Who is she?" Made myself think. Everything I accomplished I fought for. I have scars to prove it. I am willing to do the same this year, willing to fight for everything I want, but you get so tired.

I'm so tired. So tired of having to fight so hard for what seems like so little. I want to take two steps forward and one step back. I don't want to have to hide zines and books and notebooks and keep all my art in a drawer. School is enough of a thing by itself. My head and all the shit it spews is enough of a thing by itself. Identity and love, or lack thereof is enough of a thing by itself. To add everything else to this makes me want to vomit. I am so tired.

I am so tired. I am strong, but it takes strength to stand. I am strong, but even the strong get tired, and want to give up. Two steps forward and one step back. Mon fils, il faut m'aimer. Last night I had a dream where I asked to buy stamps in french from a post office. Maybe I should go to Montreal and stay there.

Precaution

Nicked my leg when I was lifting something last week.

Rubbed the scab off of a bug bite, and a small trickle of blood crept down my calf.

"You're bleeding," some girl pointed out.

"Oh I guess so," I said calmly.

I had to leave the lifting demonstration, got a polysporin spray and a bandaid from the nurse. Later I had to fill out an incident report. I had to document exactly what happened, why it happened, the same kind of form that was filled out when my ankle was broken. I did not feel that this was necessary, however it was policy. I felt agitated the whole day.

For someone with more than a hundred countable scars, this dot sized wound, if you would even call it that, was getting more attention than any other thing I had done to myself. Cutting means I could be terminated if its discovered, even if it's on my time off.

I am going to try to wait this out.

Compulsion comes in waves,

So put on a lifejacket.

The difference twenty four hours makes

Being gone is better than being home.

I have been home for twenty seven minutes, and I want to go again.

Marvelous plans from now until Saturday afternoon?

None.

I already took an inventory of my bruises and scrapes.

Didn't get any mail, so none to reply back to.

My room is clean.

Twenty four hours ago I was painting decorations for the cabins.

Now I am watching soccer with my brother.

Last night the girl nicknamed Chuck asked me if I was going to sleep. She reminded me in my drowsy state to take off my glasses.

Tonight Chuck's going to the beach in her respective city, and I'll lie in bed in my pjs and realize that no one notices or cares that I'm there.

Last night I went to get a tea from the kettle in the dining hall and three people said hello and started chatting with me.

Tonight I will walk around unnoticed.

If only you knew how shocking it was, how shocking it is to come home.

I am going over the moments in my head, of all the things that I have done in the past 10 days.

Life ain't easy for anyone.

But it's especially not easy like this.

I'm not a drinker,

But I might need a drink.

Little Grace

Seventeen, tongue pierced.

"I have twelve piercings, but you can't see them all,"

She says as she winks at you.

Little rainbow bracelet round her wrist.

Wants to know about the note you left in her staff mailbox.

The one that was tied with long blades of grass.

Her earliest celebrity crush was on the spice girls,

Fitting in.

And it feels weird.