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