To die... would be an awfully big adventure

Sobs followed by red sore eyes and a heavy heart.

Where do we go when we die? Do we go anywhere? What happens... When WE DIE.

There is only life because there is death. This is the way it has been and it will remain so. The cycle, they call it. I call it just.
My beliefs come into question when I think about the afterlife, if there is one. If you are affiliated with one religion or another, you are taught some sense of an after life: paradise, heaven, you name it. Something better than what's down here. Well, I tell you, I don't know if I believe in all that. In order to believe in that, you have to believe in some sort of God and I don't.

A black book... the bible.

It tells us to always be our best, for the end times are near. I've always thought it just meant to always be your best because that was the way to live life to the fullest. If someone needs a big black book to tell them to do that, then so be it.
Many bible stories tell "parables" to encourage good and righteous behavior. We think we're getting some big reward at the end if we do. I think it's just a way to make life a little better and a little bit safer. Is that not what we all want? I surely know that I do.

How do others find their faith and I lose mine? Was it a choice we both made? Did I decide one night that I was not going to believe in God? Why yes, I did.

One late night, sitting in my room at Primary Children's Behavioral Center, I made a decision. I was not going to believe in a God that would allow me to be burdened with such "evil spirits". I was thirteen years old. It was a choice that I made alone. No one pulled me one way or the other. Please understand, it was not an easy choice to make. My whole family had been raised in a very good, upstanding LDS household and I knew what it meant to lose one's faith. At the worst, exile. However, my family respected my decision to disbelieve. They welcomed my choice, but did not join in.

Six years have passed.

Slowly.

Here I am now, carrying my load of troubles and woes, writing to you to see that I don't have all the answers. I may act like a big girl on the outside but inside I'm scared of what lies beyond. I can't relax and believe that we just die. It makes perfect sense to me, but gives me no sense of comfort. The exact opposite, in fact.

I was so close to death.

I wanted it. I longed for its icy grip and dark finality. If only I could escape this world. If only there was something - someone waiting for me on the other side of the veil. It would be so easy. But now...

Now, when my life is a mix of endless questions; the one that bothers me the most is if I die, where will I go? What will happen to my family and friends? Who decides who gets to die?

As a humanist, I believe that everyone, every single human being has the power in themselves to choose their own fate. However, it is NOT for us to decide that fate for someone else. I would never want it to be decided for me, especially since I still have so many questions. When I see death, it reminds me everytime of what I don't know, what I long to see.

I reexamine. One step forward, two steps back.

I can't dance to this tune anymore, and I'm getting tired of the unknown.

I suppose you can't have it both ways. One cannot decide to have no God, but long for one when she dies.

I die.
-a thousand times-
I cry.

I'd like to accept this award on behalf of myself...

Acceptance, denial... it doesn't really matter; all my candidness got me was a lot of scared looks and a ton of "I love you"s.

There's nothing really wrong with this. However, I felt a little sheepish for writing what I did. People don't react well to late night confessionals, especially when they see that they've been lied to. This was not my intention. I thrive on honesty, truly I do. I just like to keep people happy and what I did, what I still sometimes long to do, it puts friends and family all in knots. I know; I've been there.

I guess the best thing to say at this point is thank you. Thank you to everyone that has shared their love and kindness and have shown support of me in a time where most would rather leave it alone. I hope to be able to pay back this debt of gratitude in time.

It's cold.
The kind of cold where it's not really cold, but it's been warm the past few days so when the temperature drops, it feels like it's freezing. I shiver and type on.

Finals week... synonymous to Hell.
Biology is kicking my butt, even though it's one of my favorite classes. My professor is a known atheist and he sometimes likes to ridicule those who would oppose his view. Those who couldn't ignore him exited the class the first day. I stayed but I don't ignore him. That's what I get for being agnostic.

My history professor can't look me in the eye. Someone once told me that that was a symptom of autism. I won't pass judgment on that, though it seems I already have. I don't know nearly enough about so prevalent a disease/disorder. It makes me feel guilty seeing as how I resent the fact that most people don't/won't understand mine.

I like it when he laughs.

I feel sick with joy when I think of the possibility of summer.

Sick... with... joy.

I'm still cold. What happened to spring? And why am I always surprised when this happens? It's Utah; it always snows in the spring.

I'm moving on Saturday. A whole two floors down.
I have to get up early that day. Chances are I'll just stay up late instead. It's a terrible habit. I think I will start packing tomorrow. Most of my roommates have a leg up and have been moving their things for a while now. I won't regret that I didn't do that; I will remain positive and pack my things tomorrow.

Regret.
I'll tell you what I regret:

Everything.

I have every reason to regret what I've done in the past. Only when you are happy with your life do you have no regrets... or is that vice versa?
Who cares?All I know is that I resent my current situation. Jobless, listless, (hopeless, maybe?).
One moment I can't wait for the new day, I'm so happy. I feel wild with excitement and opportunity.
The next, I'm laying in bed all day, feeling the blood slow in my veins, wishing for extinction.
It's never consistent. It's never ending. I feel like my mother's oven; sometimes there's a spark, other times there's nothing. My head knows no "happy medium". I fail to feek its existence.

Morning. Officially.
This entry is useless. I feel like such a hypocrite.

Into the River

You think you're nickel slick but I got your penny change.

I've always wanted to say that to someone. This will have to do.

I've begun to think about my life. I know, I know... yap yap yap, heard it all before. However, this time my thinking may be counterproductive... that's why I'm THINKING about it.

I've been feeling tired as of late. Yawns go unnumbered. I'd like to think that maybe life is just catching up with me. The paranoid part of me thinks I'm getting sick.

The truth:
I AM sick. I have been for a long time. I feel it, like dirt that won't come off your skin or the feeling you get right before you sneeze. It's there and you don't want it to be. Sickness hangs over me like a bad smell. Everytime I shut my eyes, it lingers in my thoughts.
The thoughts I'm plagued with now are ones like, "Should I go off my meds? I so miss the person I used to be. This person is lifeless, listless, not worth giving a name."

When I was off the medicine (Lamictal, Pristiq, Risperdal, Ambien CR, Cymbalta) I felt buzzed, alive, fresh. My worst problem was being too electric and "shocking" everyone that cared for me. It also led to self mutilation, more than I let on. It was like that feeling you get when you're so pumped for something, you just scream into the air and/or hit something. Well, the person that was there to hit was me. I needed something that would release all the energy, so I turned to cutting. Not your run'o the mill "teen girl cutting" but I mean deep lacerations on my legs. It was so I could stitch them back up.
Only half of my concentration goes to cutting the epidermis and down into the adipose tissue. I let it bleed for a few minutes, then I get out my steralized equiptment and start to working on fixing me up right nice. Curved leather needles and dental floss.... Everything so put together. I am both ashamed and proud of my scars.
I must here apologize for a lie. Maybe two. Last fall, when I woke to suddenly have a swollen cheek and black eye, I had done it to myself. I couldn't sleep, so I got up, grabbed my large jar of coins and started hitting the side of my face... slow and soft at first but then, gaining speed, beginning to see the actual vessels break beneath my blows. I continue that for a good ten minutes or at least until I could no longer feel the right side of my face. I look in the mirror at my slowly bubbling portrait, caress it, then lean onto my bed, starting to feel the flush - what's left after the rush. I slowly, but surely go to sleep, not caring about a thing in the world.............


This part, I don't miss. If I really care about my heath and life, I don't miss it. ......but I miss it.
Nothing I've ever found has been able to do that for me, and I swear to God I will not take drugs.

Herein lies my dilemna.

I wish more people would understand what it feels like to be an adolescent and to be labeled with everything mental illness in the book. Schizophrenia was one of the early ones, anxiety diorders, major depression, panic disorder, and now.... Bioplar Disorder. My initials, you see. I belong with it and it belongs to me.
Bipolar and I are one.

No, I just wish more people were able to see what was going on from the outside, tell me, then let ME choose the right decision. It is my life, but I need others as tools for the outside world.

Sometimes, early in the morning or during the middle of class..... I imagine myself leaping out the window and flying. Flying, not falling. If you fall, you're doomed. If you fly, you're free.
I need to get out of this. I need to break free from this bubble. I need to burst forth and leap from a tall building, splatter myself on a canvas and say, "See?! That's how it's done!" It's not suffocating. Its more like the frog in the pot with the water's temp being slowly turned up.

I know it's coming.

Yeah, it's scary not knowing what "it" is, but that's part of life. The unknowing.

I could never explain this, I don't think.

I leave you with this: life is never what we hope for and death is relative.

Take a Red Eye Home

A sigh.
My ever constant companion.

I need no one to tell me that I've begun to lose sight of things. I mutter and stutter and shuffle through the day, asking only for a blank thought. They're red and swollen but they stay open because I ask them to. I convince my eyes to keep sight of nothing important all through the night. I don't need a lit candle or a vent y chai but I keep them anyway. They rest by my hands as I flex my thoughts. Now, all I need is to sleep but sleep won't visit. That devil departed from me long ago. I occasionally sneak in through the window of a tranquilizer's house, leaving my coat and hat on the floor and stretching my frame across open field of silk sheets. All I want is to twist and curl and turn in on myself, drenching my own gray matter with honey and milk. As I finish my taught relaxation techniques, I shiver and wring my hands until they're numb.... ten more hours to go...

I blink. Once.

The moniter layers rant after rant, sinking into my head whether I like it or not. I'm stoic as I hear a tranny give a recipe for Mormon cookies, thinking of gorging myself on cookie dough. I imagine it coating my body in fat, which immediately makes me want to sear my skin and listen to and watch the fat bubble, sizzle, and slip off. I will myself to feel the pain but arrive at the station without. I'm still standing, though I teeter for a moment. Tracing bumps and bruises on my neck and arms... paint sploches, running with black and green. Flex my jaw and shake it off, like a wet dog, spraying the sky with drops of water.

The light fades, then sparks, leaving me blind. I listen for any familiar footsteps, fading and falling away. Friends and coinhabitants burry their faces in their pillows and shift their weight. My skin buzzes with friction. The day's events come rushing back...

Wake up, turn over, wake up, turn over, wake up... everytime I glimpse the glowing red digits that remind me how easy it is to fail, I choke back a bitter taste. I have a desire to watch my favorite political pundits wash away the day, but I turn over again and slide my legs to a different position under the blanket. The rest of the day no longer matters. Period.

Here I stood, Here I fell,
Wasted time in my own Hell.
Encased in dirt, mud, and clay,
Here I lay, Here I stay.