I’m Still Trying


I’ve wanted to write again for over a month. That seems to always be the pattern: I want to write, then I don’t, then I’m mad because I missed all these observations and thoughts I could have chronicled, and then when I do write I’m apologizing to myself for not writing. But I’m going to keep trying, even if it’s hard. I want to get what it’s my head down.

I started a journal once before online (actually many times before online, but this is one in particular), on LiveJournal. I wanted to try something new, but I ended up only writing six entries. Since this numbered series is supposed to be similar to that, and I’ve already cross-posted my LiveJournal entries over to this blog, I considered making the previous entry number seven and this one number eight.Maybe I will do that. I don’t know.

I realize that’s a boring thing to start this off with. I have a thing about numbers, and organization. I have literally spent most of my free time in the past six years organizing and maintaining my iTunes library: keeping the B-Sides and Demos in proper order with uniform cover art, keeping everything numbered properly, having things in correct chronological order, organizing and re-organizing and re-organizing bonus tracks and B-Sides. It’s labor intensive but it gives my mind something to focus on.

I honestly want to go back to the beginning of this entry and just erase everything I’ve just written because even I think it’s boring.

But that is not the point!

The point is to get it out of my head and into here. The point is to have a living record (what does that actually mean, anyway? I’m totally bullshitting on using that term properly) of my life and my thoughts.

So here’s what I did today.

It’s Saturday. Blessed, sweet Saturday. The Thursday two days previous marked three months that I began working a full-time job, at a desk, in front of a computer, for eight hours a day with an hour lunch break. When I first started, I was deliriously satisfied at having landed full-time work, much less in my dream environment of an OFFICE. I couldn’t believe it.

But as time went on, it slowly starting dawning on me that this wasn’t an office. This was a retailer I worked for, and I was in their office space, and yes there were desks and computers and cushy chairs, and a coffee machine and conference rooms, but there were also things MISSING. Windows, for instance. Our office is actually just two huge warehouses that are somewhat insulated and the walls are strewn with huge ceiling to floor curtains. There are no windows, there is no sunlight, there is something that almost passes for a skylight above but really doesn’t because it’s just one dirty covered window that lets in some small amount of light. Two weeks ago the power went out for a while and we were on various backup lighting systems and it was like it was the dead of night in there. It gets incredibly hot when it’s hot outside, and freezes when it’s cold outside.

It seems to be devoid not just of light, but of hope. I’m reminded of the lyrics to that one Radiohead song that I’ve never heard the original of before, just the Regina Spektor and Amanda Palmer covers: “A job that slowly kills you, bruises that won’t heal.”

After my life was saved by two friends who allowed me to move away from the Carolinas and from my dysfunctional family and incredibly abusive mother, I spent the first month or so having crying breakdowns every night. I was like a dog that had just been adopted from the pound, and I was still so scarred by my past that I couldn’t accept that I might have a home, or safety, or love. But over time that fear went away and this became my new home.

I lasted about a month at the new job before I started to realize that I not only hated the job itself, but the whole concept of full time work. I always thought working full time with weekends off would give my life some kind of structure, but it turns out it just fills my life with forty-five hours a week spent in a muggy dark building away from the sun, and away from my actual LIFE. I hate being hidden away like that. I get two days off but I feel like I need much more than that. I honestly am beginning to doubt whether or not I can work AT ALL.

What would a happy work-week look like for me? I have no idea. Unless I were doing something that I love, and I don’t really know if I can paid to play piano, write books, and play video games. I want to go to college but how? I’m twenty-five now, I don’t have as many resources available to me as would have been when I was eighteen and just graduating. Even if I go to school I need to work a full-time job at the same time and how do I do that? What would I even go to school for? I say English, music, or literature, but what would I do with that? Would I teach? Could I handle the stress of teaching? I’ve been warned against teaching by everyone and I’ve never been particularly interested in it. If I were a teacher I’d have to hide who I am too.

I’d like to live in a hippy commune, rolling around naked in the flowers every afternoon, fucking boys and maybe sometimes girls throughout the day, reading at night, and falling asleep in the arms of friends. I’d like to wake up to the smell of nature and the wet dew and the rising sun, and yet I don’t want to live out in the woods. Maybe a cabin somewhere? I mean I’m genuinely trying to picture what my perfect life might look like. I guess in my dreams for the future I’m always rich and successful, and I’m either at home writing novels or out on the road touring as a musician, playing piano and singing to adoring friends every night.

Will I ever get the chance to do these things? When I was twenty-one it seemed like there was still all the time in the world to figure these things out. Now I’m twenty-five, almost twenty-six, and it seems like while there may still be time, there doesn’t seem to be any MEANS to make these things happen. And what do I need to do, keep on slogging through work full time, having unfulfilling Grindr hookups that leave me grossed out and ashamed when I have a few moments of free time, spending the weekend sitting still and trying to recuperate as I recover from the withdrawals symptoms of leaving one antidepressant behind to start myself on another?

It seems like I’ve gained so much of what I thought I wanted: a safe home where I live with friends, a stable job, good income, the ability to get food when I need it, a place to put my books and my music. And I do still want all those things, but I didn’t know I would still be suicidal once I got them. I didn’t know I would still struggle against the debilitating tears, fear, and loneliness, pushing down on my chest every day. I didn’t know I would still reach over to the other side of the bed at night and wish Nathan was there to hold.

It’s been over a year now and he’s still on my mind all the time. I feel lost without him. I think of things that I want to say to him, I see things around me and I want to show him, but he isn’t here, he’s back home, in Georgia, and he just isn’t going to be a part of my life no matter how much I miss him. And it isn’t that I want him to be in my life, or that I want to get back together, but I do miss him. Even though I don’t regret my decision to step out of our relationship, I still spend a lot of time thinking about him, missing him

I want to find a new person, but last year I was with a new person for three months and I genuinely forget that he ever existed in my life. I had a new relationship with not one but TWO guys, in a polyamorous relationship, they were both Pagan, and I even ended up homeless and they gave me a place to stay. Then there was upset, an actual physical fight, lots of screaming and wailing and at one point I even tried to cut myself (unsuccesfully, as I grabbed a butter knife), then ended up being made to leave. And I forget about those things ever having happened all the time, I forget that I had a relationship with those two guys, I talk about Nathan and say he was my last boyfriend but I forget that there were two in-between then and now. Why do I forget them so easily? I had thought I was happy. It turns out I was just as unfulfilled as before.

But doesn’t having a rebound relationship mean it helps you to get over the old one? Well, yes and no. It was nice, but still unfulfilling.

And I spent so much time last year being an atheist, and now I feel like I’m going back down the path to being Pagan. Which is great, I like it, but I always feel insincere. I’m not brave enough to be an atheist, and I don’t have enough faith to truly believe in the Divine. I want real life witchcraft and magic to influence the magic in my book, but where is my book going? It’s changed so much in my head. Characters that used to be the most important have left entirely, and I don’t know what’s happening anymore. I finally started over in first person and I love it so far but I haven’t written anything more after the first chapter, which I need to revise.

I’m feeling so lost. Why, after gaining so much, do I still find myself faced with the same problems?

Today I walked dogs at the animal shelter. Zack drove us there, I was going to go by myself but I’m glad he came. First I walked a pitbull named Caesar who pee’d on everything and then kept trying once he ran out, and cuddled with him a bit before we swapped him out for another pitbull named Gunnar, who was a bit more distant but really interested in walking around and exploring. I got a lot of good exercise from it, even though I was literally so exhausted from walking down to a culdesac and back twice that I ended up taking a three-hour nap when I got home. How can I ever start working out regularly or running / walking / jogging, if I can’t even handle taking a dog for a walk?

I don’t mean to be negative, if I am being negative. I spent a lot of time when I first started this blog trying as hard as I could to be positive because I needed positive energy in my life. Now I’m not even sure what a word like “positive energy” means. I don’t like faith in God, and I don’t really care enough about science to truly seek the answers. Maybe I don’t like what I know I’ll find: that the universe is vast and my existence in it has little meaning either way. That’s what atheism has brought to me, a feeling of knowledge and even of boastful, arrogant pride that I’m now trying to unlearn, and also a fear of oblivion. I don’t want to stop existing. Can it be so easy to just stop existing? Can it be so easy to believe in an alternative?

I’m filled with questions. I’m tired. I’m always tired nowadays.

I have to get away from this job before it kills me. I have to keep trying. I have to keep doing good things in my life.

I ordered two books on Wicca. I jogged last week and walked today. I’ve stopped drinking soda from the machine at work and almost entirely switched to drinking Powerade when I’m working. I bought tea and chai. I’m trying.

I need to stop staring at my phone all day. I need to get online for a good purpose, to write or to do something productive. I have to stop wasting so much time.

I want my body to be better. I want my heart to be better. I want my life to be better.

I’m trying.



Ice Fairies

Hi guys.

(He said, as though his blog were read my millions)

I’ve been meaning to post a LOT here lately. Like, I spend nine hours every day at work thinking about what I want to write on my blog when I get home. But then I get home and I’m just fucking TIRED.

I know, nine hours at work? What? Well, adoring reader who doesn’t really exist, I know that I haven’t spoken about what’s been happening in my life in a good long while. I’ve wanted to sit down and talk about it, but there’s just been SO much.

I tried recording a vlog at the beach, but I honestly look terrible in it, as I had spent the previous night inebriated and I was forward-lit by the beautiful light of the rising sun on over the ocean. But I might still post it. Who knows.

My plan was to write every day. And not just in the way that I’ve told myself I’m going to write every day before, but like, number the blog entries, and just write SOMETHING on this blog every single day.

I had a big weekend. An upsetting weekend. A lot of new experiences. Some not too great ones. I think next weekend I will try something simple, like going to see Star Wars by myself and then coming home to read and/or write. Too much out-and-about time for this social anxiety carrier.

There’s still a lot to talk about. I haven’t even told the story. But for now, I wanted to write this, to update this blog (and perhaps the very few people who ever read it’s contents. Sidebar: if you DO read the blog, please leave me a comment now and again. I’ve had this thing for six years and only ever received comments from like nine different people), and to share a poem that I wrote on a notepad document a few days ago when I was supposed to be busy doing other things. I know the grammar in it doesn’t make a lot of sense, but that is the beauty of free verse poetry, right? Here we go.


The Ice Fairy

Her wings were autumn leaves which wilted in the winter
Her sugared tears in silent peace fell on the frozen river
She sought her sister in the darkness waiting for a beacon
She found no light and carried on, her legs cold worn and beaten
She loved another child of wood and fell like death upon her
And waking found no sleeping sound, a white cold fallen haunter
Walking through the falling snow her cold feet stiff and naked
They offered her possession she determined not to take them
Her ragged breath and silent sighs were meaningless and transient
Her swollen lips and drying eyes she carried like a blanket
She kept her soul between her breasts and crossed her arms and held her chest
Across the fields of water walked she, on the ice of rivers crossed she
To a cavern in the mountains warm and dark and filthy
She rolled in mud to warm her limbs and lost the will to stop her sleep
As she slumbered, came her lover, wisps of tender flesh she
And laid down by her, kissed her breasts and warmed her heart completely
Wings of leaves sprouted once again she came again to life, hot
Opened eyes and saw the clever face of love who ne’er forgot
Spring came forth, the tundra melted, rivers flowed to water
The fairies danced out of their cavern, love she ne’er forgot her
Love, she ne’er forgot her

The Thing We Don’t Say Out Loud

The truth? I’ve thought about it.

I’ve thought about it a lot.

I’ve thought about what songs I want played at the funeral. What KIND of funeral. I’ve thought about disinviting my family from attending. But then I suppose, not many people would attend, would they? I’ve thought about making sure it isn’t a Christian ceremony.

I’ve thought about the fastest ways to do it. A gun through the mouth, not through the temple. Less chance of complication. The pain would only be an infinitesimal second. I wondered what it would look like. A flash of red, or purple, or every color at once?

And what then? Oblivion? Darkness? A sea of space? Music? Light? Heaven? The smell of grass as I wake up as a new being? Or maybe I’d just stay lost in my own mind, living in representations of things from my own psyche, experiencing an entire lifetime in that one instant of death. Maybe this lifetime is one leading up to the instant of death. Maybe everything I’m experiencing now is my life flashing before my eyes.

Or what if nothing happens? What if my consciousness simply ceases to be? Would that be peaceful? Would it be purgatory, nothing good but nothing bad? How can I even grasp the concept of my consciousness ceasing to exist?

What if I could exist in any way? Where would I go? Spend time in the fantasy worlds of video games, like I used to dream of doing when I was younger? Would I waft through the waves of music, would I become a color, would I exist as a feather, or as a trumpet, or as a single note held on through eternity? Would nirvana be blissful or relentlessly dull? Would I live in my novel? Would I see their lives, my characters?

What would go through my mind when it happened? I imagine the darkness would be there. My old friend, comforting me through the pain. The darkness that says it’s okay to hurt. We’re together now. It’s okay, I’m not judging you. If you need to die, it’s alright. I’m not mad at you. I’ll go with you.

I’ll go with you.

Will anyone?

We all die alone, they say. But how much crueler is it to die with someone beside you? At least if you die alone, you can leave. But to slip away, holding someone’s hand, watching them be ripped from you?

What kind of a Heaven could exist where those you love aren’t with you? No kind of Heaven I’m interested in.

I’ve thought about what song would play. Where they would find me. What they would see. Who would find me. I’d probably rather do it somewhere on a roadside, so a stranger finds me, not someone I care about. Though there are so few I care about, and they’re all so far away.

There. That’s the thing, isn’t it? I’d break hearts. My ex-boyfriends, my friends, those who would miss me. Oh, how sad that they would miss me if I were gone but here and now they’re so far away that they can’t comfort me.

I would be angry, certainly. Or maybe not. But I think I’d be angry at her. For how much she made me hate everything. No, that’s not right. For how she hated me. For how much she made me suffer. I would want her to suffer too.

I wonder if she would contact my father? Tell him? Our baby boy is dead?


I didn’t even think about it until now. I’m theirs, aren’t I? They who haven’t seen or spoken in years and years. But I’m theirs.

I don’t want to be theirs.

I want to be mine.

Or maybe I just want to be the worlds.

But the world isn’t a very good parent.

It’s a lie to say I don’t think about it. It’s a lie to say I haven’t really considered it. Maybe it’s more powerful that I have thought about it, a lot. That I’ve considered the ways.

And that I’ve stayed.

I haven’t given up yet.

I’m still fighting.

Even if breathing is fighting, then so be it, I’m still breathing so I’m still fighting.

“How can suicide be a choice, if it’s the only choice we have?”

My choices haven’t narrowed just so far yet. Maybe two or three remain, but that’s something. I can try to build more. I can try to cast out the nets. Try to bring in the multitudes of hope.


I will fail. I always fail. But maybe after I fail I’ll try again. And again.

Maybe I’ll start to have little successes among the failures. Maybe one day one of them will be a big success.

But maybe that’s wishful thinking.

I think about it. Sometimes I think about it every day. Sometimes I don’t.

But I don’t deserve to be treated differently for thinking about it. Because I don’t think I’m the only one.

I don’t think I’m the only one.

Start the treadmill. Start the pedometer. Make me a salad.

It’s so stupid. So cliche. Losing weight, as my metaphor. But it’s something. I have to start with something.

I have to keep breathing. I have to keep moving. I’m out of breath and I can’t see, but I have to keep running.

Not from darkness. Is it from light? I don’t know. Maybe it is darkness that I’m running from. But not the darkness that whispers comfortingly in my ear. The darkness of not knowing. The darkness of not having a future.

I want to know. I want to live. I want to try.

To try.

To try.