thejunipertree: (Default)

The 11th of July passed with absolutely no notice of mine. I'm fairly sure I noticed it last year, the anniversary of me being kickbanned from the UK. The beginning of the end, you might say.

And it's strange now, this feeling of emptiness in my chest. I'm not really sure what to name it, if there is indeed a name for this feeling.

I can't believe that I was that girl in the year 2000, so completely blindsided and hopeful and stupidly thinking every little thing is gonna be alright. That used to be my mantra, you know. Fucking Bob Marley. It came from me sitting in the bedroom of one of my old roommates, stoned out of my gills and talking so much shit about how my life was going to be. How it was to be green and golden. Every little thing is gonna be alright. I repeated it to myself over and over again, a futile chanting invocation against the powers that be, as I curled in a ball in the detention center at Heathrow International.

I repeated it to myself every single time his words arced through me, every little stab and prick of that ignorant knife. Every little thing is gonna be alright. I said it each morning when I opened my eyes and prepared to drudge through another nine hours of work that I despised. For him. For me. There was a meaning, there was a point. I was getting through this. I was going to walk through this dark tunnel to the light on the other side.

I repeated it to myself when he left me broken. I repeated it when he told me I'd forgotten how to dream. I repeated it when he compared me to his psycho ex-wife. Every little thing is gonna be alright.

I repeated it when I met the Engineer and schemed to make him mine. I repeated it every time I saw the Cheshire Cat and his grin at my arrival. I sang it to myself on the empty nights where I kicked myself for being so thoughtless. Every little thing is gonna be alright.

An endless loop, those seven small words. Constant run through my brain. It was my sword and shield. My proof that all of my efforts were for something. I drove alone up to Irish Hill in the middle of the night and screamed it at the sky, as my mother lie sick and near dying in the hospital. I held her hand and whispered it under my breath as she drifted, motionless, in a morphine haze. Over and over again.

My grandmother dying at home, starved to death because there was nothing else we could do for her but pump in more drugs. Letting her sip her Tanqueray through a straw, to hell with the nurses.

My father covering his face from me, hiding his tears.

Losing my job last summer.

My friend, Henry, dying two Halloweens ago. Far from his friends and refused the dignity of his religion to deliver him from this coil.

Every fight I've had, all the biting words I've thrown and had sent back to me on a goddamn gleaming platter.

All of it, each time: Every little thing is gonna be alright.

But, it's not going to. Is it? It never is. There's always something else, getting in the way. Always something bigger and worse to push us back down.

It's all fucking temporary. And I'm tired of deluding myself into believing that I'll make it out of each obstacles with my feet under me and a smile on my face. I'm sick of it. It's foolish.

This is temporary.
I'll not play the fool any longer.

I'll get through whatever is thrown at me. Not because of the good grace of God, but of my own voalition. My own steam. I'm Queen of this fucking shitheap and it would behoove the Fates to grasp that notion and mark it in their fucking dayplanner.

I'm not going to be pushed around any longer.
thejunipertree: (Default)
Rehashed some moments of the past, this evening. And yes, I laughed my silly fool head off whilst doing so. But, I still feel anger. And pain. And dissatisfaction. And the urge to just snap the neck of all parties concerned.

I don't trust easily. Or often. So therefore it hurts all the more when that trust is taken by those I love and ground into the dirt under bootheel.

You turned me into this.

I called you a friend, I called her a friend. And both of you saw fit to take the word 'friend' and transform it into a blade. Then slammed that knife directly into my exposed and vulnerable back.

It makes me laugh.

Not really.

6...7...all good girls go to heaven...

Not many people have seen me fully in the throes of anger. The seething corned cat, fingers curled into twisted claws, spitting ball of hate. Yes, some of you have seen me spew profanity until the air is blue and thick with it. But, you've never been allowed to see the ire that curdles just below the surface.

They drove me to that point.

And at that moment in time, I could have cheerfully disemboweled any one of them with my bare hands. I still could, especially when I go back and read her words again. Read how wrong I apparently was for feeling so abused. How I was obviously so damaged and deranged because I apparently couldn't let go of my pain.

I hope you still feel guilt for what you did to me. I hope it's burned a comet trail through the sky of your sight. And I hope you cry at night, in the wee and lonely hours, for knowing what you've lost.

I'm a force of fucking nature.
thejunipertree: (Default)
My mind was full of such strange thoughts last night, I could barely contain them. Nothing bad, per se. Just bizarre little musings in my head about my life, recent past relationships, the differences between the then me and the now me, etc. Fun stuff, right? Right.

I suppose it's better when I stand outside on my smoke break and wonder how the fuck Iceman from the X-men comic/Spider Friends cartoon in the 80's coasted on ice to get where he was going. How does the ice fucking stay up? Why doesn't the shit melt? Could he go over the Atlantic Ocean like that?

I need sleep. And a lot of it. heh.

That bizarre little musing also reminded me of an ex-roommate, Demond. Mainly because this one time when he was stoned, he had started laughing at our other roommate, Tony of Destruction, and said, "He thinks he's motherfuckin' ICEMAN an' shit!"

This became a kind of catch phrase amongst the group of us for a time, said when we felt someone was playing the cool game. Or when we just wanted to torture Demond, which was always.

Leaving to drive my mother to chemotherapy in about ten minutes. Today, I don't have to stay there with her as my brother's driving up to meet her there. I drove her home from work on Tuesday and stayed home, thus missing half a day. Therefore, I decided his unemployed ass can take her to chemo today so I don't miss any more time at work.

I hear REM on someone's radio in my office. This is somehow intriguing. It half reminds me of high school, dancing in a playground in the middle of the night with someone's little tape recorder playing this song. And it half reminds me of Richard's father, in a pub with a guitar, leading a rowdy group of drunken rugby players at a bachelor party to sing this song.

I think I thought I saw you cry.
thejunipertree: (Default)
ometimes, when I'm feeling particularly sadistic and blamey, I like to wonder what exactly in my life has been real and what hasn't. It's a wonderful game. And it makes all the many knife wounds in my back and through my heart twist in a remarkable manner.

oh Elise, believe I never wanted this.
I thought this time I'd keep all of my promises.
I thought you were the girl I'd always dreamed about.
But, I let the dream go.
The promises broke.
The make believe ran out.
thejunipertree: (Default)
It has become very obvious to me that love is really only a measure of how much pain a person can inflict upon you. The more you love someone, the more they can hurt you.

And I'm not talking little piddling kind of hurt. I speak of the big pain. Capital P. Wounds. Scars. Crippled fucking hearts. The same kind of pain that left me in a gibbering pile of sobs and snot when I was 17. When I didn't eat for two weeks straight, existing only on cigarettes (THREE packs a day) and pink lemonade. The same hurt that caused me to turn from the one who cared about me the most in this world, turn and ran straight into the arms of another person who would inflict wound upon wound on my already beaten and battered skin.

Thinking back on it now, I was only running because I was wounded. And because I saw the stability that the Cheshire Cat offered me. The stability that scared the shit out of me. I've never been the sort of character who wanted that type of thing. I've always wanted explosion and dum dum bullets riccoheting off the walls. I've wanted an adversary, an equal. Someone who always kept me guessing.

The Cheshire Cat couldn't offer me that, bless his sweet heart. And neither could Richard, though I fooled myself into believing he could. I still don't have it. And that thought leaves me shaking to my very bones because I don't wish to cause the same pain on the Engineer as has been brought onto me.

It would seem that the only people who I've ever truly given myself over to were the ones who inflicted the most soul crushing pain. The liars. The cheaters. The boys who made me feel stupid and worthless. The ones who were light years ahead of me. And when they disappeared for good, I was left on the floor. Bleeding, panting, and broken.

And craving even more.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

A month ago I would have told you that while I was over Richard, I still loved him deeply. Now, after speaking to him at length this week (goddamn you unemployment), he only leaves me cold. Sad that I'm not the same girl who fell in love with him. And disappointed at what he did to me. But still, cold.

There's nothing left in my chest for him. The thought of him doesn't gives me a twinge anymore, except of annoyance at the lies he dropped on my flighty little skull. However, thoughts of the Antichrist will reduce me to a blithering wreck. Memories of Chris will send me into a depression for weeks.

But, the wounds from Richard seem to be closing over. They're not the deep and scarring knife edges that I once thought they were. If this maturity? Or yet another sickness festering away inside the rot I call a brain?

I say it again: What the fuck is wrong with me?

And why am I so scared of stability?
thejunipertree: (Default)
Another cigarette.
With my hood pulled over my face, I am the blind girl. I can sit here and dream of things that never were. Even if I do sincerely remember.


I remember dancing through the streets of London, singing accompianment to him and the passerby amusement. The night sky of Piccadilly Circus was like nothing I'd ever seen before, though at the same time, it remained heartbreakingly familar.

I remember London. It exists, if only inside my head. I echo our words, soft and under breath, from that night.
Oh, give me a home...

London, the bitch queen of cities. Carrie may have her New York City, but my home has always been in London. As much as I hate it now, it still reverberates throughout my skin.

I'd like to think that one day, I'll return to it. See the ravens and the watchtowers. I'd like to think that. But, I doubt it will ever come to pass.

I remember his face, cold and pale. It rose above the collar of his King Mob coat like the waxing moon on a November night. I remember his smile, though I haven't seen it since.

Flash backwards, to a younger girl. A younger time. Everything is green and I sit on a swingset, dragging my feet. He sits by me, whispering little songs that only
my ears can decipher. 'You are written on the underside of my skin', I say to him. Jump frog, jump.

I know somehow that he does not remember this night. No memory of how I sighed and continually turned my face away, so he wouldn't be able to read the desire imprinted upon it. He holds my hand, sometimes. I remember his smile, though I haven't seen it in quite some time.

Flash forward a small bit, one or maybe even two years. We stand on a sand dune, quietly alone with a blanket wrapped round our shoulders. Struck dumb by his senseless beauty and the utterly foreign concept that someone of his stature would be enamoured with small, stunted me.

He speaks of rollarcoasters and butterflies. My stomach ties itself in knots, as his kiss unties my mouth. The sky swirls heady all around me and I want nothing more than for him to devour me.

I remember his smile, though only when I look at his photograph. I'll never see that again, however. He is as lost to me as London and my heart.

The three. My trinity of hopebreakers.

I can only take comfort in the fact that they each, in turn, allowed me to warm my hands and face by their fires.

Even if they didn't know it, they kept me warm. However brief it was. I give them up to the passing of time, the ticking of clocks. And turn myself towards the future. Whatever that may bring.
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)
Last night, I spoke to Pixie on AIM. We were
being girly. Giggling and talking about mushy
heads. Being silly. Things that I don't normally
do with other girls. I've never been someone who
had close girlfriends. I've only one or two.
Now I have a third and this makes me happy.

But, she said something last night which made
me cry. Not because it was mean or hateful, but
because I wanted so badly to make her life
beautiful for her and I know that I can't. It's
not within my power. It's not my story to

She was telling me that I would get what I wanted,
and I was denying it. I asked how she knew.
She said because I wasn't her. And she never gets
what she wants.

So, I cried.

This morning, I spoke to Matthew on AIM. The
two of us are like the walking fucking wounded
right now. Both hurting and hateful and angry.
The Hearse Girl got on a plane last night,
bound for a land that should have mine. That
probably would have been, if I weren't such a

She got on a plane. And I sat here, last night,
with a Jack on ice, wishing that it would go
up in flames. And then feeling terribly guilty
for having such nasty thoughts.

And I cried this morning, as I was talking with
Matthew, when he asked how I was doing. I cried
as I typed and told him about hateful thoughts
and drinking alone.

Everything has begun to hit me. And it's like
a sack of bricks, come down on my head. I thought
that I was okay. I thought that I was coping. I
suppose that's because the fact of what's gone on
wasn't a true reality until yesterday. Or to be
more specific, last week. When I was told that
plane tickets had been gotten and that there was
an actual date of departure.

That was supposed to be my life. And I hate both
of them for it. Something which I've never
admitted to anyone. That I do, in fact, hate them.

I'll never say it out loud, though.

I hate them because I put so much of myself into
something for almost two years. And it was
apparently a futile effort. I hate them because
I tried so goddamn hard to be a good person,
an understanding girl. Only to have the dirt
kicked in my face as I was down. I hate them
because I held hopes. And because I had faith.
And trust, though it is the most difficult thing
in the world for me to trust someone.

I hate them because they hurt me, despite the fact
that it wasn't maliciously or on purpose.

I also hate them because it echoes back to what
I did to the Cheshire Cat, when I left
Philadelphia with my heart in a suitcase. I'm
seeing the repurcussions of my own leaving and
feeling his pain, only now the positions are
reversed and I'm the one who's heartsick.

I hate them because they've shown me exactly how
horrible and unthinking of a person I was.

A month or so ago, the Engineer and I were having
a conversation about what I did. I had made
the comment that what is happening to me must
be the punishment for all my former sins. He
sighed and said "Where's the chaos girl? It's
only a punishment if you want it to be."

Another time, he and I got into an argument
because I've remained friends with Richard. He's
never done such a thing because he feels it only
leads to getting back with the person (by his
personal experience). He said it was unforgivable
what Richard had done to me and what the Hearse
Girl had done to Matthew. He made the comment
that it was something a bad person would do (I'm
roughly paraphrasing here, I don't remember
the exact words).

I sucked in my breath and told him that made me
a bad person because I had done practically the
same thing to the Cheshire Cat. He looked at me
and asked "You're never going to forgive yourself
for that, are you?"

Am I? I don't think so.

He gets upset because I won't always talk about
what's bothering me. Fact of the matter is
(and I write this, knowing full well that he will
read it) that I don't always wish to express
myself. I don't always want to give voice to the
pain in my head, despite the fact that it causes
worry in those who care about me. Sometimes, I
just want to feel the pain for what it is.
Sometimes, I don't know HOW to talk about it. And
sometimes, I just don't feel like talking about
it at all.

Foolish and selfish, I know. I recognise
those two traits in me. I give credit where
credit is due, I would reckon.

I don't want to talk about it because it
makes me feel stupid for having trusted someone
to such a degree. I don't want to talk about it
because I'm tired of hearing how rotten somebody
was to me. I don't want to talk about it because
hearing how rotten somebody was to me makes ME
feel rotten for having done almost the same thing
to someone else. I don't want to talk about it
because I feel pathetic. I don't want pity. I
just want my life to go back to whatever degree
of normalcy I can potentially achieve right now.

This isn't said in anger. I'm just tired of
hurting. I want to heal and be clean again. It's
going to take me quite some time and I can't
promise that I'll be the same girl at the end
of it. I've been burned, quite badly, and fire
always changed what it touches. Sometimes for
the good. Sometimes not.

I'm not always sad. I'm not always the broken
girl, crying her heart out. I can smile, still.
I can find happiness in the things and people
I love. It's just not always going to be a
constant, running pattern. I'm going to be down.
I'm going to be reminded of something from my
past every once in awhile.

I've just come home from a war. Now is the time
for me to build myself back up again. Pixie's
entry in her own journal last night spoke of how
she used to have small wings, but time and people
and circumstances plucked the feathers from them
until there was nothing left but bony nubs. And
how now, she's growing them back to be more
beautiful than they were before. But, it's going
to hurt for a long time as they're reforming.

This is what is happening to me, as well.

I'm growing back my wings.

It's going to take time, patience, and a hell of
a lot of courage. On my part and the parts of
everyone who comes into contact with me.

I can only ask for understanding.
thejunipertree: (Default)
I've made the decision to go back to college.


The idea has been turning over in my head for
quite some time. Way back when, I did attend
school. But, it was art school and a stinky one,
at that. Furthermore, I was tremendously messed
up on various drugs and emotional/mental problems.
So, I wound up dropping out.

Now, I've made the step to go back. Just not
to that school. This one is going to be Mercer
County College in Trenton. Which will be keen
because the Engineer has applied for the bronze
foundry which is up in that city. So, my fears
of not being able to see him as much will be
slightly diminished.

I'm going for mortuary sciences. How very
sp00ky. But, it is something which I have a
great interest in. Especially the restorative
arts part of it.

I'm going to be a mortician. :)

Things have been quiet, for the most part.
Which the exception of me going on profanity
full rants of how much I dislike certain people
whom I have the joy of working with.

Not only that, but the Orphan has not contacted
me in any way, shape, or form since his last
email stating he wasn't contacting me anymore.

B. O. O. H. O. O.

I'm still quite angry over the things which he
said, the things he accused me of. I do not lie.
I am not a liar. If I didn't want to take that
road trip to Wisconsin, then I would have said so.
But, the fact of the matter is that my car was
not repaired in time (the mechanic died). And I
wasn't able to get my license in time. The Wee
One went, despite all of this, catching a ride
with an ex of hers. He didn't want to listen to
any of this. So instead, I was branded a liar.
My scarlet letter to be worn, I suppose. I don't
really care.

I've been feeling strange and out of sorts lately,
which prompts the Engineer to ask me if something
is wrong. He says I look like something is
bothering me. Which something usually is, but it's
rarely, if ever, having anything to do with him.
Things just bother me, I'm too sensitive to
what's around me.

Like last night, I was turning over in my head
something that the Hearse Girl had written in
her Netscrape on AG in response to "Do you have
a webpage?" Her answer was "No, webpages attract
fat chicks."

Which bothers me. Because originally, that's
how Richard and I met. I saw his webpage (taken
from the URL in his .sig on AG) and I emailed
him about it, since there was no guestbook.
And her comment makes me wonder if it was directed
towards me. Or if it was just a usual, snarky
Hearse Girl comment (for which she is known
for). It still bothers me, because it makes me
wonder what he's told her about me.

I shouldn't care. But, I still do. For as much
as I talk about not caring what people say about
me, I still do. It hurts to know that I've been
talked badly about. Especially when I've done
nothing to warrant it. Which, in this case at
least, I haven't.

Oh well. Such is life, I would reckon.


Jul. 12th, 2001 07:04 pm
thejunipertree: (Default)
I forgot the best part...

All of the psycho drama from yesterday?
It happened on the one year anniversary
of me originally being denied entry to the UK.
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.
thejunipertree: (Default)

These feelings twist me up inside.

I've fairly much resigned myself to the fact that
I am indeed losing Richard. I don't hold too
much hope at the moment. Only sometimes does this
bother me, as I've grown so very weary of
fighting what seems to be a losing battle, at its
very best.

Is it beating a dead horse? Or fighting to
survive? I can't tell the difference anymore.
And my heart has been so scattered lately that
I'm unable to pinpoint how I feel about anything.
All I know is that I feel strongly. What I feel
strongly about is anyone's guess. I'm all out
of answers at the moment.


I have fleeting moments of happiness, found in
unexpected places. I'm shocked at the level of
contentment that I've found in these unexpected
places, as well.
Sometimes you meet people that you just *click*
with. I've met one of those people. I wonder if
there is a reason for that? Or if it's just
another event in my life, lying in wait for me
to turn it upside down.

Richard tells me that he loves me. That he'll
never stop. He tells me that he doesn't want to
lose me, always wants me in his life. But, his
words ring so very hollow as of late. And it
pains me to no extent. I try to be cheerful.
I keep the painted smile on under my mask, just
in case it slips. But, it wears on me. More than
I can take? I'm not sure.

It's just so goddamn hard to be hopeful when
I feel as if everything which I've worked for in
the past year and a half is slowly spiraling down
the drain and there isn't a fucking thing I can
do to stop it. Or even if I /want/ to stop it.

I don't know anything anymore. I don't know
what I'm feeling. I don't know how to vocalise
it to anyone around me. I've been hiding from my
friends because it tires me out to continually
put on a show of "I'm not upset. No. Really."

The Goose brings me out of my shell with kind
words and kisses. He helps me. He amazes me.
He quotes the Simpsons and makes me laugh until
I can't breathe. He loves me and I welcome it.
I feel things for him which I'm afraid of putting
into words, for fear it will bring down a mighty
jinx that I am all too familar of.

I think what all of this boils down to is that
I'm afraid. I'm afraid of giving up. I'm afraid
of going on. I'm scared of leaving or staying.

What do you do in a situation like that?

Bury your head in the fucking sand, like I always


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)
(1.) I am trying to put my thoughts into order.

(2.) He hurts me. He makes me feel like what
I want or need doesn't matter to him, because
he doesn't take it into consideration when I say
"If you do *this*, then I'll leave you." He
only offers vague, semi-promises. "I'm not
inclined to do *that*"

(3.) It makes me feel like shit. And then feeling
like shit makes me feel like shit.

(4.) If I could quit being such a jealous bitch...

(5.) Kisses are good. Kisses are god-like. I
want kisses right this second. Kisses which say
a million things without saying a word were on
my mind all day long at work.

(6.) I wonder sometimes if I'm just destined
to be old, alone, and afraid.

(7.) 'Twas brillig. 'Twas brillig. 'Twas brillig.

(8.) I forget what eight was for.

(9.) Ducks are keen. So are geese. One specific
Goose comes to mind.

(10.) "And if I wear Apathy's crown, don't call
me Highness. Cause it's a long way down."

(11.) I wish I had that song on CD, so I could
put it on a mixed tape.

(12.) I'm feeling things right now which I have
no right to be feeling. That's why I don't
vocalise them.

(13.) *sighs*
thejunipertree: (Default)
Richard and I have decided to "see other people".

The kiss of death, if you ask me.

I'm not sure how I feel about all of this, just
yet. He thinks that backing off a bit will help
clear our heads and help us not be so depressed
and miserable all the time. Perhaps it will.
Perhaps it won't.

I'm still convinced that in a few months time,
I'll be nothing more than a painful, sad memory.
Yet another psycho ex who has a hard time
letting go.

I don't really know what to do.

He's also been talking about inviting someone
to stay with him for a bit this summer, so he's
not so lonely. He asked me what I thought I would
do if he "misbehaved". My answer was that I would
forgive him, as I recognise the fact that he's
only human and terribly lonely for human contact.
He told me that he almost wished I'd said I'd
never speak to him again if something like that
happened, as it would stop him from commiting
the actual act for fear of me removing myself
from his life.

This bothers me as I've always felt that in
a relationship, you stayed faithful to the
person not because of fear that would leave you,
not because you didn't want to hurt them, not
because you have respect for them. But, because
you /love/ them.

So, I can't win on anything apparently. Tell
him "Yes, I'd forgive you." as I'm trying to be
a sweet, understanding girlfriend and I get
shafted. Tell him "No, I'd never speak to you
ever again." as a psycho, controlling girlfriend
and I get shafted.


In an email which I received yesterday, he wrote
that since we've made this decision, he feels
a lot better. That before, he felt as if he
were in a room, with a locked door. And now
that the door is unlocked, it makes him happier.
Even if he has no intention of going through
the door or even peeping through it, knowing
that it's unlocked is a benefit.

I don't care for that analogy very much. He
says he's just bad at making analogies and
wasn't saying what he wanted to say correctly.

Not knowing what to think anymore, terribly
confused, and hurting more than I can even
begin to describe. That's me, in a nutshell.
thejunipertree: (Default)
Breathe in.
Rasp out.

Bubble in my chest. Racking old man cough loud
enough to wake the neighbours. If they were still
asleep, that is. Which they shouldn't be. And if
they are, then they're all a bunch of slackers.

Oh, Engineer....?

I'm trying very diligently to not focus on the
conversation which I had with Richard last night.
I'm trying so hard to not remember the twist
my heart did in my chest, the draining drop.
It's such a familiar feeling. I just never thought
that even in a million years he would be the
one causing it.

I try to be a perfect girl. But, I fall terribly
short. Constantly. Always. I try so hard to live
up to peoples' expectations. I do nothing but
land flat on my face.

I'm tired of trying, to be quite honest. And I'm
getting most tired of breathing.

He used to have such different opinions and ideas
about where he wanted this relationship to go.
That's all changed now and he is full of doubt.
When did that happen? And was I so blindly
immersed in my own self-centeredness that I didn't
take notice?

I could kick myself.

My shoulders hurt from coughing.
thejunipertree: (Default)
He kills me.

Over and over and over and over.


This fucking hurts so much.
thejunipertree: (Default)
I'm smoking. Though I know that I shouldn't be.
It would seem that I am in the beginning stages
of bronchitis, though I haven't gone to the
doctor yet to verify this. Fuck it. I'm an addict
and I need my fix.

I've also got a terrible amount of things on my
mind right now. The fear of finally cracking
is ever present, what a surprise.

I'm wavering right now inbetween mania and
depression. The smallest things will set me off
in either direction. Being ill isn't helping
matters any, as I'm already weakened when I'm
in that state. Add on top that I haven't been
eating much over the past few days and it all
sums itself into a neat, little weak package.

I should really go to bed soon, but I truly
can't be bothered.

Richard sent me an email today in reply to
something I'd written to him about me having
to wear masks all the time. About how when I
get depressed and surly with him, that's when
the mask slips. He doesn't understand why I
feel the need to wear one around everyone I know.
Hell, I don't completely understand why I do.
It's mostly just self preservation. Not that
it works, really. But, it gives me the illusion
of safety.

And that's all I truly want. To be safe from
harm. No more pain.

It's so hard to continue in an endeavour when
almost all you feel is pain. It's hard to keep
someone's face in your heart when the memory
of them does nothing but strike daggers. And it's
hard beyond all possible belief when every
breath serves no other purpose other than
drawing pain upon your person.

I'm beginning to feel the run away urge again.
Something which I haven't felt in a long, long
time. Run. Hide. Become a new person. Dissolve
the old. Focus only on the new.

How many more times can I continue that pattern?
I'm so sick of being an ostrich, with my head
in the sand. But, what other alternative is


thejunipertree: (Default)

January 2011

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