Today was alright because I walked into work and was immediately embraced by four of my coworkers. If there is one place I know I am always valued personally, it is there, despite it being a minimum wage retail job. Still, Adam and Jon were able to distract me for most of my day and were determined to do so. Adam was first to pick up on something being wrong (as usual) and really pulled through for me. He has this amazing ability to make me smile and I'll never not be grateful for that. He is an amazing person, and someone I will keep with me even after summer ends. Jon, on the other hand, has never given attention to me like he did today, and we shared all sorts of stories to one another throughout our shift. I can't even begin to explain how nice it feels to be asked to follow someone or have them follow you, or be invited outside just to talk. Maybe it's an adult thing, since I never really get that outside of work. Adam and Jon sort of saved me today.

I'd rather not talk about today's negatives since they are eating away at me ceaselessly and I don't want my friends' support to be in vain. I will, however, share a story I was vaguely reminded of today. It's not an easy one, but so many years have passed that I think it's time for me to write about it. Or rather her. This is a profile for Nina.

When I was in 7th grade, I had a best friend named Nina. Nina was a beautiful and intelligent Polish girl in my school, outcasted similarly to me for simply being strange. We became close friends very quickly and she was the first person I felt I could really tell anything to. She made me extremely happy. And being the confused kid I was, I developed a huge crush on her. I think of her now as the only person I have ever been truly in love with, in the most fucked up way ever. I don't even think of myself as conscious back then, the way I harbored such ill-fated emotions for a person, let alone my closest friend. But Nina and I had a... special intimacy. We spent copious amounts of time in her room talking and listening to music, melting away in the summer heat (her room had no AC). We were constantly on top of each other, touching hands and legs as if it didn't really mean anything, even though it probably did. It doesn't really matter now.

Nina came from a physically abusive household. Her parents yelled at her in Polish even when I was around, and I recall her having meticulous plans laid out for avoiding harassment. She refuted her trauma to me and became easily upset when it came up in conversation. I understood the position she was in at the time, but as a result failed to recognize abusive behaviors that she exhibited towards me. I had ignored, for two years, both physical and verbal abuse. Nina used to constantly degrade me for being "hyperactive" or "retarded", or would reprimand me for things that were inoffensive or not even my fault. She would grab my arms or neck often and even hit me on occasion. One time she hit me so hard in the side of my head that I lost almost all hearing in my right ear. Permanently. As time went on, she seemed to listen to me less and less. These things made me extremely self conscious and unstable. I was already dealing with mental illness that had only recently been diagnosed. My failure to gain her satisfaction led me to induce the most hardcore self harm I have ever experienced in my life. I would literally bash my wrist against my wall until it bled, or hold my knife to my wrists and cry hysterically for hours about my own inability to cut it open. And somehow, someway, I thought hardly anything of it because Nina was the only thing that allowed me to feel and to love. She was that person.

I remember one night in June we had hung out the entire day, and the rays of blue-green light were still peaking over the middle school field as we sat in the empty library parking lot. I can revisit this memory as if it happened yesterday: our unending laughter as we threw fistfuls of maple blooms like snow, how they got stuck in our long hair and on our socks, how amazing she looked to me and how amazing I felt. All of it. After we had exhausted ourselves running around, I took her by the hand, breathing heavy, and we laid in the baseball field and let the night consume us. When we finally left, she told me to text her when I got home safely, and in that moment I was in love. This memory is preserved in a singular light and I cannot experience it any other way. I shared this experience with someone who hurt me deeply. Someone I purged from my life confusedly and unintentionally. We went to different high schools. At some point in my freshman year I was possessed by a spirit or something and blocked her on every social media platform we talked on. I only saw her once after that, and she flipped me off.

My relationship with Nina ended swiftly but painfully. I only began to understand how unhealthy it was after I started going to therapy, and I could identify habits (both mine and hers) that had effectively torn me to shreds and caused me to hurt myself. But for a long period of time after our friendship had ended, I felt like I had nothing without Nina. I still wished that she was around despite all of the horrible things she did to me, and I never told my therapist this. Instead I made my own deduction that I am terminally connected to the people that come and go in my life. Even the people who hurt me. The tainted memories of yesterday still sit in their detailed bliss with only the omen of bad things to come, things that have already happened. Sometimes I still think about Nina and miss her. I know it's wrong and it makes me really uncomfortable. Since Nina, many people have come and gone, but none were the same. All the loss I feel and the issues I try to mask have become some sort of bastardized cakewalk. A cycle of pronounced devastation and slow, private healing.

This story has never been exposed to daylight, only briefly when it is relevant. It's still depressing to think about, but it would be unlike me to discredit the knowledge I gained from it I guess. From Nina, I learned that I am incurable. I'm unbelievably sensitive and expressive in unusual ways, and try to hide it from other people. All I do is feel. Feel but refuse to think, stare but refuse to see. I have my own emotional deficiency, my own 'brick wall' of sorts in that I just feel too intensely. I don't really know what more to write about it besides that.

When I was a young girl, I had a fear of mirrors
They were always broken / strewn to the floor
I was stepping over shards like gruesome egg shells--
a reflection of my internal state.

I would hold my breath in passing, a white berry-knuckled grip
as Bloody Mary sidled right below the surface.
Her presence kneaded at me like ringworms.
I didn't have to utter her name,
it sounded just like mine.

When I washed myself, dosing in lakewater and gasoline,
I hoped to rip away the blisters and reveal something more loveable.
I wanted to tear away everything
my eyes touched, whatever oozed contempt.

The blood was nothing but a manifestation
of acknowledgement tucked beneath floorboards.
I was a living, haphazard instrument of terror,
anxieties scuttling like rats.

But at least I reacted, unstuck from
the repetitive Jabberwocky dancing upon the grave
of my dreams, those American ice cream cone dreams
I was taught in Mind Prison.

When the stars shrieked through the windows,
I squeezed through the visual blockade
I poured my syrup in digital molds / pranic pixel escapism
cherishing silence, protection
from pyrokinetics and the mind body connection.

My avatar was perfect, the more life
I siphoned from fruit flesh, my joie de vivre festered
in shallow spilling adoration.
I relished like a queen in being (un)seen.

I am defeated. As much as I pride myself on my relationships with other people, it can be a sort of torture as well. Things have not been going well in my social spheres and I fear that I can't really trust the people in my life right now. I have been let down too many times, but having it all fall apart at once is indescribably scary. The last 24 hours have been spent in a pulsing neurotic state in which I've either been crying or punishing myself. In the case of the latter, my body is just starting to feel the consequences. I had violent dreams all night in which my body was mutilated and splattered over various settings, tormenting me until I woke this morning and saw opportunity to write.

I don't know why I feel the need to put so much effort into friendships that are less than reciprocal. I think it's because I have trouble finding people who can relate to that level of intensity. Friendship is the highest form of emotional connection I am able to feel, and I often become frustrated or bored when my relationships are understimulating. I also have trouble relating to other people's apathy. And yes, I know I jack myself off about appreciating the unique circumstances of all people, but it's true that I am relentlessly annoyed by predictability. I'm not trying to act all high and mighty about it, but the interpersonal simplicity of most people drives me insane. I hate shallow conversation and pettiness, I can't see to it. Alternatively, I sometimes bite off more than I can chew and deal with complicated people who are either abusive or inadvertently bring me constant emotional distress. I feel too much to carry other people's weight, even if they aren't directly putting it on me. Both of these dynamics are similar in that they are (too a certain extent) predictable. This is not to say they aren't challenging, just tedious. I am becoming increasingly dissatisfied with it all. I know that I should work hard in order to establish healthy connections with all types of people, but I'm tired. I'm not even that complex of a person. I'm not demanding. Friendship is the one exception. I can't just turn it down a notch. Honestly, I've failed.

It's so childish to complain about this, but it had to happen here at some point. Here is not the place to exercise humility. I don't feel valued by my friends. I don't feel like I can trust people. Right now I am experiencing an onset of loneliness. The suddenness reminds me of times in my life when I was truly alone and miserable. I really don't want to go through it again. Right now, all I can really say is that I'm sad. I'm sad, and I just want to wallow in it.

"We don't seek the painful experiences that hew our identities, but we seek our identities in the wake of painful experiences. We cannot bear a pointless torment, but we can endure great pain if we believe it is purposeful." - Andrew Solomon

This post feels a bit shallow for this quote, in retrospect, but I'm tired of giving up an entries just because they aren't perfect.

One of the most difficult things I've overcome in my life is something I fail to define. A mix of things at a very inconvenient time in my life, I guess. Dealing with myself. As a person, I spare no effort with balancing my capabilities as limited by human nature with my desire to learn and experience. To be here, to be who I am, and to be happy, I have come a long way. I have felt anguish, not in a traditional sense.

As a preteen, I feel I had very little time for anything but myself. I was diagnosed with anxiety, ADHD, OCD, and depression at different points throughout middle school, but I wasn't overly concerned with my condition. Prior to these diagnoses, I thought what I was feeling was normal and didn't think much of suicidal ideation, panic attacks, or even self harm. It was a confusing time. I was put on various medications in fleeting dosages, and by 9th grade I found myself struggling with drug addiction. I abused various stimulants over a span of three years, despite them making me feel completely emotionless. I wasn't completely crippled by it, but looking back I was definitely worse off than I should have been. I had no self-control, no emotional intelligence, and no objective thoughts about my circumstance. Only dissimulation and a mind that was mostly void of critical thought.

I did not make any active efforts to stop my stimulant abuse because I didn't very well understand it. Rather, I endured an agonizing withdrawal after I ran out of medication and dosage options, leaving me completely defeated. When my withdrawal subsided it was like waking from an intense dream, with only an awkward, repressed memory of the years previous. I felt like a fresh slate, in a way, free from the personally demanding mentalities I had acquired during my early teens. Although I still had to work around my remaining issues, I suddenly had time to be a person. I could exert energy on things that felt actually meaningful to me, and after reflecting on all I had been through, I began to forge an identity.

I don't look fondly back at the pain I endured in high school, but I don't hate what I went through either. Things are the way they are and I can't control that. If anything, it has only made me a stronger, smarter, more patient person in the end. And one of my favorite things about myself now is that I give myself time to take care of myself as I didn't before. I put a lot of emphasis on leisure. I'm nowhere near where I want to be, but I am functional. My identity is the product of knowing what it feels like to not have one. And now that I'm here, I can say I'm thankful for that.

The world is spinning
and you refuse to fall off.

Yesterday,
you stabbed a crooked finger
into my hidden diary
criticized my Fascist inflections -
debated my scribblings
on Marxism,
noted the notations
indicating Munchausen by Proxy
and then

choked and lamented
upon vague references I made
concerning Virginia Woolf,
Sylvia Plath,
Anne Sexton,
Cruella De Vil
and Hitler.

You literally littered through
my private Pandora’s box
of personal prose and poetry -
with an unbridled
crazed compulsion
and without my
permissible permission.

Pointing to bold typed words,
such as “ebony”
and “vacuous”
and “sociopath”
and the one
you couldn’t evenly pronounce –
“phlegmatic.”

You stomped your hot heavy hooves -
screaming with the dire urgency
of a rape victim:
“What the hell are you talking about?”

It didn’t take very long before
I simply shrugged,
slugged the remaining remains
of my Rolling Rock,
took your index finger
guided it across
your ratted sweater

and placed it
upon your
hopeless,
hapless

heart.

Jatin and I went to high school together. He was an icon of sorts- known for being a well-versed and argumentative communist (at least in my circles). He was also rich, and had a friend group of people who were above me socially, but quite irrelevant to my circles and therefore not very important to me. My earliest impressions of him were poor due to his dismissive personality and also my unintelligent agenda at the time. I remember having one conversation with him before junior year, and even then the details are slim. He was gone for some of freshman year because he was in a psych ward or something (corrected after I asked him), but for some reason I don't remember anyone really caring when he casually reappeared next year. At that point, we had more classes together and I began to pick up on his mannerisms and such. Although I had a vague notion of this already, I classified Jatin as a dangerous person. There was no way in Hell that his general lack of expression and strange behavior meant nothing. I suspected he was mentally ill in various ways and thus adopted a new unintelligent agenda of trying to become his friend. And no, it did not produce a heartwarming story about camaraderie, trust, and coming-of-age because Jatin is a sociopath. Ironically, it has been almost a year and a half since we went to school together and Jatin is currently my closest friend, despite moving away.

The great juxtaposition of our friendship is twofold; the disparities of our social backgrounds and personalities relative to high school make us an unexpected duo, but I find that most of our differences are purely innate and far beyond our egotized school identities. We communicate almost exclusively one on one over the internet, too, so the circumstances are extremely specific. Our relationship is exhausting, unfamiliar, and exactly the type of social stimulation I desire. Becoming close to Jatin requires that one shed all forms of judgement they may carry and attempt to understand him on a strictly pragmatic level. He is not kindhearted or remorseful for his behavior in the slightest, hardly ever displays empathy, and seeks to manipulate for his personal gain. He finds joy in hurting others and seeks attention where he knows he can get it. He harasses others, has episodes, and produces nuclear amounts of hatred. This being said, despite being one of the worst human beings I have ever met in my life, I am keen on seeing how far I can push the envelope in being his friend. In this sense, I am glad we interact exclusively one on one. I am an overtly emotional person and I navigate my relationships cautiously with the intention of breaking them in, past the point of fruitless surface-level conversation. This being said, most of what I have just stated is all to Jatin's knowledge and I have made my intentions specifically clear.

It took me a long time to make headway with Jatin. First came the issue of my own emotional tendencies, being used to establishing close relationships rather quickly with people. I had unrealistic expectations for Jatin and very little understanding of his lack of empathy. He picked on me relentlessly because that's what he does. There were multiple occasions where I anticipated some sort of sincerity from him and ended up hurting myself as a result. There were also instances where I felt he was forcing himself to deliver an answer I wanted to hear, but could see directly through it. We argued a decent amount, and admittedly, my perseverance during this stage was purely out of weakness and inability to leave unhealthy situations. The specifics of these events don't come clearly anymore because they are not recent, but I remember enduring a great deal of pain. The kind someone is supposed to run away from. Sometime in January after seriously contemplating whether or not I should keep talking to him, I realized that I would have to be the one to change if things were to improve. Most normal people would probably leave at this point. Instead, I started reading more about sociopathy. I asked questions on forums, read a plethora of articles, questioned my sanity, and prepared to see it through to the end. Eventually, I told Jatin that I could be a better friend to him, and from there things improved. We began having healthier conversations and I feel generally safe pointing out behaviors that upset me to him, and I'm relatively certain he feels safe being honest about it with me. That communication is extremely necessary and something I prioritize in our friendship. I figure it's probably a good thing for him to have people to talk openly to, and giving him the freedom to do so has brought out shades of him I did not expect to see (i.e. apologies, general consideration of my emotions, not making me feel stupid anymore, etc.). I understand him pretty well now, and he is not as unpredictable or harsh as he lets off. I've broken him, I think. His behavior is merely a science, and an easy one to understand at that. I keep his urges to lie, exploit, and harm in mind when I analyze anything he says to me. I am basically bulletproof. And it's true that there is change happening on his end as well. Very recently he said (quite timidly) that he thinks he has an emotional relationship with me, which caught me completely off guard. It makes me happy, sure, but again, this isn't a heartwarming tale. I am still unsure about just how deep his lack of emotional intelligence runs, but there is one thing I am certain about- he at least tries for me... sometimes.

With Jatin comes a flood of apprehensions and paranoia. I still wonder if I am subject to his manipulation because I know I am very prone to that. He has even reminded me verbally that I will be taken advantage of many times in my life. I already know that. I don't like to live with that fear, but even if I'm wrong, I'm still an idiot. I think it's natural for me to feel this way. Jatin requires an extraordinary amount of patience and acclimation. He may not realize how high maintenance he is, but I am the same way. He's a relatively normal guy when we aren't psychoanalyzing him into oblivion. And besides, I've hardly talked about all the things I appreciate about him. I love watching shows and movies with him, or playing video games, even just talking, whatever. He's got a good sense of humor and good taste in just about everything. He doesn't give a shit about my gender identity or interests, and resents my mom probably more than I do. He's probably one of the least judgmental people in my life, and to that extent I think there's more to learn from him besides how to torture yourself emotionally. I love him like I love any of my other close friends.

I could seriously write so much more about this guy. I didn't talk about the gun or the cocaine or the raves or anything. This is somehow still a very vague description of him. But that's close friendship I guess. Once again I've exerted my mind for the sake of documentation, and it was well worth it. I can't wait to read this in two years and take in that I am out of my goddamn mind.

It is 92 degrees out today. I am inside in shorts and a tank top, melting away to Tame Impala and thinking a little too hard, the usual. The world is beautiful today. I feel more comfortable than usual, even with the heat. That is the comfort of being home.

I think I have found my purpose. I want to experience the most I can in this life. I want to be everyone and everything. I desire wisdom that is both real and unattainable; a wisdom so imposing that it's paralyzing. I want to look through the eyes of every person I meet and be void of all judgement towards them. I want to gaze upward towards the sunshine every day of my life and feel the gaiety of Earth's unending warmth, to know that this existence is binary, and to traverse that truth as humbly as possible. More than anything, I want to send forth a love that is profound, ceaseless, and agape. That is all that matters to me.

Right now my constitution is fleeting. The turbulence of my circumstance demands that I be a normal person for most of my day, but in front of my keyboard I can retreat back to this sanctuary and remind myself of what is important. Not purely drug-induced epiphanies or relationships with other people, just myself and my thoughts (and maybe my music). If things are to continue the way they are, this can no longer be my alter ego. I must become a person that does not exist.

I have not been too keen on writing recently. Jatin described my writing as "flowery", and now looking through it again, I feel some sort of shame for not noticing it sooner. There is only one thing left to do- indulge in anything else and see what can come from it. Writing is formulaic. The more time I spend away from it, the better it becomes when I finally return.

Recently I've been pursuing my other interests. Fishing, with no luck at all, but fishing nonetheless. I spent four hours in Ringwood just last week casting in the shallow sunny-pools and listening to Kenny Wayne Shephard. Just being out of the house is a blessing at this point. The grass in Ringwood is too tall and thick though- I pulled a pretty large tick off myself at work the next day, and now I'm on antibiotics.

In other news, I failed my biology class and I have not graduated from high school. I am taking a 5 week public speaking course which will somehow allow me to walk at graduation. Public speaking is my forte and I am confident I will do well. My coworker told me that it doesn't seem typical of a writer to be able to speak the way I do. Honestly, I never really thought about it.

I will try to come here more often. I need the space to vent. If I'm not lying, things have been pretty lonely. Almost everyone in my life is a footnote at best. I've been finding more comfort in solitude like some sort of recluse, but I would not like to keep it that way.