thejunipertree: (Default)
I keep seeing everyone post things about how badly 2010 sucked and how it was the worst year ever, etc. I used to be like that, cussing the back of every year as it walked through the door. Eff you, 2001. And 2004? You can eat my entire ass lukewarm.

But, this year, I'm having difficulty giving the one finger salute and frowning at everything that's happened. It wasn't a good year, not by a long stretch. I had to put down my 23-year old cat and 18 year-old cat, both of whom I'd raised since they were wee kittens, within a week of each other. I lost $10k worth of overtime that I rely on. I watched people I love greatly go through mass amounts of pain, completely helpless to offer succor. I've spent more time in one of the deepest depressions I've ever than I've spent out of it. My OCD went almost out of control. I didn't start writing again, even though I swore I would spend the eight month break from school working on a story I've been kicking around. I've cried and been badly hurt, struggled fiercely to not throw my hands up and call uncle to the whole goddamn show.

But, I've also spent the year re-trying old things I'd previously hated. Red wine, John Carpenter's "The Thing", and rice made the cut. Beer, coffee, Slayer, and getting up before 9 in the morning are all still on the shit list. I've read more good books than bad, discovered new music obsessions, and grew out the beginnings of a rocking grey streak in my hair. I enrolled in mortuary school and just finished my first semester. Chris and made it through another year without me killing him in his sleep (or vice versa, if we're being all confessional and shit). We got Timothy and Henry Lee. I made mass amounts of amazing food. I drove my Mini. A lot. I laughed. A lot. I feel I made great strides in my constant struggle to be a real person.

I would be lying if I said there was more good than bad. There wasn't. But, the good carries more weight with me. I can't ever ignore that. And telling the year it can fuck off and live in the street also feels like I'm turning my back on the amazing and awesome things, too.

So, in defiance of telling the year to eat a bag of dicks, and in honor of the closing of probably the most interesting decade of my life (because everyone seems to be ignoring the decade itself in favor of how shitty the year has been), I present to you:

My top 5 horror movies of the decade (which were seriously difficult to pin down and the discussion of which to pick resulted in raised voices in my household)

(Not in any kind of order, mind you. I would never be able to do that.)

Being as ridiculous of a horror!nerd as I am, the construction of this list was extremely serious business that it almost made me throw in the towel on several occasions due to its sheer nature. There were just too many absolutely incredible films in the broad genre that have come out in the past decade to be able to whittle it down to just five. Only five? What manner of bullshit is that? Five for each year, perhaps. The idea of choosing only five movies to represent the best for the entire decade was so ludicrous and impossible, it bordered on the realms of non-Euclidean. But, I persevered.

I managed to finally do it by giving myself strict parameters. No horror!comedies (like Shaun of the Dead or Fido, both of which I love like I'm getting a paycheck to do so), no franchises (this ruled out Jason X, which I also adore). The films couldn't be remakes (leaves out Dawn of the Dead) or be purely spooky atmospheric!horror (The Orphanage), nor could any gore be gratuitously non-central to the plot. And there definitely needed to be a good plot. They had to be fresh ideas; the kind that feel like a slap in the face. They all also had to beget an extreme emotional reaction in me. Not just jump scares, something more visceral.

It took me a while, but I did it:

Cabin Fever
28 Days Later
The Descent

One of these actually gave me an anxiety attack during a particular scene, two of them have scenes where I will physically cover my eyes (and that hasn't happened since I was 11). One has a scene that makes me cry like a little girl every time I watch it. And one blurs the line between reality and delusion so perfectly, it gives me chills.

I briefly thought about doing this again for the five best books of the decade, but (for once) logic prevailed and once again proved that I can at least occasionally figure out when something is not The Best Idea Ever. My reading tastes are so eclectic and genre-spanning, it would be headache inducing.

Five best albums, however...
thejunipertree: (Default)
I came across an entry in [ profile] deadphotos this evening of two luna moths. Ghostly green and lying face to face on a weathered wooden plank, beautiful and strange in their alien gauze.

For those of you who have never seen one in person, luna moths, Actias luna, are goddamn gigantic. The largest generally having a four and a half centimeters wide wingspan, they dwarf the moths people are more commonly familiar with. The gypsy moth, what most people in my area think of when think "moth", is a mewling cousin in comparison.

I've been a bit obsessed with lunas ever since the first time I saw one, on a camping trip I went on about eight years ago with the Engineer and the MWC. It was the second time I'd ever gone camping since I was an honest-to-God Brownie and I was pretty psyched at the prospect of building a great big fuckoff bonfire in the fire ring spending some time outdoors with my friends.

On our way there, a two hour drive, the Engineer and I stole constant unhappy glances at an ever-darkening sky. Storm clouds loomed over the trees and the temperature dropped several degrees, but mile after mile deeper into the Pine Barrens, rain still did not begin to fall. It was a slow and torturous drive full of quiet So, what do you think we should do? exchanged between the two of us. Neither of us had a cell phone at that point, so we couldn't call ahead to the site and see what was going on there, as our friends had arrived several hours earlier. I couldn't leave work early enough that day and so the added threat of the oncoming night also weighed heavy on our minds. The weather was turning to shit and it was getting dark, these are not optimum set-up conditions. Who wants to put up a tent in the fucking rain and the dark? Not this silly bitch.

When we finally got to the campsite, it was full-on dark and fat drops of rain had been splashing down for the past twenty minutes. The Engineer and I grabbed our tent and bed gear, leaving everything else in his PT Cruiser until the rain stopped. From the our parking spot, we had a hike about the length of a football field to the camp site, which was situated off the tip-most point of a wee penisula jutting into Parvin lake. Oh, sure you're thinking. A football field length of a hike, you fucking crybaby. And normally, I would agree with you. It's not that far to hike at all. However, there are certain times when that bit of a jaunt through the woods seem more like a trek through the Appalachians.

1. in the dark
2. in the rain
3. in the middle of the night

All things considered, my vote for The Worst Ever is number three. Normally, I am lazy to the point of staying in bed until I am in physical pain before I get up too pee. The mad dash to the bathroom after a morning of blanket-wrapped don't wanna is mercifully brief. In my apartment. That "mad dash" because some serious fucking business when one is on a camping trip and is a special realm of hell I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy.

First of all, we always camp in the spring and fall, so the middle of the night pee runs are usually done in damp, chilly weather. Damp and chilly weather is so not enjoyable when one has been curled under a down sleeping bag next to a snoring Engineer (seriously, he's like a fucking furnace). One particular camping trip in early April, a deceptively warm weekend had gone brutally cold overnight unexpectedly and we were so not equipped for that change of temperature. That time, I remember there being tears. Mine or the Engineer's, I will not divulge, but there were definitely tears.

But that night, that second-time-ever-trip of the rain and the dark and the hey hey hey? I remember walking down the trail for the first leg of unloading, it's pissing down rain and I can hear the Engineer mumbling unhappily under his breath ahead of me in the darklightdark bounce of my flashlight. We finally reached the site after a soggy dog's age and a half and I dumped the tent gear next to a line of brushes that started the natural, guarded perimeter of the peninsula. It was a great site and would prove to be extremely beautiful, come morning when the sun was out and it had stopped raining. As the bag hit the ground, I caught a flutter at their edge out of the corner of my eye.

Looking around the far edge, I found that I had just missed squishing flat a sodden moth the size of my goddamn hand, weakly waving its pale green and eyespotted wings in the rain. I'd never seen such a thing before in my life and forgot everything going on around me as I watched it twitching its antennae at my flashlight cutting beams through the dark. In my bookjunkie travels prior to this trip, I'd already read about luna moths and had found that they only lived in their adult form for a week and didn't have a mouth; so they didn't eat during that time, either. The handstapleforehead pretentious goth girl side of me that I've never been able to quite shake marveled at the impermanence of its life. To be so beautiful, for such a short period of time! It was tragic, a Grimm's come to life and before my very eyes.

With everyone situating themselves around the campsite, it needed to be put in a spot where it wouldn't be trod upon or squished unceremoniously flat by tossed gear (I still cringe at the thought of how close I came to unknowingly killing it, even now, so many years later). So, I took the time to select a nearby cove of shrubbery (hee, shrubbery) where it would be safe and as much out of the rain as possible.

That finally accomplished, I started the slog back to the Engineer's car to pick up more of our camp equipment. The rain had soaked through my braids and they were beginning to trickle down the back of my Dawn of the Dead hoodie, so I pushed back the hood and slicked my hands through my bangs, pushing them off my skin and turning my face to the tapering rain. I've always been a tactile creature, reveling in the feel of my fingers brushing down a perfectly smooth and cool surface or plunging my hands through the fabric of a dress on a store rack simply because it looks good to touch. Water in all its forms and methods of delivery has always been a favorite, so even though the conditions at the time were less than optimal, I still took the time to carve out a small moment of sensory enjoyment. I was already soaked through and it was fairly warm out, so what was the harm?

The Engineer caught me like that, face in the rain and grinning like a fool. A purely happy moment that I sometimes revisit when things get shittastic, as they have been lately. We've pulled mostly through and can see at least a bit of light at the end of the tunnel, but it's shaky. Money is tighttighttight, as always, and I'm starting school again next week after being out since I graduated from CCC in December. I have tense moments of quiet desperation and there is a constant sense of teetering, which have driven me into either a series of short and intense bouts of depression, or just one really long one with peaks and lows.

I come home from work snarly and make sure to rub Timothy's belly as soon as I get in the door. It is a tiny joy I wait for all day. I try to laugh as much as I can, when I can. I make elaborate-on-a-budget meals and have experimented with ingredients I've typically shied away from, purely for eking out the thrill I still get whenever I make something from nothing. Taking my little pleasures out wherever I can has largely kept me from going completely into the deep end lately.

I think of my moth; nothing is permanent.
thejunipertree: (Default)
A lazy morning (afternoon) with a huge mug of
Earl Grey, a pack of Turkish Jades, and my
Cheshire Cat pajamas.

Hair, snarled and getting tangled in the
necklace I haven't taken off for a week. No
make-up whatsoever, except for the tiny black
smudges under my lower lashes that I couldn't
get to with the washcloth.

I keep rubbing my eyes and pushing my fingers
through my hair. I want to go back to sleep,
but I'm not allowed as today is most likely
the day of buying a tree.

I used to think that I hated Christmas. But now,
after reading and hearing so many other people
who are much more adament about it? I can
safely say that I'm not so bad. I don't like the
bland consumerism of it all, but I do like the
lights going up and some of the more tasteful
decorations. I also like the idea (and smell)
of a tree in the house.

I don't like the memories, however.

Every year, more are added on. Sometimes, as
they're actually being lived out, I believe
and hope that these are the memories I will hold
to myself when I am old and grey. But, by the
time that the next year rolls in, they've
become the memories I wish to push away and
never have in my head ever again.

This time last year, I was so full of hope and probably would have wanted to
smack me from all the chirping. I'm a mild
shadow of that now. A fake shadow, at that.
Because I am false.

It's a false smile, false cheer.
I'm keeping the masks on for the sake of everyone
around me, so they don't have to deal with the
bleak depression which is sitting in.

I just deleted a huge chunk of this entry
because it made me sick.
thejunipertree: (Default)
I don't wish to be myself anymore. I want to be
a doll. Or a betta fish. Or a tea cup. A wooden

I don't want to be me, anymore.
I want to be something beautiful. Something
real. He told me that I wasn't real, a long
time ago. Not in so many words and he tried
to retract the statement later on, but that's
what he said. I know it.

I don't want this life anymore. I want someone
else's. I want to be a thousand different girls.
Pretty girls. Girls with pretty things to say.

I hate you.

Do you hear me?

thejunipertree: (Default)
I don't really know what to say, most of the time.
Me, the girl with the words. The one who makes
people hide under their blankets or cry over
long forgotten memories. I never know what to say.

I cover it up well, don't I?
Sometimes, I talk so much that it annoys even me.
Yammering away like some vacant eyed fool.

But, when it comes down to it, what am I really
saying to people? What am I asking for?

Am I truly asking for the hurt which winds up
being inflicted upon my person? Do I ask for the
mental trauma and anguish? Am I begging to be
stabbed in the back? What?

Many years ago, I was labelled as being "strong".
I'd been through a lot more than what most people
my age have experienced. And my friends and
aquaintences decided that because I survived
these skirmishes, I must be a strong person.

What if I don't want to be strong? I'm sick of
it. I'm so very tired of having to keep my head
held high, the smile on my face. Even if it's
a sad, knowing smile really. What if I'm tired of
turning the other cheek and allowing that sucker

I don't want to be a fighter anymore. I want to
be weak. I want to be the wailing Victorian lady,
who gnashes her teeth and rends her hair. I want
to be the girl who swoons at a harsh word.
Two words: delicate constitution. I want to be
allowed to scream epithets into the phone long
distance at three o'clock in the morning. I want
to send hateful, psychotic letters. I want my
reply to "I'm sorry for hurting you" to be "FUCK
to inflict bodily harm upon myself. I want to
inflict bodily harm upon other people. I want to
boil his fucking rabbit in a pot on his own stove
when he's away from the house. He doesn't even
own a bunny and I would never do that to an
animal, but I still WANT. I'm tired of having a backbone. I want people to coddle me.


Because the strong aren't cared about. People
blithely hurt them because they know that the
strong always survive their wounds. People
think strong people "can take it".

The strong are powerless to change their Fate.
They will always be the one left holding the
car door open in the rain. They're always the ones
who get the door slammed in their face. They are
the ones who get kicked in the teeth and stabbed
in the back.

No one is ever afraid to hurt the strong.
thejunipertree: (Default)
It is over.

Finite. Kaput. Ding-dong, the witch is dead.
End of the line. The great egress. Wave bye-bye.

I don't know whether to hire a 30 piece marching
band and have myself a little parade, or to go
into a full on, off the scale, Victorian
mourning period.

I do know, however, that I would like a specific
girl who said she was my friend to choke on a
cock and die a horrible, semen filled death.

Fucking bitch. Stick a knife in my back, next
time. It won't hurt me half as much.

I want to hate Richard. I've tried to. But, I
can't. All I can feel right now is pain. And
relief. And guilt for feeling relief.
thejunipertree: (Default)
Do you know how moths kamikaze themselves
against light sources? How they bang themselves
against the glass, over and over and over?

That's me.

Only my source of light is actually pain.
And I throw myself at it constantly. To the
point I am exhausted and battered. Slightly

Broken. Why would anybody want something that
is so damaged? I'm defective to begin with,
but now I'm also damaged. Why the HELL would
anybody want to even come within six feet of me?

I'm loved. I'm told that I'm loved constantly.

And I don't believe him. Not really. Why would
you put someone you alledgely love so much
through all of this pain? Why would you sit
and listen to what they say would kill them
and then blithely go about doing it? How
the FUCK does that make any sense?

I'm resigned to the fact that things are
slowly doing down the drain. That I will be
kicked to the side of the road come August,
at the very least. That history is, yes indeed,
repeating itself. Just like I always said it

I don't care anymore. I don't. I'm so sick
of being hurt and going through my days like
the walking wounded. I'm tired of being the
object of anger and disappointment because I
express how I feel. And I'm heartily sick of
placation and lies.

Fuck this.


Jun. 14th, 2001 06:35 pm
thejunipertree: (Default)

I've managed to fuck things up yet AGAIN between
me and Richard. Because I didn't know when to
quit. I didn't know when to let something drop.
I didn't know when to just shut my fucking
mouth and let him talk to me at his own pace.


So. Now all of my preceding worries and fears
have all now become insignificant in the face
of this new worry/fear. The idea that he's not
sure if he's in love with me.

I was trying to be cute. I was trying to make
him feel better about things. He had said
"I wish I really could be of more use right now."
To which I asked "Well, do you love me?"

Him: Yes.

Me: And are you still /in/ love with me?

Him: I'm not sure. I feel detached and stressed and I can't really think or deal with anything lately.

I had thought he would tell me yes, of course
he still was. And I was going to say "See?
You're a big help." maybe with a little
smiley face at the end of my sentence (this
convo took place online, by the way).

I suppose I shouldn't have expected anything
from him. Another lesson to not expect anything
from anybody. Ever. Another lesson to not
trust. Another. Fucking. Lesson.

I'm sick of them. I'm sick of being hurt. I'm
sick of walking around in a constant haze of
pain brought onto me by myself and other people.

I don't know what to do anymore.
I don't know what to think anymore.
I don't know what to feel anymore.

I just want to go AWAY.
thejunipertree: (Default)
It is pouring down rain outside and I am loving
it. Our apartment is on the ground floor, which
means that our windows basically rest against
the ground. My eyes are on dirt level. I can
watch the rain as it bounces off the asphalt
and grass. I can stare upwards and watch it
drop from the sky.

I want to be outside in this.

Speeding up until it's a hype staccatto in my
throat. Slow down, my eyelids become lazy and
I rest my chin on the window sill. Summer rain.
Right now, it's a slow patter making pinpricks
in every puddle.

If I stand out in this, will it wash away sin?
Will it cleanse the nastiness which has been
spiraling away inside my head lately?

I doubt this, somehow.
Though it's still an enjoyable thought.
thejunipertree: (Default)
In the car, wet and grey beyond the smeary
window. I huddle further into an old man's
tuxedo jacket that I've had since high school.
Tattered sleeves, tattered heart. Or something
like that, is how the song goes.

There's a party tomorrow night, political
karoke. I've been invited, but I'm still unsure
as to whether or not I'll go. Though bestowed
with a pleasant singing voice, I don't sing
in public places any longer. Too many eyes on me.
And in the mood that I'm already in, I don't
think I'd be able to take it.

Tonight, I dimly heard the words "The end of the
world has come and gone and Ze Monsta has slept
through it."

Ze Monsta, of course, is not my true name. Neither
was the name spoken. At least, not for today.
I'm not me today. I haven't been all week. I've
been the girl with bruised eyes, too many
cigarettes, and not enough sleep. I figure if I
drive myself to exhaustion, then my sleep won't
be troubled.

That's a joke.

I picked a fight with Richard today for no good
reason other than the fact that I was feeling
melancholy and full of myself. Not truly a
fight per se, because we don't really do that.
More like a little drama. I'm still feeling like
shit over it. It's not fair of me and I don't
know why I persist in doing it.

So, I thought about all of this in the Wee One's
car on the drive back home from the Sensitive
Artist's apartment. I stole that name for him
directly from the Wee One, please excuse my

I thought about it. I shivered in my coat. And
I realised that I've forgotten what it feels like
to be kissed.
thejunipertree: (Default)
Oh, how they both manage to wound me in already
sore spots. Within seconds of each other.

I'm so stupid.

What the fuck am I doing to myself?
I don't even deserve to breathe.
thejunipertree: (Default)
I always seem to fall horribly short of people's
ideal image of me. I'm not really quite sure
why this continues to happen. I strive so hard
to meet the requirements, to match up to that
damn image...

But, it never happens.

I've been:

(1.) a terribly lax friend
(2.) a disappointing daughter
(3.) a useless, depressed girlfriend
(4.) a cheating, unsatisfied wife
(5.) a lazy drug addict

The list could go on for days. I really only
wrote the damn thing in the first place because
I'm in a list making mood.

I don't know. It just always seems like people
form these expectations of me and I never quite
live up to them.

It pains me, this falling short I do.

Once, a long time ago when I was still living
with Heb and the Voodoo King, I watched one of
those silly talk show "Give your gothic teen
a makeover!" episodes. It was late at night and
I was, at the time, in the middle of a bad
unemployed stretch.

The show put me in tears, how the parents (mostly
mothers) cried about how disappointed they were
in their spawn. How they looked and acted. And
those kids weren't really hurting anybody by
doing the things that they did.

The next day, I commented to Heb about it. I said
something along the lines of it making me want
to call my mother and ask her if she was
disappointed in me, if she was ashamed of me.
Heb snorted and said "Of COURSE she's disappointed
in you." Needless to say, that didn't help
matters much. Bill found me later that night,
curled up on the bathroom floor, sick and

I'm not sure what that little story has to do
with anything I'm talking about, really.

I think one of my biggest problems in life is
that I want to make everyone around me happy.
And I just can't do it. It's not within my
means, by any far stretch of the imagination.
Every time I fall short, every time I fail
to succeed at doing this, another part of me
is torn away.

How much longer do I have?
And why do I even bother, anymore?

I've said countless times that I've given up
on trying to make everyone around me content.
That I'm only going to focus on making myself

What a crock of shit.

Sweet suffering fuck.
thejunipertree: (Default)
Twice in one week, by the same person, I've
been called an innocent. And it's weighing on
my mind because I've never thought of myself
as one before. Well, maybe not for a truly
long, long time.

It confuses me and asking the person who
said it (Orphan) to clarify would be like
squeezing blood from a stone. I had always
thought that I was bad with talking in circles
and riddles. This boy could beat me, blindfolded.

But, the concept of innocence (to me) has
always implied that the innocent held one
major qualification: trust. I don't hold that.
There are so very few people in this world that
I trust. And the ones who do have this granted
to them, they don't have the full measure of it.
I still hold back.

I used to be trusting. Oh, I would trust you
with my soul to the moon and back if you
spoke prettily enough to me. It got me into
a lot of trouble and gave me nothing but

I trusted friends, who in turn betrayed me and
my confidence. I trusted lovers, who then
would abuse my body and heart. I trusted family,
who proved that they were family in name
and concept, only. I trusted myself. Which was
the worst sin, because out of everyone, I
let myself down the most.

It's such a strange and fragile thing. I still
show sparks of it now and then. Occasionally,
I will still blindly throw a piece of my
heart at someone. But, I always hold some of it
back. I never let the mask down completely.
I believe I'm actually incapable of doing so
anymore. True and total unveiling brings only
pain. And I've enough of that to last a lifetime.
I don't need any more.

So, does that make me an innocent? I reckon in
some manner, it may. I'm not really sure.

Maybe Richard is right. Perhaps I have forgotten
how to dream. I tend to think that it's moreso
because too many people have stolen my dreams
from me.
thejunipertree: (Default)
I am not a pretty girl.

On good days, I'm passingly cute.

I get in these moods, where I feel rancid and
disgusting. A virus to infect everything around
me. Filth oozes from my skin and I can't bear
to face my reflection.

I want to be beautiful.

It's worse on nights like this. I see people,
watch the lines of their bodies, the curve
of an angel's jaw. I don't feel fit to stand
next to them, to even be in the same room. Let
alone be seen out in public with them.

It shames me and I continue to hide. I constantly
hold myself up to other's faces, only to be found
constantly lacking.

I want to be full of light.
thejunipertree: (Default)
I'm not worth this pain.
Please, make it stop.
thejunipertree: (Default)
Why is my head so goddamn tweaked and
twisted? I sit here and think all my little
thoughts. I meander about, regarding my life with
a frank, pessimistic eye. I brood. I worry.
I whinge. I complain. I torture myself with
dead end possibilities.


What fuck-up in genetics caused me to be like

It's a bad night, to say the least. And here I am,
sitting at the head of the self pity parade,
waving at the cheering throngs.

I feel disgusting. And filthy. I feel such like
the slime of the earth that I can't even look at
myself in the mirror. Today, I was waiting in the
car for my mother as she ran to get a money order.
Two cars over from me was a boy getting into his
own auto. Realisation flung itself across my
brain. I knew him. Quite well, as a matter of
fact. This was Kevin.

Kevin, who I spent my teenage years head over
heels in love at. Madly, passionately,
obsessively, and hopelessly in love.

We used to be extremely good friends, but over
the years our lives have taken different turns
and we don't speak all that much any more.
Usually, however, seeing one another is the
cause for great rejoicing. We'd fall across each
other with many hugs and laughter and "How've
you been?". I haven't seen him since I left
Philadelphia ten months ago.

So, I sat in the car watching him. And I didn't
make even the slightest indication that I was
there, to get his attention. I didn't want him
to see me. I wanted to be invisible, or better
yet, non-existant.

I didn't want him to see me because I don't want
ANYONE to see me.
thejunipertree: (Default)
Filth. Human filth.
Pathetic. Waste of air and skin.

I should really just start shoving handfuls
of muscle relaxers into my mouth now and
save myself the trouble of expiring at a later

I really don't know what the hell is wrong
with me.

I wish I did.

And I wish it would stop.

Sharks patrol these waters.


Apr. 23rd, 2001 03:55 pm
thejunipertree: (Default)
This was brought on by a conversation with
Wee Heather the other night, as we sat in her

Trust is a strange and fragile thing. It's also very difficult to give to someone, no matter
how much you care about them. And especially
in the case of being spectacularly hurt by
others in the past, it's hard to trust another.

To get past your programming is the biggest
step. To take out all of the nastiness which
has been ingrained in your psyche. To realise that
the person you are dealing with today is NOT
the one who stuck a knife in your back so many
years ago.

I have to be one of the most least trusting
people in the world. I don't even fully trust
my closest friends who I've known and loved
for years. Why? Because I've been kicked down
one too many times by people who I believed to
be trustworthy. People who I did know and love.
The ones who took my innocence and naietivity
as stupidity.
I'm still naieve. I'm still innocent, to a
certain degree. But, it's all been tempered with
the complete fear of being kicked in the face.
When the subject comes up in recent days, I'm
told that I'm loved. That I've no reason to be
scared. That my trust is being placed into worthy
But, it takes everything within my power to not
retort with "Yes. I've heard this all before."

Because I have heard it all before.
Infinite times.

Things I've been told before:

I'll never hurt you.
I'll never leave.
I will always love you.
You mean everything to me.
I'd never lie to you.
If you left, I would be lost.
I never want to lose you.
I'll only go if you tell me to.
No, there's nothing wrong.
Yes, I still love you.
I couldn't forget you if I tried.

And I, being the sick and foolish girl that
I try so hard not to be, swallow this all with
nary a comment. Not even with sugar to soften
the blow. I take in. I take it down. And I keep
these words to heart.

To what end? I still wind up being hurt. Three
a.m. still finds me curled in a ball, crying
my heart and wishing that the voices would

This has turned me into a shivering wreck.
Into a person who doesn't like to give their
heart to anyone, but still winds up doing so.
Being schizophrenic and having delusions doesn't
help matters any, either.

I could have the most trustworthy person in the
world standing in front of me, offering me
reassurance and love. But, past experiences and
delusions force me to believe otherwise.

How do I get past these things? Will I ever
work through them?

I surely don't know.
thejunipertree: (Default)
I burned my thumb quite badly not that long ago
as I was cooking dinner. I also managed to throw
half of my own plate out when no one was looking,
because I truly haven't felt like eating in the
past week and a half. Usually, I'll force it down
because if I don't, I'm given thirty three shades
of hell. Today was different.

Pensive and lonely have been colouring me all day.
This seems to be a trend that doesn't have
a foreseeable stop. Wishing for it to stop doesn't
produce any results. Nor does slapping on the
happy mask. I've decided to just stop pretending.
To everyone. I'm sick of the falseness. I'm tired
of the illusion.

Speaking of illusion, the Orphan was under one
that I was someone else. I'm not quite sure if
he's still believing this, but I've done my best
to disprove the theory. It makes me laugh, in a
way. That someone thinks I'm someone else
pretending to be someone else.

Richard has just sent me an email. Full of
cheeriness and I love you's. He says he'll be
online soon, but we'll see about that. It's been
said before. I've been a complete bitch to him
lately, for which I'd dearly love to slap myself
for. It's truely not fair to him. I just don't
know what to do. I despair of never seeing him
again. It's a gut feeling. The past loves to
hit replay over and over and over. Will it be
my past or his past that flashes across the
screen? The world may never know.

I believe that this is my punishment for the
way I acted in my relationship with Bill, though.
For all the veils of secrecy. The half-truths.
The behind the back and round again. I'm vermin
for the things that I've done. And being forced
apart from someone I actually /want/ to be with
now is justifiable punishment, I would venture
to guess. I deserve to be punished. For all of
the things I did, I don't think I really even
deserve to still be breathing. I became something
that I despised. All in an effort to give my
heart away to someone who just didn't want it.
To someone who was more in love with the idea of
me, than me in actuality.

Thoughts of pills gather in my brain. I remember
the bottle of muscle relaxers I was prescribed
a few months prior. They would go nicely with
some vodka and cigarettes. I carry them around
with me like a shield. Knowing that if I ever
needed oblivion, I had my passport right in my
purse. How very fucking Anne Sexton of me.


angst angst angst
thejunipertree: (Default)
I wrote a letter to a friend of mine last night.
Still not sure whether or not it should have
been written. But, the hour was late. And I was
half-concious from lack of sleep. Sleep hasn't
exactly been a friend of mine, lately. Whenever
I'm stressed or my bodily systems are taxed,
I lose sleep. Or the desire to sleep. Strange
things come out of it. They flow into my head
and puppet me into things that I have no wish
to be into.
No matter.

I drove again today. Twenty-six years old and
I still don't have my driver's license. This is
most pathetic. But, the past ten years of my life
have been spent outside of Goblin Market, in a
big city. And there was no need for me to be
behind the wheel of a car when I could just walk.
Or take a cab. Or the bus.
Now, I'm here amongst the peach tree orchards
and apple farms. No buses come even remotely
close. Which is distressing. For me to leave the
house and do something which doesn't involve
being with a member of my family, I have to
cajole transportation from my friends. Who all
live roughly half an hour to an hour away from
me. I do not like this. I don't like being so
dependant upon the kindness of others to get me
from Point A to Point B. Especially when I'm in
no mood for cajoling.
However, it's something that I must deal with. As
I've gotten my own stupid self into this
situation. With no true way of getting out at the

I hesitate from truely letting loose into a full
scale rant, the likes of which I am (in)famous
for. Mainly for the fact that I'm unsure of how
accessible this journal is. I had a journal on
a past website of mine, but was constantly
anxious about what I wrote because everyone I knew
read it. It tended to colour my words. It curbed
my freedom. I didn't say as I pleased. Therefore,
the journal lost its allure.
Hopefully, this won't be the case with this one.
As I truly need a place to unleash the chittering
in my head.
It gets more difficult, as the days go by. Keeping
this mask plastered across my face. The smile.
The nod. The "No, really! I'm quite fine, thank
you!" It's all so very...sickening. For once,
I'd like to be able to tell someone exactly what
I'm feeling at the moment. With no fear of
repurcussion. Richard has been quiet and scared
as of late because of the moods I've worked myself
I can't blame him for these feelings, because
whenever he gets depressed, I become a paranoid
maniac. Yay delusions!
I've yet to hear from him today. As the months go
by, this seems to be a gradual change to the norm
of communication between he and I.
I'm not sure I'll ever see him again, to tell you
the honest truth.
Sometimes, I'm not even completely sure if I want
to. But, that tends to come out of me on the bad
days and nights. Of which today seems to be one
of them.

It's so quiet in the house right now. I'd put a
CD into the stereo, but I know that anything I
pick out for rotation will only reduce me to
tears. Any music seems to be having that effect
on me lately. Not a fun thing, especially when
you live and breathe music to the point that I do.

The rain is beginning to come down now. I've been
waiting for this all day long. One good thing
about living in Goblin Market is that everything
smells clean after a rain. Unlike Philadelphia.
Which only smelled of bum urine, frat boy beer,
and car exhaust.

I wonder which world I truly belong in.


thejunipertree: (Default)

January 2011

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