manic dope

some i murder, some i let go

i’m going to try to live at blair’s this week. i need to get out of the house. i need to stop depending on my mother, especially if she’s going to threaten to take everything away. i’m going to try getting a job again. i have no money to my name, so i can’t do anything until i find employment.

and that girl, my poor friend, getting physically beaten by her friend’s boyfriend. and her friend just sat there and watched, wanted nothing to do with it, said she would deny that it happened if the police got involved. all i want is for her to be safe.

it’s scary when the only person you can rely on suddenly becomes unreliable.

mother says that i want to win, and she won’t let me. mother says i have to do it her way because my way obviously never works. mother said that if i didn’t do as she says, she will take me off of her health insurance policy.

i may be eighteen, but i am not an adult. i’m not a child, either. i’m in-between, living in purgatory. i can’t take care of myself, i can’t let my mother take care of me. i’m ready to get out. pack a bag, take the bus, find a shit hole to live in and a minimum wage job to afford it. or i could just stay at blair’s. of course, then she’d know where to find me.

she doesn’t see that i need therapy, i need real help. she thinks all i need is fish oil and hormones and exercise and to start eating again. mother, oh mother…mommy. i need help. i have another person inside of me. my face deforms when i’m not looking at it. i’m not a real human being like you and the rest of the world. i don’t belong in this body. i don’t even know who i am anymore. this has nothing to do with you - stop taking it so personally. i want to get better. why won’t you let me try?

to-do list

• write bass lines and have dr00d play them
• download all the muzak (mumiy troll, oldies, weezer)
• make frylock x2
• listen to comrade ambassador while reading russian lyrics
• get some lady gaga! (if any of you can help me with this…)
• make boyfriend get friends who don’t make me cry

mommy, i want your money. daddy, i want your love.

i’ve been so nervous that i haven’t ever had fun! as a child, you know! as a child, i was always too busy worrying about how to keep everyone happy. because of this, i was not a normal child. mentally/emotionally, i matured much quicker than my peers. i always worried, don’t you get it? i always worried over what daddy would do if i didn’t get out of bed before he lost his temper. when he worked nights, he was always asleep when we were in the house together, and vice versa. i love my daddy, i really do. i miss him a whole lot. but i just can’t stand him as a person because he makes me feel angry, sad, like a poor excuse for a child. but i really, really miss daddy. once i was playing casper, the friendly ghost, on my prehistoric nec unit with windows ninety-five. the ghost-y sounds in the soundtrack scared me, a pretty nervous kid already, so i always turned the sound down when i played it. this was also back in the time of dial-up internet connections with the dialtone that played when you connected. he went to use my computer one time and couldn’t hear the dialtone during the connection, he thought it wasn’t working. he gets upset and frustrated, “what did you do to this computer?” of course, i’m frantic that i forgot to turn the volume back up after player casper. he demanded to know why i had the volume down, so i told him; he took the game away from me. if you can’t play the game with the sound up, you can’t play the game at all. i got that game back years later when we moved. one time i was finally washing out the hamster’s cage (june was her name) in the middle of the garage floor. dad came out and said something about me finally washing the cage, and it was true, it was the first time, but he was mad at me and when he gets mad at me i feel bad and cry. i’m fighting back the tears, mom comes out of the house and sees me looking scared, asks what’s going on, they start talking, mom raises her voice at him, he raises his back, and i lose it. i start crying like the little eight-year-old girl i am. “oh look, buryl, you made her cry.”

i love you; it’s murder

i am two people, and i’m sorry.

you don’t understand why i do the things i do. you want to know why i seem bubbly and perfect at your party yet can’t find the motivation to shower the next day. when i’m home, i spend my mornings sleeping, my afternoons sleeping, my evenings sitting around and sleeping. when i’m with you, i laugh and laugh and laugh. i talk. i chat up strangers in your house, on the street. it’s not my fault. i am two people, and i’m sorry.