(On humanity: I’m not a fan. )
We just watched Watchmen, I’m a little tired of this all. How do you justify a liking to the Comedian when in all appearance experiences you are a femine-something? I don’t, don’t, don’t. Don’t understand; not myself, not this, not that, not you for sure. I always seem to like the psychos. Yeah, I liked Rorsach too, the book and movie version. I liked both. Maybe like’s not the right word. I liked the Joker, if that’s the word. I remember reading this thing about how “(I can’t put enough fucking quotes around this word)Gifted” children, after seeing a movie, say, Fiddler on the Roof, would not be ready to go out for ice cream; they would still be wrapped up in the characters, torn apart by their emotional immersion in the drama of it, in a way of sorts somehow; “Semi-“Gifted”” children would be ready to go out for ice cream but only if they could talk about the lighting and the stagecraft and the filming techniques and the so on and so forth and so on, so, so, so I kind of claimed the second category (even though I think there was a third before you get to the gosh-damned lucky normal kids), because in my experience that was a bad thing, when you cried when the character died because even though he was a villain you understood him? Or when you cheered or clapped or whatever the fuck.
I don’t understand why I’m here.
That’s not really true.
Yes it is, though. On the greater level of the question, heady philosophical question, etc.
Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear, oh dear,oh oh oh oh oh oh fuck this fuckfuckfuck.
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Medication vs. LSD
You know, I managed to be without meds for four weeks, with no serious problems.
...Yeah, because the sudden recurring manic laughter is completely normal. Someone is going to notice, even if 2/3 of the people who usually pick up on that are leaving.
Actually, taking meds doesn’t make the manic laughter go away. In some cases, it gets worse.
Oh, I know. I remember things like that, too. But you have to admit that having withdrawal-like symptoms for almost half a week isn’t normal.
I don’t have to admit shit.
Your chest is contracting.
You’re unable to externalize negative emotions.
You need your fucking meds. They’re in the cabinet. Take them.
Fuck you. Id rather see the world more clearly. I’m tired of all this distortion.
Oh, for the love of… You’re not seeing things more clearly. The insanity is the distortion, not the meds! You might be more interested in the world when you’re completely fucking batshit, but that’s because it’s not the real world. Take. Your. Meds.
Acid trips make the world more distorted too.
Acid is not Risperdal.
Shut up.
Maybe I should start taking meds again. For a while, nothing seemed different, I didn’t even hit withdrawal, that I remember, at least. And the week in Maine was amazing, unlike normal problems when I don’t take meds. But all the sudden I feel my brain slipping. Dreams are vivid and a little nightmarish again, I’m wondering about things that really shouldn’t… um, things that aren’t really open to discussion, if that makes sense. The rules of physics aren’t… um. Basically, I’m laughing again, instead of whatever emotion I want to express, my chest is acting like it did when I went through withdrawal three or four times before, and the world is strange.
So yeah.
...Yeah, because the sudden recurring manic laughter is completely normal. Someone is going to notice, even if 2/3 of the people who usually pick up on that are leaving.
Actually, taking meds doesn’t make the manic laughter go away. In some cases, it gets worse.
Oh, I know. I remember things like that, too. But you have to admit that having withdrawal-like symptoms for almost half a week isn’t normal.
I don’t have to admit shit.
Your chest is contracting.
You’re unable to externalize negative emotions.
You need your fucking meds. They’re in the cabinet. Take them.
Fuck you. Id rather see the world more clearly. I’m tired of all this distortion.
Oh, for the love of… You’re not seeing things more clearly. The insanity is the distortion, not the meds! You might be more interested in the world when you’re completely fucking batshit, but that’s because it’s not the real world. Take. Your. Meds.
Acid trips make the world more distorted too.
Acid is not Risperdal.
Shut up.
Maybe I should start taking meds again. For a while, nothing seemed different, I didn’t even hit withdrawal, that I remember, at least. And the week in Maine was amazing, unlike normal problems when I don’t take meds. But all the sudden I feel my brain slipping. Dreams are vivid and a little nightmarish again, I’m wondering about things that really shouldn’t… um, things that aren’t really open to discussion, if that makes sense. The rules of physics aren’t… um. Basically, I’m laughing again, instead of whatever emotion I want to express, my chest is acting like it did when I went through withdrawal three or four times before, and the world is strange.
So yeah.
Friday, August 21, 2009
Camping Journal
(This is the uncut version of what I did for most of the week we were in Mt. Desert Island, camping. I'll post the edited version on Facebook. There's only one real difference, to keep my dad's wrath from pouring onto my head, other than that they're the same. Note to self: Not located in blog folder.)
August 12, 2009; morning
Well, this is day one. Full day one, at least. We got here yesterday afternoon/evening, and set about setting up camp. It’s a pretty small campsite, but not as small as it looked when we first got here; we fit both tents in alright, and the van in the driveway, without too much cramping. Right now Ruth is glaring at me across the picnic table for playing music on this thing (Everybody Always Leaves, by Matthew Ryan). I thought she might like it, but she refuses to give it a chance. It’s a pretty gray day, a little tiny bit of humid chill in the air, but that’s okay. I’m honestly so happy to be here I couldn’t care less what the weather does (within reason, of course). But it’s pretty, and it’s nice enough. We went over to Robin and Bob’s house last night, after dinner (spaghetti; Sheila kind of burned the sauce, for which we can blame the dogs). That was cool, I always know in the back of my mind how much I miss them, but it hits home when we actually get to see them. Hope we get to hang around more this week with them. Last night, we walk into the porch, we’re all standing around exchanging greetings, and I look over to see Peter looking at Aunty Robin with a strange sort of look. She’s like “Got a problem? What’s the matter, Pete?” And I looked down to see that she’s standing on one of his shoelaces (untied, as usual), grinning. He’s like “…Um. You’re… you’re standing on my shoelace…” She’s like “What? What, your shoelace? What’s the matter?” It made me smile.
So the dogwalk here is a tiny little fenced in place, but there’s tons of places to take them, so I’m not worried. (Listening to U2, now.) Dad is making pancakes, Ruth just took out her sketchbook, the dogs have finally settled down a little, RJ is setting the table, Peter is watching me type, Sheila is doing something in the tent. Well, their tent. We’re splitting one tent, and Dad and Sheila are splitting another one. (Hurr hurr hurr) Peter is now angry that I will put this up somewhere. Hurr hurr hurr. I probably won’t leave this on or out much longer, since the sky is so gray and threatening.
Little kids are running past our campground, afraid, because before we had tied up the dogs, Lucky chased some kid off when he walked past. Poor guy was like… three feet tall. He ran and ran, and when we finally got Lucky off, (s?)he started crying, just standing there in the middle of the road, crying. It was pretty bad. But I should wrap this thing up and put my laptop away. Peter wants to look up the location of some torture museum, but I refuse to use WiFi unless absolutely, completely necessary. I did not come to Mt. Desert Island to hang around online, or to look at torture museums. Perhaps after a few days, this weekend, I’ll do a quick Facebook update or something. Otherwise? NO. I refuse to be a technology-addicted symbol of teenage dependence. Ruth, Peter, and RJ fill that gap just fine (they deny this). And for crying out loud, Dad was more concerned about me bringing charging-apparatuses for various electronic devices than I was. But anyway.
So that’s pretty much it. Ruth is sketching something that looks like fur around an eye, the pancakes are (hey, it was a furry eye!) about ready, and I don’t want to run my battery down. More later!
August 13, 2009; afternoon
We just got back from a four/five hour hike. We set out around eleven, got back just now, plus maybe twenty, thirty minutes of waiting while someone gave Sheila a ride back to the car so she could come get us, and then driving. So maybe four and a half hours. It’s a little chilly today, and I forgot to pack a sweatshirt (predictably enough), but still pretty nice out. We’re going to Robin and Bob’s for dinner tonight, but we’ve got two hours to cool our heels and shower first, which is a good thing, because we’re all pretty sweaty and gross. Hiking for four hours will do that to you.
The whole time, I kept wanting to take pictures—literally there is unspeakable beauty in every single direction. But I settled for the especially scenic things. And the mushrooms, of course. Most of the hike I was up ahead of everyone. I’m not sure why; I’d just start walking, normally, and when I looked back I’d be alone. Not sure exactly how that works out, but it was pretty fun. We ate lunch at Valley Summit, and then hiked up to the summit of St. Saveur, and down to Echo Lake cliffs from there. A very nice hike; our original plan was to go along St. Saveur to Mt. Acadia, but in the end it turned out we were a little unprepared for that.
Last night I built a fire, it was cool. Everyone kept building it, I eventually just went to bed. But there’s the sky here. It’s so beautiful! The sky is so black, and there are stars, brighter than you would ever see them at home, everywhere. It’s amazing. I saw a shooting star in a clearing a way down the road, a veritable comet, I swear. It had a thick glowing trail, it was bright… amazing. Then I went to bed. My sleeping bag was damp though.
So it was a good day. I dunno how else to describe it. Beautiful mountain, nice hike, good weather so far. The dogs are dead tired. For that matter, so am I.
August 19, 2009; morning
Wow. So this journal was a good idea in theory, but honestly, I’m camping. Who the hell has time to sit around on a laptop typing in such a beautiful place? Not I, for sure. So, in order of things I remember, what’s been going on:
Last night, we had tacos for dinner. They were actually pretty good. I had guacamole, everyone else had ground beef. Before that, Dad and Sheila went out to Sand Beach, up in the Northeast corner of the island (we are in the Southwest corner), and then to Rubber-Rock Beach, which is actually called something else… but no one remembers it here. We played cards around the campground and stuff; before they left, Peter went with me up the street about a mile, to Ship’s Harbor, which is a cool little path to a muddy shore, which then goes to a rocky shore (infinitely cooler). It was ninety-five degrees out, but for some reason Peter was cold.
That morning/afternoon, Robin and Bob took us out (we are about to eat breakfast, scrambled eggs and bacon; Peter’s idea of setting the table is, quite literally, putting spoons out and then leaving someone else to do the rest. He’s very tired all the time, and we suspect dehydration, which makes pretty good sense.) to pull traps (now I am eating eggs with a spoon. They are good.) and we did a little fishing, too. That was mad fun. I can’t remember the last time I was out on a boat, plus it was pretty cool to watch Robin pulling the traps up. She’s definitely the coolest person I know. And it was just awesome being out on the water. Once you get out of the island a bit, things get really cool, but that’s the way I like it. I put sunscreen on my face, because I’m not always an idiot, but then I rolled my sleeves up to the seam and got my shoulders burned, so sometimes I am.
Also, I finished A Clockwork Orange yesterday. It’s a good book, really it is. Then I started on the Vonnegut short stories, and those are cool too. I think my favorite is the one about Bernie and Big Nick, the mafia guy. (Peter is urging me to eat the rest of the bacon. “You’re on vacation!”)
(We’re taking the dogs for a walk at Little Long Pond, since Carly has finally gotten over her exhaustion from playing with Zach. That dog is so freaking energetic, it’s crazy! But he was tired when I went over the other day, which leads into what we did the day before yesterday…)
So the day before yesterday, everyone wanted to go to the lobster hatchery, but I’ve seen it twice now, once as a little kid and once with Aunty Robin, the time I stayed up here with them for two weeks. I was trying to remember what the deal was last time I was there, and I remembered that foggy morning when I got in a fight with Grandpa (because he is a racist sometimes. I know he'd never act on it, and if he knows a person personally he doesn't judge them at all like that, but it does NOT excuse the kind of things he was saying that day.) and needed to get the hell out of the house before I punched him or something. So I mentioned that, and Dad got pretty pissed at me over that, which I didn’t realize at the time. But I knew I didn’t want to go to the lobster hatchery/museum, so I looked at the map for a good hike, and found Beech Mountain looking pretty good, figuring I’d go up the cliffs, down the West Ridge Trail, and then all the way around Long Pond to Robin and Bob’s house. So I took the sandwich Sheila had made for me the day before, and a cereal bar and a package of peanuts and two water bottles, a trail map (that’s really, really important), the bus schedule (just in case), and my dad dropped me off at the Echo Lake entrance to Beech Cliffs. We kind of had a fight on the way over. Like I said, I had no idea he was so pissed about the slight to his dad. He was. He told me I was hypersensitive to racial and class-like things, and needed to examine myself because he doesn't think my heart is in the right place. I was furious.
But we kind of got over it by the time we got to the cliffs, which was good. So from there, I went down and took a long drink from the water fountain at Echo Lake, and headed up the cliffs. Those were nice, that’s a beautiful trail, if strenuous, and I was panting pretty heavily when I hit the top of that trail, up towards the summit. (I have to hurry this up, I only have an hour of battery left and kind of want this for music on the way home) So I made it from there down to the parking lot, then up a less steep trail to the fire tower at the summit (but forgot to take a picture of the summit sign), and from there I took a bit of a wrong turn and wound up taking the South Ridge Trail. It wasn’t that much longer of a walk, and I still wound up on the shore of Long Pond (different, notably, from Little Long Pond. Robin says “Us Mainers really know how to give names, eh?”), so it wasn’t too bad. The walk around Long Pond was very nice, I wound up drinking a little from the far shore, the one at the base of Beech Mt., mainly because it was so rocky and clear. When I made it around to the pump station at the end of the pond (it really is long, not round; the station is at… the south end, I believe, I was coming from the eastern shore), there were people around, and the water looked muddier. On the western shore, there were people swimming, so I didn’t even think about drinking over there.
At some point, the Long Pond Trail cut up away from the pond, and my original plan was to just skip off the trail and follow the shore of the pond all the way up to the path that goes up to Bob and Robin’s house. So I left the trail, and at first I was worried, and then I noticed things that made me certain that someone, not all that recently, had done this. There was reindeer moss with a boot-print in it, and a few other clues, but nothing really concrete. So I made it down that trail for a while, maybe ten minutes, and I started getting thirstier and thirstier; at this point I’d been walking for a few hours and only had half a bottle of water left, and the pond was all muddy and had lily plants growing there. At some point, it occurred to me that if I cramped up from dehydration on the trail, someone was bound to find me, but if I got stuck out there, there was no guarantee. (this was right about the point at which I stopped taking pictures and concentrated on moving) With that in mind, I beat my way back through the bush to the trail, and on the way became convinced that someone had not quite made a path, per se, along the pond edge, but they’d definitely found a way through. I don’t know if I can say why I was so certain, because like I said, there was no real concrete evidence. But anyway, I made it back to the trail, and took the Long Pond Trail all the way uphill to where it forked with the Great Notch (called the ‘Western Trail’ on the trail map, which threw me for a second).
At that point, I was incredibly thirsty, praying under my breath that I’d make it up to the fire road, had one mouthful of water left, and really starting to worry. I made up my mind that the next people I met, I’d swallow my pride and ask if they had any water to spare. So I did, and a lovely Quebecois couple poured half a bottle of (heavily chlorinated, NOT that I am in any way complaining) water into my empty bottle, and I made it up the Great Notch to the Fire Road on that. I drank the last mouthful of clear water on the Long Pond Fire Road, and had a few swallows of the other stuff left. So I walked up the fire road, and eventually hit Hodgdon (pronounced HOJ-dun) Road, and drank the last of it. From there, it was straight up the road, except for one triangular fork. But I checked the map there, and made it all the way to Bob and Robin’s house, where Robin was outside making dinner. So I stayed there, they gave me water and some potato salad (honestly I think her potato salad is some of the best I’ve had, because usually I’m not a huge potato salad fan; every other one I’ve ever had is overpowering on the mayonnaise) and we talked for a while, and Zach was so tired he pretty much laid around, which was adorable. He kept putting his head in my lap, and it is so soft! Such a cute puppy; he’s only one. Other than that time, I have never seen him not energetic. Visla, they are an awesome breed.
ETA: (what i would've said had i the battery power then, in summary: I told Robin about the fight with my dad, and she said "Bullshit! He is too a racist!" (on my grandpa.) it made me pretty glad that at least i knew i wasn't crazy. when i was showing her my route on the trail map, she pointed out that I could've cut across the shore of Long Pond, and said that she'd actually done that before and I went "Ha! I knew someone'd done that." It made me pretty happy.)
(Just realized I only have twenty minutes of battery left, switched to Power Saver mode, which means ten extra minutes but also that I cannot but hardly see the screen at all. Apologies for spelling errors.)
So they dropped me off at the campsite, and I laid around for a little while, and then everyone else got home, we ate supper, and I went to bed. That concludes… Monday’s adventure. Now, what did we do Sunday?
Ah, right. On Sunday, Bobby took Ruth, Peter, and RJ out fishing. They caught quite a bit of fish, and were proud of themselves. Peter, predictably enough, had some serious trouble taking proper care of his line, but he was very good at filleting the fish later, and when he’d done that, we had them for supper the following night; they smelled, looked, and according to everyone else, tasted like something you’d have in a restaurant, owing partly to my dad’s excellent cooking skills, partly to Peter’s excellent fish-filleting skills, partly to everyone’s fishing skills, and very muchly to Bobby’s fishing-teaching skills and taking them out on the boat. So that was cool, while they were doing that, Dad, Sheila, Robin and I took all three dogs out to a walk around Little Long Pond, which is a nice spot on Rockefeller land, which means dogs can be unleashed and bikers are not allowed. (Lucky hates bikers, and on this island they are often rude, so that’s a good thing.) That was a lot of fun.
So after that, we took the fish to Robin and Bob’s house (which was where Peter filleted them), and only left to take the dogs home to feed (which we forgot to do while at home, but got laundry done and fed them with the food in the dashboard), then went back for hamburgers and hotdogs. (and veggie burgers. and turkey burger, for Robin)
I have to call Robin and let her know we’re set to go walk the dogs, and also I am almost out of batteries. I’ll do the rest of this later.
August 19, 2009; afternoon
It took so long to check e-mail while I was here charging my laptop that I forgot to finish the bloggish entry thing here. Oh well, now we’re going to Rubber-Rock Beach (also called Hunter Beach, which Robin remembered when we asked her on the walk today.)
August 20, 2009; late morning/early afternoon
Well, we just finished packing up, just about ten-thirty. We’re dropping by the dock to pick up lobsters and say goodbye to Robin and Bob. I am terribly sad, and really don’t want to leave. But life goes on, and I know we’ll be back. Soon, I hope.
Very little battery left, so I guess this is the end. Carly’s got her head on my leg; I think she’s as sad to leave as we are. Alas, alack, but life goes on.
August 12, 2009; morning
Well, this is day one. Full day one, at least. We got here yesterday afternoon/evening, and set about setting up camp. It’s a pretty small campsite, but not as small as it looked when we first got here; we fit both tents in alright, and the van in the driveway, without too much cramping. Right now Ruth is glaring at me across the picnic table for playing music on this thing (Everybody Always Leaves, by Matthew Ryan). I thought she might like it, but she refuses to give it a chance. It’s a pretty gray day, a little tiny bit of humid chill in the air, but that’s okay. I’m honestly so happy to be here I couldn’t care less what the weather does (within reason, of course). But it’s pretty, and it’s nice enough. We went over to Robin and Bob’s house last night, after dinner (spaghetti; Sheila kind of burned the sauce, for which we can blame the dogs). That was cool, I always know in the back of my mind how much I miss them, but it hits home when we actually get to see them. Hope we get to hang around more this week with them. Last night, we walk into the porch, we’re all standing around exchanging greetings, and I look over to see Peter looking at Aunty Robin with a strange sort of look. She’s like “Got a problem? What’s the matter, Pete?” And I looked down to see that she’s standing on one of his shoelaces (untied, as usual), grinning. He’s like “…Um. You’re… you’re standing on my shoelace…” She’s like “What? What, your shoelace? What’s the matter?” It made me smile.
So the dogwalk here is a tiny little fenced in place, but there’s tons of places to take them, so I’m not worried. (Listening to U2, now.) Dad is making pancakes, Ruth just took out her sketchbook, the dogs have finally settled down a little, RJ is setting the table, Peter is watching me type, Sheila is doing something in the tent. Well, their tent. We’re splitting one tent, and Dad and Sheila are splitting another one. (Hurr hurr hurr) Peter is now angry that I will put this up somewhere. Hurr hurr hurr. I probably won’t leave this on or out much longer, since the sky is so gray and threatening.
Little kids are running past our campground, afraid, because before we had tied up the dogs, Lucky chased some kid off when he walked past. Poor guy was like… three feet tall. He ran and ran, and when we finally got Lucky off, (s?)he started crying, just standing there in the middle of the road, crying. It was pretty bad. But I should wrap this thing up and put my laptop away. Peter wants to look up the location of some torture museum, but I refuse to use WiFi unless absolutely, completely necessary. I did not come to Mt. Desert Island to hang around online, or to look at torture museums. Perhaps after a few days, this weekend, I’ll do a quick Facebook update or something. Otherwise? NO. I refuse to be a technology-addicted symbol of teenage dependence. Ruth, Peter, and RJ fill that gap just fine (they deny this). And for crying out loud, Dad was more concerned about me bringing charging-apparatuses for various electronic devices than I was. But anyway.
So that’s pretty much it. Ruth is sketching something that looks like fur around an eye, the pancakes are (hey, it was a furry eye!) about ready, and I don’t want to run my battery down. More later!
August 13, 2009; afternoon
We just got back from a four/five hour hike. We set out around eleven, got back just now, plus maybe twenty, thirty minutes of waiting while someone gave Sheila a ride back to the car so she could come get us, and then driving. So maybe four and a half hours. It’s a little chilly today, and I forgot to pack a sweatshirt (predictably enough), but still pretty nice out. We’re going to Robin and Bob’s for dinner tonight, but we’ve got two hours to cool our heels and shower first, which is a good thing, because we’re all pretty sweaty and gross. Hiking for four hours will do that to you.
The whole time, I kept wanting to take pictures—literally there is unspeakable beauty in every single direction. But I settled for the especially scenic things. And the mushrooms, of course. Most of the hike I was up ahead of everyone. I’m not sure why; I’d just start walking, normally, and when I looked back I’d be alone. Not sure exactly how that works out, but it was pretty fun. We ate lunch at Valley Summit, and then hiked up to the summit of St. Saveur, and down to Echo Lake cliffs from there. A very nice hike; our original plan was to go along St. Saveur to Mt. Acadia, but in the end it turned out we were a little unprepared for that.
Last night I built a fire, it was cool. Everyone kept building it, I eventually just went to bed. But there’s the sky here. It’s so beautiful! The sky is so black, and there are stars, brighter than you would ever see them at home, everywhere. It’s amazing. I saw a shooting star in a clearing a way down the road, a veritable comet, I swear. It had a thick glowing trail, it was bright… amazing. Then I went to bed. My sleeping bag was damp though.
So it was a good day. I dunno how else to describe it. Beautiful mountain, nice hike, good weather so far. The dogs are dead tired. For that matter, so am I.
August 19, 2009; morning
Wow. So this journal was a good idea in theory, but honestly, I’m camping. Who the hell has time to sit around on a laptop typing in such a beautiful place? Not I, for sure. So, in order of things I remember, what’s been going on:
Last night, we had tacos for dinner. They were actually pretty good. I had guacamole, everyone else had ground beef. Before that, Dad and Sheila went out to Sand Beach, up in the Northeast corner of the island (we are in the Southwest corner), and then to Rubber-Rock Beach, which is actually called something else… but no one remembers it here. We played cards around the campground and stuff; before they left, Peter went with me up the street about a mile, to Ship’s Harbor, which is a cool little path to a muddy shore, which then goes to a rocky shore (infinitely cooler). It was ninety-five degrees out, but for some reason Peter was cold.
That morning/afternoon, Robin and Bob took us out (we are about to eat breakfast, scrambled eggs and bacon; Peter’s idea of setting the table is, quite literally, putting spoons out and then leaving someone else to do the rest. He’s very tired all the time, and we suspect dehydration, which makes pretty good sense.) to pull traps (now I am eating eggs with a spoon. They are good.) and we did a little fishing, too. That was mad fun. I can’t remember the last time I was out on a boat, plus it was pretty cool to watch Robin pulling the traps up. She’s definitely the coolest person I know. And it was just awesome being out on the water. Once you get out of the island a bit, things get really cool, but that’s the way I like it. I put sunscreen on my face, because I’m not always an idiot, but then I rolled my sleeves up to the seam and got my shoulders burned, so sometimes I am.
Also, I finished A Clockwork Orange yesterday. It’s a good book, really it is. Then I started on the Vonnegut short stories, and those are cool too. I think my favorite is the one about Bernie and Big Nick, the mafia guy. (Peter is urging me to eat the rest of the bacon. “You’re on vacation!”)
(We’re taking the dogs for a walk at Little Long Pond, since Carly has finally gotten over her exhaustion from playing with Zach. That dog is so freaking energetic, it’s crazy! But he was tired when I went over the other day, which leads into what we did the day before yesterday…)
So the day before yesterday, everyone wanted to go to the lobster hatchery, but I’ve seen it twice now, once as a little kid and once with Aunty Robin, the time I stayed up here with them for two weeks. I was trying to remember what the deal was last time I was there, and I remembered that foggy morning when I got in a fight with Grandpa (because he is a racist sometimes. I know he'd never act on it, and if he knows a person personally he doesn't judge them at all like that, but it does NOT excuse the kind of things he was saying that day.) and needed to get the hell out of the house before I punched him or something. So I mentioned that, and Dad got pretty pissed at me over that, which I didn’t realize at the time. But I knew I didn’t want to go to the lobster hatchery/museum, so I looked at the map for a good hike, and found Beech Mountain looking pretty good, figuring I’d go up the cliffs, down the West Ridge Trail, and then all the way around Long Pond to Robin and Bob’s house. So I took the sandwich Sheila had made for me the day before, and a cereal bar and a package of peanuts and two water bottles, a trail map (that’s really, really important), the bus schedule (just in case), and my dad dropped me off at the Echo Lake entrance to Beech Cliffs. We kind of had a fight on the way over. Like I said, I had no idea he was so pissed about the slight to his dad. He was. He told me I was hypersensitive to racial and class-like things, and needed to examine myself because he doesn't think my heart is in the right place. I was furious.
But we kind of got over it by the time we got to the cliffs, which was good. So from there, I went down and took a long drink from the water fountain at Echo Lake, and headed up the cliffs. Those were nice, that’s a beautiful trail, if strenuous, and I was panting pretty heavily when I hit the top of that trail, up towards the summit. (I have to hurry this up, I only have an hour of battery left and kind of want this for music on the way home) So I made it from there down to the parking lot, then up a less steep trail to the fire tower at the summit (but forgot to take a picture of the summit sign), and from there I took a bit of a wrong turn and wound up taking the South Ridge Trail. It wasn’t that much longer of a walk, and I still wound up on the shore of Long Pond (different, notably, from Little Long Pond. Robin says “Us Mainers really know how to give names, eh?”), so it wasn’t too bad. The walk around Long Pond was very nice, I wound up drinking a little from the far shore, the one at the base of Beech Mt., mainly because it was so rocky and clear. When I made it around to the pump station at the end of the pond (it really is long, not round; the station is at… the south end, I believe, I was coming from the eastern shore), there were people around, and the water looked muddier. On the western shore, there were people swimming, so I didn’t even think about drinking over there.
At some point, the Long Pond Trail cut up away from the pond, and my original plan was to just skip off the trail and follow the shore of the pond all the way up to the path that goes up to Bob and Robin’s house. So I left the trail, and at first I was worried, and then I noticed things that made me certain that someone, not all that recently, had done this. There was reindeer moss with a boot-print in it, and a few other clues, but nothing really concrete. So I made it down that trail for a while, maybe ten minutes, and I started getting thirstier and thirstier; at this point I’d been walking for a few hours and only had half a bottle of water left, and the pond was all muddy and had lily plants growing there. At some point, it occurred to me that if I cramped up from dehydration on the trail, someone was bound to find me, but if I got stuck out there, there was no guarantee. (this was right about the point at which I stopped taking pictures and concentrated on moving) With that in mind, I beat my way back through the bush to the trail, and on the way became convinced that someone had not quite made a path, per se, along the pond edge, but they’d definitely found a way through. I don’t know if I can say why I was so certain, because like I said, there was no real concrete evidence. But anyway, I made it back to the trail, and took the Long Pond Trail all the way uphill to where it forked with the Great Notch (called the ‘Western Trail’ on the trail map, which threw me for a second).
At that point, I was incredibly thirsty, praying under my breath that I’d make it up to the fire road, had one mouthful of water left, and really starting to worry. I made up my mind that the next people I met, I’d swallow my pride and ask if they had any water to spare. So I did, and a lovely Quebecois couple poured half a bottle of (heavily chlorinated, NOT that I am in any way complaining) water into my empty bottle, and I made it up the Great Notch to the Fire Road on that. I drank the last mouthful of clear water on the Long Pond Fire Road, and had a few swallows of the other stuff left. So I walked up the fire road, and eventually hit Hodgdon (pronounced HOJ-dun) Road, and drank the last of it. From there, it was straight up the road, except for one triangular fork. But I checked the map there, and made it all the way to Bob and Robin’s house, where Robin was outside making dinner. So I stayed there, they gave me water and some potato salad (honestly I think her potato salad is some of the best I’ve had, because usually I’m not a huge potato salad fan; every other one I’ve ever had is overpowering on the mayonnaise) and we talked for a while, and Zach was so tired he pretty much laid around, which was adorable. He kept putting his head in my lap, and it is so soft! Such a cute puppy; he’s only one. Other than that time, I have never seen him not energetic. Visla, they are an awesome breed.
ETA: (what i would've said had i the battery power then, in summary: I told Robin about the fight with my dad, and she said "Bullshit! He is too a racist!" (on my grandpa.) it made me pretty glad that at least i knew i wasn't crazy. when i was showing her my route on the trail map, she pointed out that I could've cut across the shore of Long Pond, and said that she'd actually done that before and I went "Ha! I knew someone'd done that." It made me pretty happy.)
(Just realized I only have twenty minutes of battery left, switched to Power Saver mode, which means ten extra minutes but also that I cannot but hardly see the screen at all. Apologies for spelling errors.)
So they dropped me off at the campsite, and I laid around for a little while, and then everyone else got home, we ate supper, and I went to bed. That concludes… Monday’s adventure. Now, what did we do Sunday?
Ah, right. On Sunday, Bobby took Ruth, Peter, and RJ out fishing. They caught quite a bit of fish, and were proud of themselves. Peter, predictably enough, had some serious trouble taking proper care of his line, but he was very good at filleting the fish later, and when he’d done that, we had them for supper the following night; they smelled, looked, and according to everyone else, tasted like something you’d have in a restaurant, owing partly to my dad’s excellent cooking skills, partly to Peter’s excellent fish-filleting skills, partly to everyone’s fishing skills, and very muchly to Bobby’s fishing-teaching skills and taking them out on the boat. So that was cool, while they were doing that, Dad, Sheila, Robin and I took all three dogs out to a walk around Little Long Pond, which is a nice spot on Rockefeller land, which means dogs can be unleashed and bikers are not allowed. (Lucky hates bikers, and on this island they are often rude, so that’s a good thing.) That was a lot of fun.
So after that, we took the fish to Robin and Bob’s house (which was where Peter filleted them), and only left to take the dogs home to feed (which we forgot to do while at home, but got laundry done and fed them with the food in the dashboard), then went back for hamburgers and hotdogs. (and veggie burgers. and turkey burger, for Robin)
I have to call Robin and let her know we’re set to go walk the dogs, and also I am almost out of batteries. I’ll do the rest of this later.
August 19, 2009; afternoon
It took so long to check e-mail while I was here charging my laptop that I forgot to finish the bloggish entry thing here. Oh well, now we’re going to Rubber-Rock Beach (also called Hunter Beach, which Robin remembered when we asked her on the walk today.)
August 20, 2009; late morning/early afternoon
Well, we just finished packing up, just about ten-thirty. We’re dropping by the dock to pick up lobsters and say goodbye to Robin and Bob. I am terribly sad, and really don’t want to leave. But life goes on, and I know we’ll be back. Soon, I hope.
Very little battery left, so I guess this is the end. Carly’s got her head on my leg; I think she’s as sad to leave as we are. Alas, alack, but life goes on.
Monday, August 10, 2009
See Pay angst. Angst, pay, Angst!
There are three people in this world who I trust completely. I don’t trust people, normally, because that’s the fast-track to a whole mess of things, emotional, physical, and so on. But I trust them, more than anyone or anything or myself. Somehow, this doesn’t even enter my mind when they tell me things like to stop beating myself up about stuff. I don’t even consider being logical. In my mind, I am being logical, and they’re just blind to something, some important all-encompassing thing that makes me not really worth caring about. Bullshit? Yeah, probably. But that doesn’t make it easier to let go.
The thing is, for the most part, all the bullshit about schizophrenia and hearing voices in your head… I figure, I don’t hear more voices than normal people, unless you’re counting Mohan, and the kittens, and the kittens are not in my head. Well, they are, but I still hear them like normal sounds. The point is, there are times when I would make the most stereotypical schizoid seem normal, except that I try to avoid muttering to myself. The voices in my head aren’t part of me, or they are, but they’re
fuck it.
The point is, I will never be able to convince myself that I am not a shitty friend, or a shitty excuse for a human being. No matter how much good I do, and how much my friends tell me that it’s alright, and how much I escape, I will always feel like a horrible person who’s just managing to disguise the awful parts of her for now, and eventually they’ll come out and destroy everyone around her. And the worst part is? I’ve at least partially confirmed this. Without a certain part of me keeping myself in check, I could easily become a psychopath. I’ve nearly stabbed my best friend in the eye before, without it even really registering in my conscious mind until the fork was halfway there. The only conscious thought I had, in a feeling rather than words, was how satisfying stabbing an eyeball would be.
This is why I do not understand why anyone, at all, would ever want to be even in my direct vicinity, let alone actually friends. Yeah, I can pass for normal sometimes, or failing that, I can look and act like a nice person, or at least a friendly one, but the fact is, I know that there is something inside of me that is either not human, or a terrible human. I am, on the inside, a monstrosity. A wild thing, but not in the romanticized, glorified, dreaming-hippie wild way. A real wild thing, all claws and irrational ferocity and fear and rage and unthinking violence.
That’s the part that scares me the most, I think. Then there’s all the other parts, the part about not caring enough, and being a shitty friend because, secretly, truly, I care more for myself than anyone, and how would I ever know if that’s true or not? I claim I’d do anything for my friends, but doesn’t everyone?
Then there’s the part where all of those combine with the final fucking crown jewel of analytically criticizing every word and gesture and look that have crossed me in all of life in memory—and I have a long, long, detailed memory. And hating myself for every damned one. I know, and constantly review, almost every mistake I’ve ever made. It’s a habit. Sometimes I can keep myself from doing it, sometimes I can’t.
I think I hate my life, but in reality I hate myself so much more. And my friends don’t understand why, and the worst part is that I could explain everything in this blog post with a fucking powerpoint, and they’d still tell me to stop beating myself up. Why? What the fuck makes you think I deserve happiness?
(The logical part of my brain claims that it’s Baptist Guilt telling me all this. But I rarely know which part of my head to believe. They all lie. I don’t really trust myself anymore, either.)
The thing is, for the most part, all the bullshit about schizophrenia and hearing voices in your head… I figure, I don’t hear more voices than normal people, unless you’re counting Mohan, and the kittens, and the kittens are not in my head. Well, they are, but I still hear them like normal sounds. The point is, there are times when I would make the most stereotypical schizoid seem normal, except that I try to avoid muttering to myself. The voices in my head aren’t part of me, or they are, but they’re
fuck it.
The point is, I will never be able to convince myself that I am not a shitty friend, or a shitty excuse for a human being. No matter how much good I do, and how much my friends tell me that it’s alright, and how much I escape, I will always feel like a horrible person who’s just managing to disguise the awful parts of her for now, and eventually they’ll come out and destroy everyone around her. And the worst part is? I’ve at least partially confirmed this. Without a certain part of me keeping myself in check, I could easily become a psychopath. I’ve nearly stabbed my best friend in the eye before, without it even really registering in my conscious mind until the fork was halfway there. The only conscious thought I had, in a feeling rather than words, was how satisfying stabbing an eyeball would be.
This is why I do not understand why anyone, at all, would ever want to be even in my direct vicinity, let alone actually friends. Yeah, I can pass for normal sometimes, or failing that, I can look and act like a nice person, or at least a friendly one, but the fact is, I know that there is something inside of me that is either not human, or a terrible human. I am, on the inside, a monstrosity. A wild thing, but not in the romanticized, glorified, dreaming-hippie wild way. A real wild thing, all claws and irrational ferocity and fear and rage and unthinking violence.
That’s the part that scares me the most, I think. Then there’s all the other parts, the part about not caring enough, and being a shitty friend because, secretly, truly, I care more for myself than anyone, and how would I ever know if that’s true or not? I claim I’d do anything for my friends, but doesn’t everyone?
Then there’s the part where all of those combine with the final fucking crown jewel of analytically criticizing every word and gesture and look that have crossed me in all of life in memory—and I have a long, long, detailed memory. And hating myself for every damned one. I know, and constantly review, almost every mistake I’ve ever made. It’s a habit. Sometimes I can keep myself from doing it, sometimes I can’t.
I think I hate my life, but in reality I hate myself so much more. And my friends don’t understand why, and the worst part is that I could explain everything in this blog post with a fucking powerpoint, and they’d still tell me to stop beating myself up. Why? What the fuck makes you think I deserve happiness?
(The logical part of my brain claims that it’s Baptist Guilt telling me all this. But I rarely know which part of my head to believe. They all lie. I don’t really trust myself anymore, either.)
Friday, August 7, 2009
Self-induced Nightmares
Right now, it’s a quarter past one. I should be asleep, I have to be at work in less than eight hours, have to leave in less than seven and a half. And I was on my way to sleep, but self-induced nightmares took my mind, and now I can’t go back. Self-induced nightmares… God, what a scary concept. Your brain starts down a train of thought, horrifying, but you can’t look away. And it’s worse—it’s a story, it’s a drama, you know the characters, you are one of them, but that doesn’t make the cruelty easier. But because it’s a story—catch 22. You can’t leave, not until it’s finished somehow, but it’s so horrifying that the longer you stay, the worse it gets.
Welcome to my brain. Glad you dropped by? Yeah, didn’t think so.
Welcome to my brain. Glad you dropped by? Yeah, didn’t think so.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Nightmares
The first nightmare I ever had, that I remember, is something that happened when I was very, very young, probably just old enough to walk, talk, and read a little. (Reading came on the heels of talking for me, in a house with a lot of books and no television or computer.) I remember, very, very vaguely, more as feelings and general tones than actual memories, being warned about electricity, and about lights, and bulbs, and sockets. My dad knew enough—knows enough, even—to know exactly how dangerous that kind of thing is. Most people do, but he also knows how to do things with electricity without ever being in danger, or how to deal with danger. But to me, at that age, electricity was just one of those things, like cars, or lightning, or fire, that just… Were. Were forces of danger, things my parents gave dire warnings against, enforced by spankings and more dire warnings of a general, and, in order for this nightmare to have occurred, specific nature, I suppose.
Our house was very old, for an American building—over a hundred years old, inherited from my great-grandparents, two stories plus a basement and an attic. My sister and I shared an upstairs bedroom, the one in the front of the house, with two windows looking onto the street, through the branches of two evergreen trees—I could never tell you what kind. Through the hallway was the staircase; above the staircase, in that hallway somewhere, was a narrow staircase that led to the attic. But past the main staircase was my parents’ room, the master bedroom, past that was… a closet, I believe, on one hand, and on the other, a bathroom which led into what would’ve been my brothers’ room, farther on. My brother may have been sleeping in it even then; I don’t remember. He was very young. Down the stairs, there was the living room under our bedroom, and in the back of the house, the kitchen, very dark, I remember, for some reason. I have a vague impression of tan floor tiles, but that may be wrong. There was a pantry, and somewhere there were stairs to the basement. Where, exactly, I don’t remember.
In this dream, I remember, my little brother, David—then, he was my only brother—and I were sitting on the floor, in the attic, which was bare and dusty and lit well. There were piles of Christmas-tree lights on either side of us, bundled and coiled, and we each had a strand. We were unscrewing the light bulbs, checking them for something, to see if they lit up or something like that, and then screwing them back in. (It occurs to me that one important thing about the trigger of this nightmare may have been my mother’s hatred of Christmas decorations.) Someone, either my older sister, Serenity, or one of my parents, called from downstairs about hot chocolate. I put the strand of lights down, eagerly, and told David to come on, and stood up. And he said, “Just this last one,” and unscrewed a light bulb, and it shocked him somehow, and he collapsed, dead.
And that was the most horrifying thing that I have ever dreamed, to this day. I have dreams of demons, and horrible nightmares, and vivid, lucid brawls, and chases where I can’t get away, and dreams of betrayal, and dreams of cannibalism and pain. But that was the worst dream I ever had.
There was one, a few years later, where I was tied to the little tree out behind the fence, at the corner of our fence and our next-door-neighbors (to the right, the Andersons), and a man drove up in a green Model-T Ford, a man with white hair and a white beard and a top hat (I think, I may be misremembering the top hat), and he took me by the wrist and tried to get me to get into his car. I remember being in the backyard with David and a bunch of shouting, screaming twenty-ish people drove through the yard in screaming red sports-cars, and we were scared. He dreamed the same dream, the same night, I think. Or maybe I imagined that.
But the scariest, worst, most nightmarish dream I have ever had, or probably ever will have, is remembering sitting there on the attic floor, screaming, and him dead on the floor next to me.
Our house was very old, for an American building—over a hundred years old, inherited from my great-grandparents, two stories plus a basement and an attic. My sister and I shared an upstairs bedroom, the one in the front of the house, with two windows looking onto the street, through the branches of two evergreen trees—I could never tell you what kind. Through the hallway was the staircase; above the staircase, in that hallway somewhere, was a narrow staircase that led to the attic. But past the main staircase was my parents’ room, the master bedroom, past that was… a closet, I believe, on one hand, and on the other, a bathroom which led into what would’ve been my brothers’ room, farther on. My brother may have been sleeping in it even then; I don’t remember. He was very young. Down the stairs, there was the living room under our bedroom, and in the back of the house, the kitchen, very dark, I remember, for some reason. I have a vague impression of tan floor tiles, but that may be wrong. There was a pantry, and somewhere there were stairs to the basement. Where, exactly, I don’t remember.
In this dream, I remember, my little brother, David—then, he was my only brother—and I were sitting on the floor, in the attic, which was bare and dusty and lit well. There were piles of Christmas-tree lights on either side of us, bundled and coiled, and we each had a strand. We were unscrewing the light bulbs, checking them for something, to see if they lit up or something like that, and then screwing them back in. (It occurs to me that one important thing about the trigger of this nightmare may have been my mother’s hatred of Christmas decorations.) Someone, either my older sister, Serenity, or one of my parents, called from downstairs about hot chocolate. I put the strand of lights down, eagerly, and told David to come on, and stood up. And he said, “Just this last one,” and unscrewed a light bulb, and it shocked him somehow, and he collapsed, dead.
And that was the most horrifying thing that I have ever dreamed, to this day. I have dreams of demons, and horrible nightmares, and vivid, lucid brawls, and chases where I can’t get away, and dreams of betrayal, and dreams of cannibalism and pain. But that was the worst dream I ever had.
There was one, a few years later, where I was tied to the little tree out behind the fence, at the corner of our fence and our next-door-neighbors (to the right, the Andersons), and a man drove up in a green Model-T Ford, a man with white hair and a white beard and a top hat (I think, I may be misremembering the top hat), and he took me by the wrist and tried to get me to get into his car. I remember being in the backyard with David and a bunch of shouting, screaming twenty-ish people drove through the yard in screaming red sports-cars, and we were scared. He dreamed the same dream, the same night, I think. Or maybe I imagined that.
But the scariest, worst, most nightmarish dream I have ever had, or probably ever will have, is remembering sitting there on the attic floor, screaming, and him dead on the floor next to me.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Things in my life, literal and otherwise
On my desk, which has finally been organized, I keep a handful of rocks. There is a dark gray rock that fits almost perfectly in my fist, which I kicked along the park once, and decided to keep; the feel of it, solid, cold, heavy in my palm reminded me that I was real. The second rock is a polished tiger-eye, very reddish in color, compared to most stones of that nature. It’s very pretty, and it reminds me of Mohan, my friend. Then there’s a little piece of clinker, very dark gray, like a shadow on the bottom of a river, it glistens in the right light; I found it in my favorite park, by the riverside, upstream. Two more rocks my best friend gave me, smooth and flat and elliptical, one more tawny and one more gray, a pencil-gray, both the right size to hold in my hand at night. The sixth rock is a small lump of pink granite, black-flecked, that I found at the beach; the seventh is a tan, white, dark rock that I picked up from the sidewalk on my way home, last night, after a friend told me everything that was in my own heart, poisoning me from the inside out. I’d known; before leaving, I’d written something along the same lines, bemoaning my inaction and resolving to get off my ass and do something. But hearing it from someone else was kind of painful, which I should have seen coming. Perceptive friends are a double-edged sword.
I loved the person I was on the road to becoming; I wanted to be that person, I want to be someone who lives life to the fullest, someone who cares and creates and loves. I hate the person I am, I hate the person I am becoming now, instead. I have no creative energy, I waste most of my days daydreaming without doing anything about it, I sit around and do nothing. I am, quite simply, a waste of space right now.
There is a lot of shit being thrown at me in life right now. I’d love to use that as a shield; in my own mind, I have been, have been excusing all my lackluster as an effect of the world around me. This is basically complete bullshit. There are so many things that could be worse in my life, I have been so lucky, and there really is no excuse for my situation right now. I’m not going to college because I fucked up my grades and then didn’t apply to enough schools. I’m not going to Sacramento because I didn’t get a second job soon enough, didn’t save carefully enough. I’m still living with my family—well, because I’m not going to college and don’t have enough money to move to Sacramento. This is no excuse to laze around and whine.
There’s a mirror on the dresser, to my right. I don’t hate the person looking back at me, most of the time. I used to. I hate the potential there, and I hate the lack of energy. I hate the potential because it forces me onward, because I don’t want to waste the few things I do have. I hate the lack of energy because it’s my own fault, because I could do better. I hate that people see more in me than is really there. I hate that my friends think I’m so damned smart, I hate that I can’t hide my faults from them, I hate making an idiot of myself so often. I hate the irresponsibility, and I love the foolhardiness. I try not to hate myself. That way lies madness; most ways, actually, lead to madness. I try not to think about that too hard, or I wind up curling up into a useless ball in a corner for hours. I wish I was joking. I wish I wasn’t crazy.
One of the things I hate about mental illness, one of the major things, is that it really is a life sentence. That’s one of the first things a friend told me, when I told everyone what the diagnosis was: she said, “It’s not a life sentence.” But it is. It changes the way people look at you, even your best friends, even the people who accept you. For the rest of your life, people will expect certain things from you; for the rest of your life, if you show some quirk in behavior, people will ask, “Have you been taking your meds?” And if you say yes, they will roll their eyes in semi-disbelief, or wry acceptance, and if you say no, they will sigh hopelessly and either give you a lecture, or simply be content with quiet disappointment, far worse than any lecture. And it will never go away. And you will never be normal, and you will never be accepted, and you will never be able to fit in.
But, for all that, there’s really no excuse for sitting around whining about it. The only way to get around something like that is to take the shit you have, and do something with it. So, even if this story is horseshit, I may as well write it, if for nothing better than to satisfy the characters.
I loved the person I was on the road to becoming; I wanted to be that person, I want to be someone who lives life to the fullest, someone who cares and creates and loves. I hate the person I am, I hate the person I am becoming now, instead. I have no creative energy, I waste most of my days daydreaming without doing anything about it, I sit around and do nothing. I am, quite simply, a waste of space right now.
There is a lot of shit being thrown at me in life right now. I’d love to use that as a shield; in my own mind, I have been, have been excusing all my lackluster as an effect of the world around me. This is basically complete bullshit. There are so many things that could be worse in my life, I have been so lucky, and there really is no excuse for my situation right now. I’m not going to college because I fucked up my grades and then didn’t apply to enough schools. I’m not going to Sacramento because I didn’t get a second job soon enough, didn’t save carefully enough. I’m still living with my family—well, because I’m not going to college and don’t have enough money to move to Sacramento. This is no excuse to laze around and whine.
There’s a mirror on the dresser, to my right. I don’t hate the person looking back at me, most of the time. I used to. I hate the potential there, and I hate the lack of energy. I hate the potential because it forces me onward, because I don’t want to waste the few things I do have. I hate the lack of energy because it’s my own fault, because I could do better. I hate that people see more in me than is really there. I hate that my friends think I’m so damned smart, I hate that I can’t hide my faults from them, I hate making an idiot of myself so often. I hate the irresponsibility, and I love the foolhardiness. I try not to hate myself. That way lies madness; most ways, actually, lead to madness. I try not to think about that too hard, or I wind up curling up into a useless ball in a corner for hours. I wish I was joking. I wish I wasn’t crazy.
One of the things I hate about mental illness, one of the major things, is that it really is a life sentence. That’s one of the first things a friend told me, when I told everyone what the diagnosis was: she said, “It’s not a life sentence.” But it is. It changes the way people look at you, even your best friends, even the people who accept you. For the rest of your life, people will expect certain things from you; for the rest of your life, if you show some quirk in behavior, people will ask, “Have you been taking your meds?” And if you say yes, they will roll their eyes in semi-disbelief, or wry acceptance, and if you say no, they will sigh hopelessly and either give you a lecture, or simply be content with quiet disappointment, far worse than any lecture. And it will never go away. And you will never be normal, and you will never be accepted, and you will never be able to fit in.
But, for all that, there’s really no excuse for sitting around whining about it. The only way to get around something like that is to take the shit you have, and do something with it. So, even if this story is horseshit, I may as well write it, if for nothing better than to satisfy the characters.
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