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Ways to fall. . .according to Radiolab. . .

That seems ridiculously overestimated. . .but at the same time, I totally believe it, especially with the way nearly everything I do feels like it could be or should be described by or along side of that word. Fall.

Every other routine action--out of bed, in the shower, down the stairs, to class, back into bed--I'm falling. Every other metaphor for how I see my situation--in a well, through black space, into a trance, down--I'm falling. Every other feeling, worry, realization, or emotion I have--ill, off the radar, apart, short, through the cracks, out with, over, under, catch me I'm (such a good soundtrack)--I'm still falling. And, of course, this past weekend I fell once more (because clearly I'm not doing it enough), back through time, no less.

It's sort of weird to consider, I think. . .falling. . .no matter what the meaning of it. Because people almost always know what you mean regardless of the context. It's a feeling of no control. And of not always being certain if that not knowing is good or if it is bad. And I'm not sure we ever really figure it out until it's over. Even with things like falling in love (which seems to be one of the only most common types of falling I'm not experiencing, but I think I need to be thankful for that since it can really only end in more disaster for someone like me) and falling off of a building, which appear easily classified as good and bad respectively (unless you're me and falling off of a building or the like sounds unsettlingly attractive), you can't really be sure until it's over. Until you've found true love or had your heart broken. Until you've survived somehow or died somehow (and it's still anybody's guess which of those outcomes is best).

And I guess that's what's so frustrating right now. Not knowing. Not knowing anything or if I know anything or when or if I'll ever know anything. And it's crazy because this. . .this nothing I know. . .this nothing I feel, am, see, have, want, need for sure. . .it's so much. That makes no sense. . .

Okay. . .okay. . .this is getting too hipster now (see also). . .I hate having so much trouble making sense of what's happening with me. Bah, humbug. . .

Falling out,

-Daisy

PS - So good to know, Vi, really. . .just wish I were sure that this is a permanent setup, if you know what I mean. Don't feel bad though. Also, I'm sure if you just keep snapping your bagels and being yourself, someone will show you that it's not too much to ask for someone to love you. Until then (and after, of course), I'll be here, loving you in the way that's not quite what you need, finding you so beautiful. . .you know. . .

But I am les tired. . .

Daisy, you may be so low (and don't for one second forget how low I am as well), but you're not riding so low.

Everyone else out there,

Sorry it's been a while. My schedule has been thrown off, but that's no excuse because when is one's schedule not thrown off for some reason or another. Who am I kidding?

I had a bad, lonely Halloween. But I've been better since then because of a guy. It's mostly in my head, but I think I'm getting somewhere with him. You know. . .I just want someone to love me. Is that too much to ask for? (don't answer that, please.) That has put my head up somewhat higher. Somewhere where I can see all the pain I am, but not quite feel it.

As I was explaining to Daisy earlier, I feel exhausted. . . but that doesn't really sum it all up. I feel drained, used up (but not in a good way. . .is there a good way?). I was always tired. For at least the last six years, if you were to ever ask me how I was, you would have gotten some form of the response "tired."

There are wrinkles on my forehead.
My feet are bleeding.
I am losing my appetite.
My back hurts.

I'm 18. Who is my body kidding? This isn't fair.

I apologize for the brief nature and skimpy substance of this post. The lethargy has moved to my mind, down to my fingers, and onto this blog.

Peace and Blessings, Peace and Blessings,

Vi

Orca

I'm not sure when this became a solo (like S-O-LO, you know? Jason does. . .although, my own situation is no where near as upbeat) production, but I feel like it's because this blog is a sort of outlet in times of complete misery, and, fortunately, Vi is not so miserable as I'm used to seeing her (not that I actually get to see her) as of recent. . .or, at least, not so miserable enough as to need it. If that's the case, I'll gladly put on my shades to cover up my eyes, buy one of those spiky jackets, and ride solo from now on or as often as I need to. Something good for you is good for both of us, capisce, donna?

Anyway, as per usual and as can be expected after my pointing out when this blog seems to be most needed, I have minimal to no positive things to talk about, so, in order to "mix it up", I'm going to go at explaining it in a slightly different but still pathetic way. . .hope your selves have been braced. . .

Okay, well. . .since arriving here, I've been thinking a lot about my life when I was younger, and, recently (as in last night), I stumbled across a memory of my seven- or eight-year-old self taking swimming lessons at the high school.

I think I liked learning how to swim. . .maybe. . .but I specifically remember one activity that I absolutely loathed: water polo. (Or, at least, the modified version we'd play in the deep end every so often.) I'm not sure if I can really say that it was the game itself I hated so much as I'm not sure I ever really understood how to play it. No, my issue with it was that it required that I be able to see and react to what was going on around me in ways I didn't need to during normal lessons.

The thing is that, at this time, I had already acquired my glasses, but it would be years until my first pair of contacts. So, unlike in lessons where I could manage without my lenses by listening and by peering at my instructors and lesson mates, while playing water polo, I was completely lost.

I couldn't see the kick boards we were (apparently) supposed to hit with a ball (that I also couldn't see). I couldn't see my teammates or anyone else in the pool, for that matter. And, to top it off, I could barely stay afloat as treading water become increasingly difficult as one (or maybe just me) enters a minor state of panic due to lack of comprehension.

I was blind, and I was drowning. . .

Being here in Minnesota, even now that I have the promise that I'll be leaving for good in less than fifty days (can I get a "halleluurrrjj-yah"!? and not the almost overdone Jeff Buckley version. . .though, that one is pretty enough to earn a link, I think), has felt and continues to feel like drowning. And the only way I can see that feeling going away is if I leave. . .if I get out of the pool. . .so I guess it's good that I'm doing that soon. . .

But, while here, I've. . .discovered(?) a lot of things too. Rattling things. About myself. . .my life. . .the people I know. . .the people I don't know. . .and I guess that's what's "supposed" to happen during this "phase" of a life like mine, but it. . .all I've found. . .exposed. . .but not necessarily "figured out". . .it feels like a hell of a lot. Almost like I dipped into other phases and found out extra things. . .things I didn't need to know. Things I wasn't ready to know. And all of that. . .makes me feel like I'm blind again. But, different from swimming lessons, getting out of the pool--or, in this case, leaving Minnesota--doesn't seem like it'll also be enough to clear things up for me again. I can't see this feeling going away. . .I can't see at all, to be honest. . .being blind an all. . .

I should be happy.

Or, just. . .happier, maybe.

Maybe.

-Daisy

PS - I apologize for the lack of sense this post title makes, but it is what it is. . .let it mean what you want, I guess. Or just let it mean killer whale. . .

"There sure are a lot of bridges in this town. . ."

Tell me about it, sister o' mine. . .

Or, perhaps you shouldn't. . .that could be really problematic. It's already problematic. . .the way I'm doing just about everything in my (oh-so-limited) power to avoid jumping off one. And not even so that I could die. I don't really think about what happens when I reach the ground (or water or moving car or whatever else happens to be there). On the contrary, I think about doing it because I believe that that feeling of falling (or flying?) might help me feel like I'm alive again. Alive. Awake. Present. (Just maybe not present here. . .)

I haven't felt like that in so long, and I've tried--with consistent lack of success--doing anything I can think of to spark something in me, to flip a switch, to wake me up. But, regrettably, some less-than healthy doses of blood, vomit, electricity, neck pain (from whipping my hair (back and forth), logically), food, and OTC drugs later, I still feel like nothing. Like death.

My cheeks are hot. I like that. I think it means I'm getting sick, but I still like it. It makes it feel more sweet(?) when I cry. That makes no sense, and I don't know how to explain it. It's just . . .more warm. More young. More justified. Less sticky and salty and wet.

I like body heat in general, actually, and usually someone else's more than my own (as long as it's not exercise-induced heat. . .I hate sweat). Maybe it's the complete and undeniable isolation talking, but the idea of being close to someone. . .of touching. . .a hand, a hug, whatever. . .just feeling that warmth. . .sounds really nice. Okay, so it's definitely the fact that I've never felt so alone before. . .so friendless, so loveless. . .but what does that matter? Maybe something along those lines would wake me up. I'll never know.

So, I guess I'll stick to bridges. Here are some from which I would be very okay with jumping:

And I guess I'm aware that aesthetic appeal played a big role in deciding which bridges I chose. . .but that's okay. I was not aware, however, of my attraction to water. . .but maybe that's coincidence or something. It looks pretty, and, like I said, I don't really think about what happens when I stop falling. . .

Sorry if these posts are. . .too honest? This is about the only place I feel like I can be honest though. . .and even now, I'm holding back. What the hell. . .when did honesty become such taboo? So freaking consequential. . .damn.

-Daisy

Happy Halloween

I wish there were actually something happy about it.

I wish I had something better to write about than being miserable. I wish we both did. Maybe that's why we don't have any followers yet. . .because people don't want to read about the sad things. But what would we have without sad things? Certainly not good things, that's for sure. We need the bad things, I think, in order to recognize the good things when--if ever--they show up (right, Meredith? To be honest, just about any Grey's Anatomy quote would all but sum up my life today and every day I've spent here (and whether "here" means Minnesota or the planet is becoming exceedingly unclear). . .like this one. . .today, this one kills it for me. . .and I don't even know what that means).

I don't know what a lot of things mean anymore. Words. Feelings. Images. Or the lack of any or all of those. I am broken-hearted by my confusion. I am up in the air. I am drowning. I am floating, and I am suffocating. How does this work? It doesn't, that's how. This is not working. I am not working.

I have a poking and prodding issue. I consider this a secret even if it doesn't sound like one right now, and I've never told anyone, not even Vi (until now). . .and I suppose it'll stay that way if we fail to accumulate followers. It doesn't sound serious, does it? I'm not sure what to think of it. . .it took years to even realize that it's something I do that others don't and several more to realize that it may be a problem. I don't even know how to describe it. It's like. . .a need for smoothness. All over. My head, my ears, my face, my mouth, my arms, my hands, my back, my legs, my feet, my chest, my stomach. . .I could be detailed about the "process", but it was sounding worse and worse as I wrote it out. Use your imagination without fear and you'll probably be right in some way. What's strange is that this has never seemed like self-destruction. It still doesn't, really. It was self-betterment for a while. . .and now. . .now it feels a little out of hand. . .or maybe just neutral. Just something I do. . .something I waste my time with. . .

I suppose the same could be said for this blog post, though (wasting my time, that is). Could be. . .shouldn't be. As much as I know I should be doing homework now (or sleeping, maybe), this post does not feel like a waste of time. It doesn't feel good. It doesn't feel like anything.

But it's a distraction. A distraction from the on-going crying, restarted about an hour ago and still flowing. A distraction from the words, feelings, and images I'm experiencing and from those I am missing. And that hardly makes sense considering I mention them in the post. . .but that's just how it is. Just naming them here is far more objective than thinking about them in the discomfort of my bed.

It's amazing to me, actually, that I can do this. That I can write this blog and have all of these words tumble out. I used to be required to keep an academic blog for the AP Composition course I took in high school, and it would often take me an hour or two to come up with a post half as long as this. It's incredible how much (and, perhaps more importantly, what) people can say when they're given the chance. Incredible. . .but also scary.

This whole post is scary. Even as the one writing it, it's unsettling. Or maybe I should say "especially as the one writing it". . .I'm not sure. Regardless, I'm thinking this post was not the type of scary people typically look for on Halloween. . .but to hell with typical. . .it's just another meaningless word now.

-Daisy

Shalloween

Okay, so it's Halloween.

My favorite holiday.
But not this year.

Remember ET, when they went trick-or-treating? That's what Halloween should be. (Or something out of the Nightmare Before X-mas.) It shouldn't be dress-as-slutty-as-you-can-and-get-as-drunk-as-you-can-without-dying. . .een. No.

However, I must admit that I would be better able to tolerate the nastiness most young adults bring to this holiday if I weren't in such a bad, lonely place (mentally and physically).

I want to "go out" with people (in the sense that my parents seem to use whenever they talk about Friday evenings), but I just. . .well. . .don't have any friends (besides the drugs my psychiatric nurse practitioner gave me, my ear plugs, my eye mask, my computer, and various dining halls). I have a crush (as Daisy knows), but I've never had the courage to tell my crushes how I feel about them in the past, and I don't think I do now either. Anyway, I hardly ever see or speak to them.

Crushes are a SICK, SICK thing.

maybe it's time for some ECT. . .maybe my bell jar will lift.

-Violet

Deaf and Numb

Today I felt like I was walking through molasses. I couldn't get myself out of bed (or, for that matter, to remove my earplugs) until noon, although I woke up at 9:30. I finished The Bell Jar (by Sylvia Plath) in that time. . .but, still, I felt like I accomplished nothing.

When I willed myself out of bed, I got so far as my computer before the beginning of my day was delayed even further. It's just the depression, right?

I managed to (not) take a shower, and I put on sunglasses (as if there were actually someone here who would recognize me, and I didn't want them to). I headed to the gym, where I was lapped by an ancient man. It turns out that you should eat before you run. I got really dizzy and got a strange headache. I guess somewhere in my doing NOTHING, I forgot to eat.

I "finished" a bunch of homework. I put quotes around "finished" because I half-assed everything. I recycled one of my high-school papers for my writing class, I skimmed the reading (at best) for my language class, I decided not to read the readings for my writing class, and I watched 20 minutes of the movie I was supposed to watch for French before reading it's plot on Wikipedia. . .in English.

I am getting straight A's. . .I wish I feel like I deserved them. . .but, then again, I don't not deserve them. College is just enduring bullshit. Am I right? They can preach all they want about "self-betterment" and "well-roundedness," but until they sit through lectures so boring you would rather peel the skin off of your lips, I don't think they have any merit.

So, anyway, after I "ran," I decided to go sing (because, after all, I like to sing. . .I think). That went pretty well, but even in the padded walls of a practice room, I can't let my true voice out. I need total isolation and the peace of mind that no one is listening. . .or the opposite: people who want to listen to me.

After my vocal cords were thoroughly beaten, I ate (yay!). And then finished the rest of my day in a vegetative state on Facebook and staring at my left wrist. Now I am writing this post with my head against the wall. This is boredom, today.

I'm in New York City, and I'm bored.
Now I'm staring at a bottle of Prozac.
Facebook stalking people.
Going to bed early.
Signing off.

-Violet

Inferiority really isn't that complex. . .

Today, I am not good enough. Actually, I am probably not good enough most days, if not every one of them, but today I feel it sharpest. It's hard to breathe. I feel the things I am not--a good student, a partner, an entity, happy--burning the bottoms of my lungs. I feel the things I am--the embodiment of negativity, a let down of a daughter, a mediocre friend, less than--drilling into my stomach like an iron tornado. A vortex of disappointment, sucking in my body--an all but empty capsule, a shell--little by little. . .and I am cracking in the process.

So, today, the best words I can offer to you (and to me. . .and to Violet. . .) belong to other, astoundingly superior people. For me, their work is as relatable as it is impressive (and it is gloriously impressive). . .


"Insomniac" by Sylvia Plath

The night is only a sort of carbon paper,
Blueblack, with the much-poked periods of stars
Letting in the light, peephole after peephole . . .
A bonewhite light, like death, behind all things.
Under the eyes of the stars and the moon's rictus
He suffers his desert pillow, sleeplessness
Stretching its fine, irritating sand in all directions.

Over and over the old, granular movie
Exposes embarrassments--the mizzling days
Of childhood and adolescence, sticky with dreams,
Parental faces on tall stalks, alternately stern and tearful,
A garden of buggy rose that made him cry.
His forehead is bumpy as a sack of rocks.
Memories jostle each other for face-room like obsolete film stars.

He is immune to pills: red, purple, blue . . .
How they lit the tedium of the protracted evening!
Those sugary planets whose influence won for him
A life baptized in no-life for a while,
And the sweet, drugged waking of a forgetful baby.
Now the pills are worn-out and silly, like classical gods.
Their poppy-sleepy colors do him no good.

His head is a little interior of grey mirrors.
Each gesture flees immediately down an alley
Of diminishing perspectives, and its significance
Drains like water out the hole at the far end.
He lives without privacy in a lidless room,
The bald slots of his eyes stiffened wide-open
On the incessant heat-lightning flicker of situations.

Nightlong, in the granite yard, invisible cats
Have been howling like women, or damaged instruments.
Already he can feel daylight, his white disease,
Creeping up with her hatful of trivial repetitions.
The city is a map of cheerful twitters now,
And everywhere people, eyes mica-silver and blank,
Are riding to work in rows, as if recently brainwashed.


"It Doesn't Hurt" by Katie Thompson





-Daisy

Crawlspace (and I apologize for the pathetic nature of this post)

As yesterday's wounds dry into brown streaks on my wrists, I am reminded of how my life seems to be something written by Sylvia Plath. Today, I had the strong urge to block myself in a crawlspace, take a bottle of pills, and die.

But I don't have the guts. I could never get myself to cut my wrists again, and certainly could never garner the courage to kill myself. What I want is not to die, but to disappear. To just stop. To severe all my connections so that my disappearance would impact no one but myself, and then to just disappear. Like washing away with the tide or evaporating or just floating away with the wind. . .anything like that. And if people were cursed with remembering me, it would be the way you half-remember a library book that you never finished or had to return because it was on hold for someone else. Just fleeting, emotionless memories--"oh, yeah"'s

Life in New York is ironically lonely. You can be lonely anywhere, but there's a certain pain that comes along with being lonely and still being able to hear the sound of the streets and other people's laughter. It's as if it's saying, "Look at what all you don't have. Look at what you can't enjoy. Look at what you're not."

But then again, I wonder what I would be like in the country somewhere. Lonely and isolated. Would it be better? Worse? It certainly wouldn't be so painful. . .so. . .in-your-face.

I imagine that this city is full of lonely people.

They assimilate well.

Scene 7: Blindsided

This day was scripted.

That is the only (semi-)logical explanation I can think of for how and why the past twenty-ish hours unraveled the way they did. . .

It's the only way I can turn treading through pitch-black and thoroughly eerie hallways, icy shower water in virtual darkness, breakfast of two stale mini-muffins and a chunk of warm honeydew melon, and one too many collisions with doors, beds, desks, and walls that really weren't there five seconds earlier into "nothing like a good power outage to wake you up in the morning!"

The only way this young male and this bag found each other, decided to go out in public today, smashed into me with an infuriating disregard, and continued on devoid of any Daisy-induced injury. . .

The only way that scruffy man. . .oooh. . .that man, sitting and smoking, clad in a long, greenish-tan coat and thick-framed glasses, managed to turn his head, spit, have said spit land on my leg, and live to--more likely than not--never tell the tale. . .

The only way a guy's backpack could cut into my stomach as he, unbeknownst to him, proceeded to sit on me on the bus, the only way the girl in my environmental science class (who laughs like this, but only at her own comments) could jab me in the chest with a 25mL pipette, and the only way a squirrel, for whose safe passage across the sidewalk I came to a complete stop, could run into my foot (thus eliciting squeals from the both of us) and scamper off in the direction from which he came is if someone wrote it that way. Seriously. . .

In other words, this day bushwhacked, sucker-punched, give a dog a bone (if it'll keep him from running into me) the lights out of me in ways I cannot believe. At this point, I'm fairly certain the only additional "crashing" I could possibly handle would be the sort that involves pillows, blankets, and blissful unconsciousness. Let us hope I fare better than poor Bizkit. . .(perhaps he should be the dog to get the aforementioned bone, eh?)

I apologize for the excessive linkage used to relay my points.

-Daisy

PS - Clever, Vi. Shall I remind you of your could-be fate?

Who am I kidding?

Today sucked. . .well, is still sucking, but thus far has sucked.

First of all, too much clonazepam, so I've been tired the whole day, but still stressed. Um. . .no fair. Secondly, one of the colleges I applied to for transfer decided to cut my financial aid. Also, I learned that someone with whom I went to high school got into a college that I wanted to get into (but, of course, did not). And, to be honest, I was way more qualified than he was.

But, to be fair, it might not be that exact college because there are a few colleges with a similar name. I guess Facebook stalking isn't the most precise source of my day's anger.

My day was also ruined by the fact that I know I have an essay due at 5 tomorrow, and I have yet to start. . .I think they call that procrastinating.

Also, there is a nice green awning several stories below my window that looks warm and inviting. . .maybe if I jump towards it, things will get better for me.

The good news of the day is that my appetite seems to be dwindling. (I know this probably isn't the best news for most people, but for someone with a constant fear of overeating and getting fat, it's good news).

I don't mean to sound like such a shallow, bitching college student. I am just having a bad day. Everyone does.

So. . .to lighten the tone of this post, here is a YouTube video of Lorraine at the dentist . . .a true classic.

-Violet

P.S. Daisy, hope the accent is coming along nicely.

It's a blustery day in the Hundred Acre Hell. . .

Fact: You can't stand under my umbrella (ella ella), actually. But, to be fair, neither can I. (see link to understand why and note that my own struggle was no where near as cheery or colorful)

What a miserably cold and rainy day. . .the perfect addition to this sickening week. Though, how I could have expected much else is beyond me. All of which I am sure is that I have not been so well acquainted with Pepto-Bismol and woolen socks in quite some time.

Anyway. . .while browsing for wind-assaulted bumbershoots to accompany this post, I came across three essentially otherwise unrelated points of intrigue (to me), the first being the Wikipedia article from which I snagged the word "bumbershoot". Sure, it's a Wikipedia article, and, sure, it's an article about umbrellas, but that doesn't mean it's completely disenchanting. I mean, come on. . .it's a little interesting (and a lot ridiculous) that the insane number of umbrella-related patents that are presently being filed to the U.S. Patent Office is enough to employ four full-time examiners to review them, right? Eh. . .

Additionally, while searching for a clip of only the first minute and twenty seconds of this long segment of Mary Poppins (for obvious reasons, given the weather), I was shocked to discover that this long segment, along with the other eleven needed to present the entire film, were, in fact, available on YouTube. While a part of me is pleased to have this well-loved door to my childhood made so readily accessible, I also can't help but feel somewhat guilty for the denying of any funds or recognition that watching this movie via this video-sharing site may cause. Don't (not for one second!) get me wrong--I love free media as much as the next person and often despite whether or not the law does. It is just for this case that some shame accumulates as I cannot help but think of the beautiful Julie Andrews. Has she not lost enough at it is?

Finally and perhaps least relevant, I discovered this photo. I like it. That is all.

-Daisy

New York City and the Five Senses

"Concrete Jungle Where Dreams are Made of" makes no sense. . .just throwing that out there.

1) Smell. As my father put it, "Every five steps, it smells like someone took a shit." Well, Dad, that's because every five steps, someone did take a shit. Welcome to New York Shitty.

2) Sound. You are getting raped in the ear by a jackhammer. Oh wait, no, you're just in New York. My bad.

3) Taste. I really wouldn't open your mouth in New York. Just don't do it.

4) Touch. Well, the greasy, lubed-up, grimy, snotty hand rails in the Subway represent the city pretty well.

5) Sight. I wouldn't know, because not only is one not allowed to make eye contact with anyone else here, but they are also forbidden to visually perceive (or react to) the city in any way whatsoever. This is punishable by death.

I am going to see The Language Archive with one of my classes tonight. Wish me luck

-Violet

P.S. Daisy, try to do something not so hopelessly lonely today. Who am I kidding?

Daisy

As Violet has already explained the general purpose of this blog, I suppose I'll just supply a few disclaimers so as to minimize misinterpretations and offenses. Primarily, it should be understood that we apply the terms "horrible" and "unfortunate" to the description of our lives because, simply put and despite tremendous effort, we are not enjoying them. Whether that is the result of outside forces, of our own doing, or of some combination of the two is for you to decide (or not decide, if you'd rather) through following our blog, just as it has been up to you to decide the same for any other person who has vocalized a finding of his or her life to be disagreeable (at best). Opinions, though we hold the right to frequently and furiously oppose and/or attack them, cannot be wrong, and we'll do our best to remember that as long as you do too.

As far as an introduction goes. . .I am Daisy (for those of you who did not deduce that already). I am a freshman at a university in Minnesota. I like muted colors, good books, and, as can also be said for Violet, show tunes. Feel free to ask questions.

-Daisy

Violet

This is more than awkward talking to an audience of what I presume to be zero people, but here I go anyway. My name is Violet. I am a freshman at a university in Manhattan. Daisy and I want to share our horrible and unfortunate lives (and the occasional good thing) with you. This blog will be many things at different times. A conversation, a diary, our reflections, but most importantly, our stories. Feel free to gawk, laugh, criticize, throw up in your mouths, agree, disagree. . .you get the point.

I say this with a bit of hesitation (given the inappropriateness of the word to our situations), but. . .enjoy? enjoy.

-Violet