I still remember how I was back when I was suicidal. I remember telling my mother that what I had done was selfish. After all, is that not usually the case when it comes to someone who suicides?

“You did not think about us!”

“You did not think about the lives you’d be affecting!”

Looking back though… was it really selfish in my case?

The thing was… I thought about those in my life a lot that point in time. In truth, I thought I was doing them a favor. My mom likely would have said it was a twisted sort of logic. It is logic to the thinker and on some levels to others, but it is completely illogical on the whole. At the time the act was of good intentions, which I guess is why the V-Tech guy’s ramblings seemed to make an odd sort of sense to me.

I had seen my parents’ lives. I had seen what disappointments my siblings were. I had seen the stress, financial issues and all sorts of lovely things. Then there was me (mentally ill and all that junk) who would repeat the process and make their lives even harder.

By then I did not really have any friends. There was Kyle, but around that time he moved. I doubted my lack of presence would affect his life greatly. After all, from what I had seen of life and death… people will mourn for a while, but soon enough, it stops. They move on and almost seem to forget.

Yeah. That is why I went on with it. I did not think I’d be missed. There would be mourning for a time, but I’d be forgotten soon enough.

My parents would have one less kid to worry about, thus less on the finances and emotional rants. They would not have a mentally screwed idiot to deal with. There would be no more having to find me head doctors or pay for medication. They’d have one less thing to be helpless about.

I also remember feeling really bad when my father turned his office into a room for me after I slept on the couch for about two years. It was his office. It was his refuge. He did not need to give it to me. He needed an escape more than I did, I believe.

Why am I talking about an office? I had sent Shred an email a bit after I gulped down all my meds. It was a sort of will. In it I mentioned my dad getting his office back.

So, I wonder… were all those thoughts really selfish? Who knows… perhaps there was an underlying selfishness?

I know what helped lead into such a decision. Some would assume it was to stop the pain. It was to gain control. Shit like that. The thing was that did not really come to mind with me.

I think… back then, I lacked most of my soul. I mean, even after I took the meds, I did not regret. I just hugged my parents good night so it could not be said that they never got a goodbye. It was something of a comfort. Often one reads that once a person dies, the person left behinds regrets not giving the deceased a hug when they could have during the last time they saw each other. Therefore, I bid them farewell with a hug and the words “I love you”. I remember lying down and I had my cat near me. I still did not regret. I just waited.

So, what does this have to do with the lacking of a soul? I think it is the soul that keeps a person living. I was already dying in that department. How did I know that? I think I just knew.

I still wonder this. It is how I saw life at the time. “Clockwork”, “doll”, “music box”… I was life without a soul. I saw my life to be that way. It was like I was a robot, doll, puppet, or maybe a zombie even.

I’d wake up, eat, go to school, do work, maybe eat lunch, work more, got home, do more work, eat, shower and go to sleep. The next day would be the same. The weeks would be the same. The months and eventually the years… it was all like clockwork. What was the point then? If that was my life, what was the point? The cycle would carry on and then I would die.

Some people looking for meaning in life, some try to leave behind a sort of legacy… the thing is, nothing lasts forever. Look at history. Look at the Bible. Archeologists will dig up so much, and yet it is only a handful of the different time periods they stumble upon. Recorded texts are translated into different languages and lose some of their meanings or are overall edited until they no longer resemble what they once were. Historians look back, but they only get to the surface… I’m supposed to give a damn about leaving behind something that can be warped over time if it even lasts? Right.

Well, what about the people who know me? Eternal life if anything is achieved by living in the hearts and memories of others. That is just it though. Those are memories. Even more, they are memories created from the views of other people. After all, what is real when people will remember things about you that you do not even remember yourself? Most of all, if you do not even know who you are, you hide away your self, and all the jazz… Then the only memory others have is a lie.

Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust.

What did I have to share? The world through my glasses was just an inevitable void. What was the point in living when inside you are dead? It seemed very much like being a vegetable without anyone even knowing. That in itself is even more pathetic… to know your existence is all based on just your physical presence.

So… I have to say… when I found myself still alive in the hospital… I still did not regret the suicide attempt. I did learn something from it though. I did find regret from it though. What was it?

I learned I apparently mattered to my parents.
I regretted that they ended up hurting because of it.

I never meant to hurt them. That was the last thing on my mind… that it would hurt them so much.

I wonder if that is what makes life precious… not knowing how others affect you, but how you affect them. I did not know. I know now. I do not think I quite understand even after all this time, but I think I’m getting there. Now that I know, I silently promised I’d never put either of them through that again.

Still though… I cannot help but question… were my reasons at the time actually selfish? I really don’t know.

A day after writing the above, I relayed it a bit to my mother. After doing my best at explaining off the top of my head, I asked her if I was being selfish. Alas, she never gave a clear answer. All I did find out was that the talk made her sad. I wondered if it was because of my thought process is the way it is and she would not be able to change it or my inability to understand emotions like most people. It seems that she was sad by my words because of how she could have lost me.

The sad/pathetic thing is that I do not really get that in any way other than logically. That leads to the other things noted. She said it was likely due to my schizoid side… or perhaps a bit from the Aspergers even… Maybe it is both or the little of one and mainly the other. I can only take her word for it.

One might question, “Jeez! Does this person have any emotions at all? Does this idiot even care about the parents mentioned in this journal?”

I’d have to say, I do on both of those accounts. While I am uncertain about many things, I know I care about my parents. Heck, if I worry about anything it is them. However… There are just things I do not process correctly if at all.

Heh…

In the conversation, there came the mentioning of giving and taking. My mom mentioned something about me feeling guilt being the reason. I noted it was perhaps a small part, but it certainly was not the core reason. I think it can be established that the guilt part was the belief of being a burden to my parents.

Mom said… that I took less than any of my siblings. The thing she asserted though… was that I gave more than I realized. Apparently I still don’t realize. I’m sure she gave something of an example, but it did not compute apparently.

All I know is that not long after that noting, I remarked that in an alternate universe, where I had died rather than lived… she never would have known what she was missing to begin with and would not have mourned the loss since it would not have been there to begin with.

I tried explaining the clockwork, which is something I have noted to her many times when depressions hit, and the soul being dead. She asked me if I thought my soul was dead back then. I told her it had been dying. It had not died completely… It had been wasting away, I believe.

After all, when there is no will, no strive, no interest in life… When not even your instincts care to save the body… How is there a soul? Looking at my state at the time… I think it was dying. I think what it functioned on was anger and pain. Even more… I believe that is what helped weaken it. A flame will eventually burn itself out. I think that was my soul… just burning out…

I thought I saw my soul once even… in a human shape that was deep within myself. I’ve described the scenario before. In fact, I think I told my mom about it. I doubt she remembers though. I wrote it out to keep it lucid should I forget it over time.

“It was nice to be alone in her solitude. Turning on a soft light she sighed and let her mind just stop. The light was warm.

A cold sensation overcame her body. She couldn’t see. Their blinding black depths were as if her eyes, themselves, had gotten lost in the darkness. A decayed scent entered her senses and she was in a dark and gloomy foreign place. The place reeked of the smell of wet fungus. A specter of dim light could be seen lazily scattered here and there. It was so dim you’d think the light itself was terrified to trespass in this depressing dwelling.

Where was she? And how did she come to such an ominous place? She looked about troubled. Stepping forward she decided to see if there was a way out of this dungeon-like wretchedness. But as her walking progressed a sound could be heard. Someone was in there with her. The shallow breaths were evident.

Her eyes finally focused to the badly lit place and it was before her she saw a figure hanging limply. The person’s wrists were bound together in tight shackles that cut through the raw skin. From them the, she assumed to be, man was suspended up vertically. Hanging there was a man unlike any she had seen before dangling motionless.

He was a skeleton with how his skin was thinly stretched forcefully over his bones. His whole body was so thin and delicate it was appalling to look at. He had not seen the light of day for a long time for his skin had a gray-green tint. His black hair was already streaked with silver strands. His head hung down to where his chin touched his chest so she had no clue to who this poor man was. Advancing closer she looked at him with pity.

Unfortunate soul.

Edging closer she was surprised when the stranger swiftly lifted his head and looked up at her. It was not a man who had been imprisoned there, but a woman. And it was not just any woman. Her eyes didn’t see the sunken cheeks or the tightly expanded skin that covered the skull-like face. The dark woman was paralyzed mind and body at the sight she beheld. What she saw were the unearthly eyes that stared deep into her own. No, it was not just any woman… It was herself!

She couldn’t breathe! Jerking forward she sat completely upright in her chair. Her chest heaved up and down anxiously and her whole body was shaking like a leaf in a deadening autumn. After some minutes passed she finally managed to regain control and calmed her trembling form down.

What the hell had happened? She was still taking long deep breaths but the shaking had finally ceased. Her hands roughly kept rubbing up and down her tense arms. Finally calm she experienced a few shudders but all in all she was out of her shock.

‘You are broken…’

Her eyes widened. Where did that come from? Furrowing her brow she sighed.

Shaking her head a bit she arose from her seat. She was back in her room with the soft light of the small lamp. But what was that? She hadn’t fallen asleep. She didn’t go unconscious… It couldn’t have been a nightmare. A vision? No, couldn’t have been. The place was real. She felt, smelt, heard, tasted, and saw it. But… she hadn’t even left her room… Had she?”

I probably slipped into a dream in all logics, but at the time it was too real for me to be certain of the differentiations. Also my psyche might have been crazed enough no longer tell what was “real” and what “wasn’t”.

That was how it happened though… even when I close my eyes I can still see the dim light filtering and the musty air dancing about across one’s vision because it was so dust ridden… almost… fog like.
I remember how my heart was racing when I was no longer in that place, how my brow was covered in sweat and I was breathing harshly as though I had run a marathon. I had been shaking uncontrollably for what seemed like forever…

And as noted in the recollection… when I was about to leave the room… that phrase went through my head without consciousness. It was like hearing someone else say it… it was never expected… Solemn.

I felt damn certain I had met my soul back then. It was in there, in me, somewhere… so deep and dark… a basement where things were hidden to die, rot and diminish…

Yet somehow, I was there for a moment in time… and my soul was silently screaming.

Sigh. Then a few more years passed. My soul stopped screaming. It eventually stopped caring too. With it left the internal wiring that makes the body fight to live… survival.

With no soul… why does the body need to live?

I think that is why I felt no concern when I took the pills. I think that is why I did not feel regret when they were in my system. I guess that is why I could lay down so calmly. I guess that is why I was not struck with a sudden change in perspective when I woke up and found myself to still be alive.

Well, even though I am pretty sure I still consider that to be logical… I’m in a different scenario now. For one, my soul is not dead. It is not dying. I don’t think it needs life support. It still does not really strive or anything… but if it ever did, I would probably be freaked out anyway. Secondly, for some reason I matter to some people. I still think they would get over me in due time if I ever died, but… knowing they want me here makes the difference. Back then, I have to admit… I really did not think they would need me… I really didn’t.

Heh… I tell them I am stupid. That is just another example to prove it. Perhaps obtuse would work?

I’ve often had times where I’d pass by a mirror and suddenly be surprised. What? It is just my reflection. Do I simply avoid looking in them? No. I look everyday. I guess don’t focus I suppose.

It happened again tonight (August 31). I was stopping by the bathroom and suddenly caught sight of myself. I was somewhat… bewildered I guess would be the word. It was like I did not expect to see myself. It was a, “Oh, yeah… that person is me. That is me in existence.”

Now, when I asked my mom if she ever underwent such a feeling, she thought I was lacking much sleep, which I am, but I just can’t fall asleep no matter how long I lay down. Anyway, I left after that disheartening response.

Despite that when I went to my room the phrase “a dream within a dream” kept popping into my subconscious.  I soon enough ask my mother if she knew of the thought of whether a person exists or really is just the dream of another, reality and all that junk. She seemed to understand better, but I doubt she grasped what I was trying to get at.

Then… Bam. The realization finally settled in when I sat down and snacked on some chips. I really did not expect my body to be there. I live too much in mental view rather than conscious physical view. I usually just observe and think. I read, watch and hear things… and while there are feelings, it does not connect with my body so easily. The feeling is deeper, like the soul or spirit. It is all… mental… intangible.

 Then every once in a while… I guess I forget myself in physical form. I forget my body as being an identifier as to who I am in reality. So when I noticed my reflection tonight… it was a jolt. I recalled I am in more realities than just my own, I guess?

I wonder if that is my reality. A reality of merely souls touching souls… Maybe that is why, when I look at people… I feel little association. I know better, but I really don’t feel it. I don’t realize my corporeal form… so I have trouble relating to theirs…

Heh. Even on the ‘net… I have trouble relating to people. I prefer just reading thoughts, ideas and the like… but when it becomes too human… I feel alien.

Yeah… it has been going on for a while. I’ve notice manga has started to depress me a bit the more I read it. There are places that scanlate unlicensed manga even. At a board I go to, there is a separate entity of the site for such a thing. People can comment on the scans. I know I don’t have to read them, but the comments are there. They make me sick. Their minds and views of the world make me sick. I read things… watch shows… The things humans do, the ignorance, the knowledge, the usage of such things… my god…

Is there any depth? Any depth at all?

I wonder if I am being too “Holier than thou”… I hope not. I do not wish to be… but… damn. Humans make this world one damn depressing place. I like the world. I love our cats. I like watching animals, seeing nature, hearing music and all that…

However… all the fakeness in the human society, the fear, the hate and so many other things… I only shake my head at the thought. It depresses me.

“Where’s the killing? There needs to be more action!” – comment on a manga that doesn’t stay vapid.

“I wish I was old enough to be in the army! I’d get some guns and blow them all to pieces!” – idiot classmate claiming he’d be a war hero after the fall of the world trade center.

“Look at that face! He’s a goddamn thug! I know it!” – basing on looks and not the soul.

“You are such a fag. That is so gay.” –needing to seem superior, cool and all that shit.

“Attachment disorder, PTSD, and all of those disorders caused by abuse, rape, neglect…” –humans turning on others and fucking the future of mankind over even more.

 

 

Sigh…

Heh… back on the previous topic, I remember my dreams. If people look at my life in physical sense… it is likely boring as hell. To me… I’m a pretty damn fine with it. I dream a lot. I’m not talking about day dreaming or anything. I certainly do not aspire. I mean the nighttime dreams.

I think I live more in my dreams than in my wake. They aren’t exciting or anything… and they certainly are not ideal, fantasy shit… but… I feel more alive in the dreaming than in this at times. I live more in my mind than I do in the physical world.

A part of me wonders if that is just running away from reality… but the thing is… reality is just a figment in itself. I merely do not accept/see reality like others do… it is not even a conscious thing. I only realized it tonight…

Hm… I guess that is all. Yeah.

I thought that today, August 27. I have been reading a Chicken Soup book off and on as of late. It was my sister’s. I think that is what helped this revelation out of my head. The last story I read before typing this was about a man who learned from a friend to simply listen. Through that he learned how to approach people – really approach people. The moral of the story, I cannot say, since my mind is not completely reliable, but…

Anyway, I thought of how many people I speak to. It is not many. Even after that inspirational story, I still did not care to talk to people. Despite that, I thought about how I’d likely ask a person telling a story to write it down for me since when it comes to remembering things… I wish for it to remain as clear as the day it occurred.

From that came the remembrance of my mother. She often relates stories to me. She related one from a girl who does her nails. It was about getting out of Vietnam, I believe. It was not the simple board a plane and go off to America. No the woman recollected from a time when she was but a child. It was the case of escaping by cramming a million people in a small boat, sailing for who knows how long without food or water and then worrying about making it to land and being able to actually stay there. They ended up in Malaysia I think. Stayed there, limited living and years of trying to get shipped off to America where they had family residing. There is much more to it, but this is about my mom being my preacher.

So, it has been established that if anyone, I talk to my mother the most or at least most of my communication deals with her. Over time I’ve talked to her about insecurities, uncertainties, lack of understandings and then just plain experiences, thoughts and often just “rubbish”. I realized I look to her like a guide. I look to her for reassurance.

Most people would say, “Is that not what a parent is supposed to be to their kids?” That is not always the case though. I think what makes my mom different is the fact that she makes me think and notice things. Perhaps it is due to her being my connection to the world.

The things she tells me tend to open my eyes once in a while sort of like how a preacher will use stories that occur recently in life to open up churchgoers’ eyes as he gives his sermon. Usually the things she tells are ones that opened up her eyes and she shares the lesson, I suppose.

What really made the thought come alive, however, was simply recollecting that trip from two weeks ago. I often feel uncertain about my lack of sympathy and empathy. Intellectually I know what I should be feeling. I have my morals, so when I am in a situation where I find myself not reacting the way I expect I should uneasiness creeps in. “What is wrong with me?” I would often think. I believe I often questioned if I was a bad person.

That trip, while we were eating, I told her I know I am grateful for things. The thing was, I never really feel it. It is more like a mathematical equation or science conclusion. I have seen, read, heard and understood things that occur outside my small world. I stop and think of how lucky I am. The thing is… I don’t feel the emotion. It is just a mental note, an observation. My mother reminded me about my Asperger’s though. She understood.

That of course sparked the thought. At the same time, it reminded me how she is the devoted Christian of the house. She goes once a week, says her prayers each morning and the like. The rest of us are not so religious. When I see things on the net where people declare atheism or Christianity… I thought, “I lack religion. Despite that, I’m not really an atheist.” Looking at the thought though… I get the feeling that my mom connects me to religion.

She knows I’m not religious, but she also knows I have a sense of spirituality and belief. I know I’ve done my searching. I did all of that in middle school. In the end, I saw all religions the same. At least, they all have the same point of worth. While most people today would say that gods don’t exist and that it is just a fabricated tale to make people feel better… I think religion has some truth to it.

I don’t have a god to follow, but I believe something is out there. I think there is something more powerful than just this existence of ours. I just cannot see it in form of anything that should be conceivable to a human. Thus, I just say, “There is something out there.”

In turn, I do think religion is a form of self-comfort. Despite that, it is also a way to invoke a sense of understanding and when done right, a sense of humbleness. Sadly, most people use it for self-righteousness and in the end all beliefs using a god or gods will end with everyone going to hell according to this or that side.

Therefore… look at the core. All of them think there is something there. For my mom it is God in Christianity. I’ll give a nod to that.

Soul searching… I think I have no need for soul searching. I sort of stopped a long time ago, but it is just recently did I realize I knew who I was. It was not something I dwelt on. I just suddenly thought, “I know myself.”

This thought just popped in my head during that trip my mom and I went on Saturday (August 18) afternoon. I told my mother that revelation. She asked me who I was then. The problem was I could not really explain it. All I could say was “I’m me.” It reminded me when I told Shred the phrase “Kyle is Kyle.” I think that is when I really began to have a sense of self.

Anyway, what does that mean then? It means there is actual uniqueness in the world. In the end, to outward views, you can be everything, thus nothing. How is that? Opinions cancel each other out. To one person I might be boring. To another I am interesting. Those cancel out. In the end, you can be everything and thus nothing. This leads to why I think I found myself quicker than most people.

I recall my mother telling me her sense of self had depended on her profession. Not those exact words, but that was what I got from it. Before we had moved to the town I lived in before moving here, she had a name for herself.

We had lived in Alaska. She was a teacher there, well known and admired. She had friends there, a life. When we moved, she went into a slump and was depressed for a year. She had to wait for when a job opportunity would show up. She knew no one. She lost her sense of identity.

When she first told me that story I looked at her and said that I did not understand why people placed so much of their identity on their professions. She asked me what I thought defined a person. I told her the decisions I make and the company I keep. I don’t remember her response to that.

Well, the case of that trip down memory lane is… people can spend their whole lives looking for themselves out in the world. That makes little sense to me. You are within yourself. You are not in another person nor are you on the other side of the world where people seem to be from a different planet.

A person’s identity is simply him or herself. Some people think they find themselves by meeting other people and seeing new places. It expands one’s self, but it does not make a person find him or herself, I think. Doing those things simply absorb other people. It absorbs experiences. It absorbs some wisdom is used correctly… but it still does not mean the person fund true identity. It merely shows the person who he or she identifies with.

Take away everything – the people, the places, the experiences. Take away the aliases and the different personas. Then simply look inside. All there is is you and all those things you took away merely helped shape or express you… but none of those things are really your self. They are just facets. Put together they help define you… but they are not your soul.

What your self is… is a soul that embellishes itself in experiences that are brought together. Some are shared or similar to others… but how you underwent them and the combination of other experiences that are similar to a different person’s is what makes a person unique. A life that is actually like a structure of DNA… you can have many experiences similar to others… but none of them will be the exact same.

I am me… and I did not need to look for myself out in the world, because I am simply within myself.

For the past couple of days I have been listening to a CD that gives memory to my summer in 2003. By four yesterday afternoon, I decided to pick up my copy of Good Omens. I could not really remember it anymore other than a cool character called Crowley and the coming of Armageddon. I first read the book during that summer and listening to that CD.

While some people try to recapture times, I cannot say I was doing that. I thought it was the best of time to reread the book though. Why? Because I remembered so little of it… so little that even when I reread it tonight, most of it was almost new to me.

Well, that was good, right? Able to recapture the magic of following a story you already knew you loved, right?

No. Not really.

I learned a long time ago that a person can reenact old memories, but they will never be the same. A memory is just that. It is a memory. Perhaps it is not that time heals all wounds or that it makes people forget. It is all in perspectives.

People can remember. They just need small nudges. I know that is my case anyway. People who suffer trauma do not necessarily forget when they say they don’t remember…. Usually that is repressed memories… a coping/protection mechanism. Even those with amnesia or Alzheimer’s… I think there is great likelihood that the person has never lost or forgot a memory… The codes to accessing them have just been jumbled and thus requires new routes not yet discovered.

Again… it is all perspectives. Everyone part of a single event will remember it differently due to how their unique senses react. Memories are mainly recalled through feelings in my case. Due to that, importance all lies in what my emotions consider important, I believe.

When younger, when angrier, pained, and lacking in medication… I could have told you every bad occurrence that had befallen me, remembered the face of the person who helped cause it, what happened, where and my exact feelings that day…

If asked now… I would not be able to say. It is all generalized now. I don’t feel the pain, anger, hatred or whatever… maybe if someone pulled a trigger, I would recall in clarity… but… Much of it is a blur. The anger has been watered down and since the emotion is not as potent, the memory is not either.

That is a good thing though. Memories are like aged wine. It can be all the sweeter or bitter. I’m pretty sure my bad memories were all fueled into being much worse than they truly are – at least to my standards of today. The same goes with the good. I have had my few precious memories… but I know to try to recapture them will not occur. I have a different mind.

The summer of 2003… It was spent at the Gulf. I had not been there since I was in around… maybe second or third grade. My memory of that childhood year was almost what one would call “magical”. It is the best memory I have ever had and likely always will be because it is so old and so treasured.

Seven or so years had passed. I was no longer that little kid anymore. The place was still lovely, yes… but… it did not hold my interest. I was not the spirited swimmer like I was as a child – a fish in water as some called me. I was not one for heat or the bright sunlight anymore. Fireworks no longer inspired me. I did not care for the sea anymore – mainly due to OCD.

Instead that year, it was mere relaxing. I listened to my CDs. I drew a few pictures. I wrote journal entries. I sat and enjoyed the sea air and tropical breezes. I took walks along the beach when the moon was out. I read books. Good Omens was one of them. I remembered enjoying it immensely.

Tonight… it was just another book. Enjoyable, yes… but… it stirred little out of me. Sure, I did not remember any of it to be able to truly predict anything… but… it just did not give the same feeling it did the first time I read it. I figure… it is all perspectives again. I know once upon a time it was exactly what I needed. It was my exact sort of humor… but… while at times I laughed… it was far sparser, and I was in no hurry due to anticipation. I guess that is why I rarely reread any of my books unless I know the feeling will last or be once more inspired the second time.

No expectations. Just take things as they come…

It seems the topic of change is still on hand. I spoke with my mother when grocery shopping on Saturday.

I’ve noticed how when I look back to my elementary school days that there were moments I had no control due to my emotions/mania. I mean… NO control. This was noted when we were grocery shopping earlier and kept passing this loud woman who seemed to be on a mania high.

I told my mother something… either that I hoped I never was as bad as her or asking if I had been. I recalled my times of mania and told Mom about how during them I knew better. I knew what I was doing, but I could not stop myself. Looking back on those times, it embarrasses me in some cases, but I also remember that I really had no control.

I was melodramatic, made huge deals over little things, was loud and could not contain myself even when a teacher would give me a look back then when I would become manic. Whenever I was not, I remember just being quiet, kept to myself or just followed along with the three girls mentioned in the previous entry.

I later talked about the girls mentioned in my last entry to my mother while doing some errands later on in the day… I realized then that… Well… I am just now beginning to be myself now.

After taking a good hard look on my past… My elementary school days… If I had no control over myself back then… I never truly was myself at that time, was I? I also remembered how Shred once said I was interesting to him when we first got to know each other because my moods were unpredictable. I met him in middle school and that was when my mania started to have depression counter it.

So, elementary school was mainly mania and calm. Middle school was mania, calm and irritability/depression. Eventually it was calm and irritability/depression.

Thinking of that saddened me too. “I never knew what sort of mood you’d be in the next time I’d see you.” I never knew then either. Was it really me at that time either then? Did that mean not even Shred really knew me? Sure, he knows my thoughts, my mannerisms and the like… but… everything presented in physical life… was it all an illusion as well?

I no longer worry much about mania. The only way I show it is in my few obsessive periods. All that happens there is intense focus on some sort of project or activity that starts with a bang and soon wears away. The analogy would be a sugar rush. Some people can eat a lot of sugar and get a huge sugar rush, but it does not last long.

Other traits are just talking too much. I’ll talk fast, likely go in circles. Those usually happen when I am loopy or excited by a discovery though. I can usually tell that I’m talking a mile a minute and note such while discussing to someone. It is solved usually by laying down.

Depression… this entry would likely have depressed me when younger. I likely would have felt very paranoid as well about true friendship/relationships and questioned my identity and all that crap. I don’t seem to get depressed all that much anymore… if ever. The only thing that starts up that is when I undergo stress for too long.

When I am undergoing too much stress at once rather than progressively though, is when I am irritable. I still have bouts f irritability. They don’t occur that often either. They pop up less than the faint signs of mania even. I’ll curse and such, last time I fisted the desk I was in front of and growled a ton… but that was a while ago. I was able to calm myself down half the time when focused enough.

For the most part, though… I am calm. I love it. I admit I am not emotional like I used to be. I don’t think a mile a minute anymore. I’m likely quite dull… but after so many years of intensity… the calm is welcomed greatly.

I drew a picture due to all of this. I suppose one could call it a self portrait. It is not a realistic one; for once I drew myself as I usually draw anything else. This time it was in pen. It is my body from the waist up. I colored my hair, skin and eyes blue. It looks like I am shedding of petals. The layer closest to my skin is a dark, possibly navy, blue. I had in mind for it to be black, but such a wish was not a possibility. So it is half black and half blue, I suppose. The second layer is white, but is shaded in light blues.

Shred would likely understand the choice of coloring to some extent. It also… somewhat puts a song I like into a new perspective. “Bright to black and blue.”

The first layer had been white. White… innocence, childhood… and mania that I mistook to be my moments of feeling happy.

By middle school that layer began to shed.

The second layer was black, or in this case a blackish blue. Paranoid, adolescence… and an uncontrollable depression that had lingering rage or irritability.

In the center is my new layer of skin that is still attached to me. It is blue. Calm, adulthood… and I have never been so content in my entire life.

It makes me wonder… if I finally started to be able to be myself after I left my old town. It was then when all the stressors in my life suddenly stopped. No school, no people outside the home… just stayed in the house and did chores. I began to be medicated correctly at the time as well. I stopped clinging to old friendships that died when I entered middle school. I no longer dealt with my sister… et cetera.

I remember when I was in my black mode I missed my childhood in elementary school. I look at that time now though… I feel no nostalgia like those girls likely do. The girl who is now a masseuse misses the manic counterpart of mine. I cannot say I do. In truth, I feel a bit detached from my past… because I don’t even related deeply with my childhood self anymore.

Was that really happiness I felt then? Were those girls really my friends or were they friends to the imbalance of chemicals in my head? Heh… Writing that suddenly reminded me of the word I often used when in middle school. “Doll”.

I guess that is it then. My youth was a shell. I left my cocoon? No… Something tells me it was never a cocoon. I never transformed. I simply woke up. I guess the egg came before the chicken. It took me twenty years to break the damn shell.

Mom’s ankle seems to be getting better despite it still looks oddly swollen. Yes, “oddly”. I’m not getting into it.

This week is sort of an off week. I have not been on the computer much. Instead I have been reading books that I purchased not too long ago and received recently. I also had some movies as well. Other than a movie and the waiting period for a tape I ordered, all has been successfully viewed or read.

Yesterday I updated the pages on my site that can actually be updated. The entire story on my “Touch” page is finally up. I guess I’ll be working on putting up the Gallery section now. That will be a doozy. Why? Embarrassing first drafts. Oh well. It is mine.

RIA still has a ways to go… about 45 more Microsoft Word pages. It is amusing to read my previous “essays” and rants. As the page says, I am a dumb ass.

Then there is my blog… this lovely blog. I updated it to the latest version last night. I had no idea I’d lose the entire theme I had. Well, I was not in the mood to redo the damn thing, and settled for a theme already available. It suits me for the most part. I edited it some, but it is overall the same.

Oh, yeah…

Recently my brother was contacted by a childhood friend of mine who I had last truly seen in sixth grade. It was a while ago did I learn her profession… a masseuse. I never predicted what she would ever be as an adult, but I never thought of her giving people massages as her profession.

I looked her up on MySpace since that is how my brother encountered her. It was not much help, but hey, it might just be the fact that I am not going to join the damn site just to look up about a person. Yeah, I’m not so interested in talking, just seeing that the person is doing fine in life or not.

I decided to look up on two other girls of my youth. One is apparently pregnant and will possibly have a Sagittarius baby by the looks of it – if not that, a Capricorn. She’s in college and seems relatively happy. She seems more mature than the last time I saw her. That relieves me.

Her sister is another story. She seems to be quite the same as the last time I saw her. Pretty much, a person I’d avoid. Mean, perhaps… but I just cannot relate to her at all anymore. Her entire page was full of cursing. She talked about liking to party, drink and all that crap.

Yeah, some people would think I’m a goody-two-shoes… Maybe I am… but damn… that stuff never interested me. I find it a turn off. She just seems to be unsatisfied with her life. Then again, this is all speculation based on how she is presenting herself on a mere page. What do I know?

One thing I really think of though is when my brother told me the first girl mentioned said she missed me. The moment hearing that I felt somewhat touched. Later did I sigh. Yes… she missed me. She missed a “me” from childhood. I had asked my bother if I had changed much. He said she had. I know those other girls had. So, had I? He said not really. I am just more mature… so I guess all that has really happened to me is that I have gotten some wisdom in time?

I remember seeing the others as having changed. I never did quite see myself as one who changed. They said I had. I suppose in all the things that mattered to them, I had. I was no longer the manic, smiley person they knew in elementary school.

Despite that, I never joined into cliques, changed myself to fit in, et cetera. I did not start acting like I was an idiot and let my grades fall. I did not try to act badass, cuss every other word in my sentences and feel the need to get drunk, party and have sex early.

When they drifted off, I had no one to hang out with. I did not join a clique because I had nothing in common with them… I was not interested in the media, rappers and all that crap. I did not need some woman strutting around in barely any clothes and belting out whatever manufactured tune she had at the time as a role model.

I was lucky to meet Shred during that time.

Anyway, the point in hand is… they missed me… but it is a memory of me that they miss. They don’t miss the person I am now. They miss the kid from elementary school who played with them, compared homework answers with them, talked on the phone with them, visited them at their houses, and actually related to them.

They don’t miss this jaded, dry loner. They don’t miss this person who dislikes going out, interacting much and talking on phones. They don’t miss the “me” of today. I was just as serious as a kid as I am now, but I was more passionate around them instead of cynical. I also had my bouts of goofiness because of mania. Was I a happy person? I do not really know… it all could have been an imbalance of my brain. I was a loner then as well… I am just more of one now. I guess the thing that changed about me is that my traits magnified as I developed.

I miss them too. However… I know that I miss the three girls of my elementary school days. I miss the sisters who were sweet, tried hard in school, did not talk smut, and did not become another cookie cutter person who followed the crowd. The girl mentioned before them, I have no idea who she is now. I did not see her evolve really. She was the first to break away from our elementary school group. I never had to see her change.

Anyway, that is all I really have to say on that. Today is Friday and my dad should be coming down today. My mom said he should be here around two or so. I hope his trip is decent. He should be able to retire for good by the first of October.

His birthday is coming up on the 25^th. I have an idea for a gift, but do not have all the kinks smoothed yet. I hope it works out.

Nothing else comes to mind.

Despite I keep quite a distance from the world, I still tend to be informed from time to time through my mother. Now, while this occurrence came to be on April 16, 2007… I did have my thoughts about it. I decided not to write them though. I believe it was paranoia and all that jazz. Well, to the world, it is no longer thought of except those who were truly affected.

Well, while my thoughts are no longer fresh on the topic and my memory is fuzzy on all the fine points, I remember this: I could relate to the nut job. When I looked up the information on him… what I saw… it reminded me of my middle school years actually. The main difference between him and me other than gender and the age all the internal bullshit began to surface… is that I went farther inward while he went outward.

I remember watching some clip on the news… things the guy wrote and said were spoken of and an analyst said everything was incoherent and pretty much made absolutely no sense… in other words they were just ramblings of a mad man. When I saw that, I could not help but snort, shake my head and see the analyst to be an utter dumb ass. Why? I understood exactly what the shooter was talking about.

What was all of it about? The nut was doing the “wipe out all and no more pain will be left because there will be no one else to cause it” thing. Maybe it was the wealthy who were his main tormentors, but in my view… it was merely people he came to believe thought themselves better than he.

Spectators began talking about the ability to hold fire arms and such. Whether a person can access a gun or not had little to do with this. People automatically thought the kid was just insane or the like. Well, I don’t think whether a person has access to weaponry or not has anything to do with the issue. That is just a quick solution. It only skims the surface and not the core problem.

When I learned about his childhood, school life and heard and read his words… all I thought was… “I understand that”. I read somewhere he was made fun of a lot in class. It made me reminisce as well. He merely stopped talking. I merely had thoughts about getting rid of my “issues” in more drastic measures.

I did not stop taking like he did. I went to speech therapy and while I learned to speak properly, I certainly lost self esteem. There were other issues I had… ones that caused me to wish to have my legs amputated just because of how cruel my peers could be.

It was said that the shooter was speculated to be mentally ill and thought to be mute. I never talked until I was three or four and I was quiet. I’m mentally ill. Heh. He was considered cold, quiet and well-behaved otherwise. Me? I was a loner, quiet, and well-behaved.

He seemed fine in elementary school. I was the same. It was middle school and high school that are the changing points, as many will tell you. Many will say that middle school is the lowest part of hell and that high school is the level just about it. I would say that is damn well true in my experience.

It seems the nut was picked on for his shyness and “unusual speech patterns”. Things like people offering him money just to hear him talk, others telling him to “go back to China” since he couldn’t speak American well, the teachers not being sympathetic… they all made me think of my time in school.

There was talk about his peers recalling rumors about a “hit list”. While he may or may not have had one at the time… it reminded me of rumors and jokes said about me of similar topics. There were rumors that I could beat up the football team, I would be the next American Psycho, and I even remember a rumor about a hit list regarding me as well. All of those were false of course… even the predilection.

It also got my attention when there was talk about him possibly being autistic and about hospitals… again I could not help but look at myself. Could that have been the fine line between us? I really don’t know… and truthfully, I lean towards the side of “No”. I’m looking at the time before I was diagnosed correctly and was medicated with medication that was not going to make my mental illness worse… I’m thinking of the time… when I was just like the shooter in terms of mental waves and emotional turmoil.

Ah right… I remember reading about one of his professors removing him from her class. She saw he had issues, had a “mean streak” and all that junk. Then when the shootings had occurred she said it did not surprise her and she automatically knew it had to be him. See that, you dumb-fuck? Woman, you just prove my point. People see they just don’t care.

Well, okay, that is not my point. But really, they tried to blame it on fire arms. Yeah, right. The problem deals in the schools, the scenarios, the life and the effect others have on people.

Do they have any idea how painful school life can be? From middle school to high school you are awkward, lost, angry, driven by hormones, depressed, paranoid and all that shit because of your very peers.

Teachers don’t notice and if they do they usually do nothing. If they try to do something they cannot control it. I had teachers once in a blue moon who tried to help me against my peers, but they never could fix the issue. The kids kept at it and I endured the crap.

“We were just having fun”, “I did not think you’d take it so personally”, “I was picked on and I did not end up hurting/killing other people or commit suicide”… Yeah, well that is you, dumb ass. Some people have mental problems; some people internalize things; some people have a shitty life where no one will listen no matter how much they scream; some people cannot even find their voice and are locked within themselves; some people live in hell and their peers just add on to the flames! Ever think of that?

Of course not.

I remember the video… A quote? I’ll Google…

Ah.

“Do you know what it feels to be spit on your face and to have trash shoved down your throat? Do you know what it feels like to dig your own grave? Do you know what it feels like to have your throat slashed from ear to ear? Do you know what it feels like to be torched alive? Do you know what it feels like to be humiliated and be impaled upon on a cross? And left to bleed to death for your amusement? You have never felt a single ounce of pain your whole life. Did you want to inject as much misery in our lives as you can just because you can?…I didn’t have to do this. I could have left. I could have fled. But no, I will no longer run. It’s not for me. For my children, for my brothers and sisters that you [fucked], I did it for them… When the time came, I did it. I had to…You had a hundred billion chances and ways to have avoided today, but you decided to spill my blood. You forced me into a corner and gave me only one option. The decision was yours. Now you have blood on your hands that will never wash off.”

Now that, I believe is what started my interest in reading up on him a bit. Why? It reminded me of my writings back in my youth. Reading back on mine, I laugh a bit on how my mind set was… but reading his, reminds me just how much hopelessness, aloneness, betrayal, pain and anger there had been.

All of those, I believe were metaphors of what people can do to others’ emotions, mind, and soul. It reminds me of things I wrote… at the moment a poem is most glaring. It was titled “Rape away my Joy”. The soul can be broken. The mind can be shattered. The spirit can be chained.

What set us apart? He went external. I went internal. He took out his rage on others. I took out my pain on myself.

Choices of weapons. Seeing how he had interest in guns, reminded me how back when my mind was not so different than his… I had a thing for blades. His guns went external… he killed others. My blades went internal… I cut myself and thought of suicide.

In the end, he massacred people and then killed himself when his line snapped.

In the end, I drank all the medication I had and put my parents through hell when my line snapped.

He died.

I lived.

I still think I understand what he was saying though. It made sense, only it was only a sense in his mind-set that few would ever understand or at least admit to understanding.

“I’ll kill my peers and the ones who did not help me in my time of need. I’ll hurt those who have hurt me. I’ll kill those who will come to be for there will be others who will end up having a life like me due to those who have lives like those who were my tormentors. If such is done, there will be no more victims.”

Do I believe in that? No. As long as there are human beings… such will always occur. Even if people try to keep such things from occurring in schools, work places or such, there will always be that one person who is looked over. There will be that silent kid who is missed. The problem is no one stops to look. No one stops to think. The problem is the one who is missed does not know what to do. The kid is alone and distrusts.

Hello, World.