relating to the piece below

The piece below is just my attempt at writing memoir. I'm always intrigued by my younger self. I always ask myself the same questions: Where did all that innocence go? Where did the life go? Where did my self-love go? Is it gone forever? All I want is to live and feel alivealivealive. I don't want to have to remind myself that I have a responsibility to function as a human-being. But I do it everyday. And it's not just in the darkness or silence. I feel like a decrescendo. I feel like the last living thing on Earth. It's scary sometimes. Because all I want to do is live. But life is so much more complex than just living. Or is it? Maybe I just made it that way. Whatever.

I'm just venting : )

It's OK We Were Younger

I was nine-years-old the first time I went to our little house in the Poconos, and I remember almost nothing about it. I can’t remember how long the drive was, or which day we visited the water park. I can’t remember all the conversations I had that weekend with my older cousin except for one, but even that is very blurry.

I remember we were sent to bed, but neither one of us was tired. We were told the movie playing was inappropriate, and therefore coerced upstairs into our room with no nightlight. Once we were finally finished exchanging our frustrations over being children—and everyone else went to bed—we sank to sleep. One might claim that there is not much to say after that because nothing actually happened once our little house shut down, but I had a different experience with what exactly didn’t happen.

What I remember most is the darkness. The lights had been washed away when everyone went to sleep, leaving me soaked in the night. I just laid there in my bed with my nine-year-old thoughts—in the complete absence of light and sound. Soon enough even those thoughts faded to black. I was floating in that little house. I can’t say what it was about that night, but it was the first time I can remember feeling like nothing. And it was so intriguing, being disconnected from the world. Life had stood still, or at least it felt that way.

Initially the dark triggered my imagination, so I briefly lost contact with my thoughts and experienced a few nightmares. Once I relaxed was when the night stopped drowning me, and I floated on my own dreams. It was better than sleeping; I was in control. I was alive, but the mere responsibility of being alive, of being human, had washed away with the lights because I was nothing. It was so strange.

I remember times as a young girl when I would have to remind myself that I was real; I was alive. It was me who controlled my writing hand, and my legs, and my eyelids. It was so riveting every time I rediscovered myself. I can’t remember what triggered thoughts like these, but maybe that doesn’t matter. Maybe it was my tendency to occupy myself with details, to complicate things and wonder if everything is really as simple as just being alive.

The night I was nothing in the dark—and a number of others to follow—I had surrendered everything but my control to dream. After a while, it became almost stressful, and I had to prove I was real again. Maybe when I was laying in the dark—being deafened by silence and blinded by darkness—I was nothing as I couldn’t prove otherwise. I couldn’t prove to myself that I wasn’t blind, as every time I closed my eyes I saw no difference—I saw nothing either way. I remember kicking my legs or waving my arms and wondering if it was too dark to see them; it was, but I felt the energy release, and I heard my arms and legs momentarily lose control. And I was something again, even without the lights.

Every so often one of those nights will come along when I let go of myself, just like the night in that little house. I’ll embrace it without thought and merely lay in the absence. Then my mind will begin to crawl back and reconnect with my body. Once they are tied back together, I’ll feel alive again, and I’ll be fascinated by my ability to come and go as I please—the imagination I’ve seemingly maintained since I was nine.

Thanksgiving

I have mixed feelings about this time of year. I'm thankful that I am lovable. I'm thankful that I have so many people to love. I'm thankful for my ability to forgive. I can honestly say that I absolutely love spending time with all of my family when they come to my house for dinner. Of course, everything has its dark side. (I hate that I seem to find negativity in everything.) Thanksgiving is scary. I don't how I'm going to get through it without hating myself for any number of reasons. Basically, I'm asking for your help. Please comment with anything you have to say on the matter.
Thank-you

Art

I found this on the internet. I'll let anyone observing this take it from here.

Don't Let My Body Burn Down Tonight

So take me higher. Take me high, way up to the sky, so nothing can touch me. I’m on a roof, and there’s a fire. There’s no way to escape unless you take me higher. So please. Will you? I don’t know where I’ll go. But I need to know if you will. All those times you said you loved me with every breath in your body, with all your being, always and forever. Did you mean it? When I asked if you would fight a lion for me, did you really mean to say “yes”? So prove yourself now and take me higher, for I need to be safe from this freezing fire. Soon enough, my time will expire, and this cruel fire will kill me. Don’t you love me? Can’t you see I’m on fire? And the temperature just gets higher and higher. Now I’m the one who looks like a fool because you’re such a liar.

I came here to this rooftop, and I screamed your name. But you turned away from me and the flame. The flame. I was drenched in fire; I was helpless. Please. Help me understand why that it selfless. And you tried to escape, and help the others too. You said that you did the best you could do. And I never thought twice; I never question you. Now you try and move on and retain the life you had before, but you couldn’t take me high enough. So I came crashing on the floor. I’m aching down to my core.

Now that I’m gone, you're always so tired as the guilt keeps you from rest because you failed. You didn't to save me from the fire. All I asked was for you to take me higher. I thought you could save me from danger; you were just a liar.

Untitled Song (Lyrics)

It’s like she was stuck
In the middle of a battle field
Trapped in Vietnam
Where all her secrets were revealed
She was out in the open
All she could do was keep hoping
While she was so exposed with no men and no shield
She had no way of coping
Her own life couldn’t trust her
Cause she was blind from all the moping
And in the snap of a finger she fell into the ocean
Just like that, life dragged her to the ocean floor
And her body started to decay
And when she couldn’t feel anymore

She said, “I hate myself today.
I want to sink to the ocean floor
And let my body decay
Let the current drag me to hell
Because I hate myself today"

And so life dragged her everywhere
Until it reached the point of exhaustion
Then all she ever did was stare
Straight into the eyes of Boston
And as she laid there at the bottom utterly alone
She had nobody to talk to as she was only made of bones
So she talked to the current; it was so strong
so she screamed with the last little bit she had left in her lungs
(And she said)

I sank here to this ocean floor
Because I hurt myself someway
Maybe I don’t need to go to hell
But I still hate myself today

All she wanted was a friend to sit with her on the ocean floor
And all she had was the current that she didn’t even like anymore
What was left of her body was just so damn sore
And it wasn’t even beautiful anymore
All she wants to do is go touch the shore
But she can’t even do that anymore
She can’t feel any pain because she’s so weak
She can’t reach the shore
The current had her so beat
(So she turned to the current and she whispered)

I’m stuck on the ocean floor
Because I’m hurting in so many ways
And I know I’ll never get out of here
But I think I love myself today

Those were the last words that she would ever say
And she was left alone; the current stole our girl away

Regarding "Love Fast"

"Love Fast" (the story below) is a work of fiction that I am still working on editing as well as developing characters. It was an assignment for English. We had to write a story to convey that we had a good understanding of Tim O'Brien's stories from The Things They Carried. His war stories--as he states so many times--are immoral and twisted, and one of the major themes is blame/guilt. This story is all of those things.

I'm not out to scare anyone, but I wasn't looking for a happy ending. If you're left disturbed or sad, or wondering where the happy ending is, the story has succeeded. Again, this story is a work of fiction.

Love Fast: A Work of Fiction (under construction)

I used to think that everyone loved me. I used to dance in a fairytale where we lived music, and food was always pure. I used to live. There was a time when I loved myself, and I loved the world, and I loved life; I loved to dance. I used to love, and I loved loving, and dancing, and feeling, and eating next to my sister on Thanksgiving. But that was so long ago. I once sat in my empty dorm, on the chair my sister gave me, and tried to starve away all the memories of what I used to do. It wasn’t long before my parents found me; now I sleep in a hospital bed and think about my sister.

I didn’t want to come to this stupid hospital, but my parents threatened to stop paying for college if I refused. Unfortunately enough for them, I didn’t care; I wanted to drop out of life anyway. My parents weren’t willing to let their last daughter rot to death, so they took me to court and took my rights away. I’ve never genuinely hated anyone before; I almost lost myself when I realized that I hated them for saving me, and I hated myself for hating them.

I hate this place. Everywhere I go is via wheelchair because I’m “severely medically compromised,” but that’s just one of the many categories Dr. Katzov put me in. Everyday I’m ushered in a different wheel chair to see my therapist, then she inaccurately analyzes me, and I pretend to agree with her. I met her about three weeks ago on my third day here. She came to my hospital room because I was too “medically compromised” to even leave my bed. She knocked timidly on the door and shot me a nervous grin. “Hi, Kristen?” she said. I couldn’t say anything. All I could do was give her half-a-nod to clarify that she was looking for me. I just stared at her, baffled that this girl of about four-foot-seven—even with four-inch heels—was going to help me get out of here, or as Katzov would say “on the road to recovery.”

She came in and sat down—on the same dumb chair that every room had—and went on to discuss with me all of the hospital clichés: “it’s not about the food” and my “symptoms,” “the treatment plan,” and my personal favorite, “the road to recovery.” The more she talked, the more her tense smile grew unbearably annoying. Even still I couldn’t help but pity her. She seemed so afraid of me, so I pretended to ignore her desperate attempt at talking to me, rather than the tube in my nose. I probably deserved it though. She knew what I was thinking when she tiptoed through that door. It was all over my face.

I was fifteen the first time I was hospitalized. Since then I’ve been in and out of seven different treatment centers, countless times. Each time I resolved that it would be my last time, and I would finally be more honest. Instead I always spent most of my time focusing on how much I gained and wishing I could talk, really talk to somebody. I was starved of a real human connection. I wanted a friend almost as bad as I wanted to be thin. Even still, I wish I could just say all the things I tried to waste away. I wish I could tell my therapist she doesn’t know me. I wish I could slap her the next time she says the word “control.”

I remember being told in my 8th grade health class that anorexia is “about control.” True: anorexia is about wanting control and needing it. It’s about losing control to find it. But it’s also about fear. And it’s about anger, and beauty, and perfection, and love, and lust and secrets. It’s about guilt; it’s about my sister. But what does it mean? It means more than slow motion suicide. It’s my best friend; it’s trying to kill me. It’s a language; it’s trying to say something that no one can understand.

I stopped eating when I was twelve because I wanted to be like my sister. She was everything perfect in the world, but she died because she couldn’t see that. Everyday I have to wake up and remember she’s dead, but I’m still alive. And now I have to live, and keep living everyday without her. There are still nights when I have a sister in my dreams, and I go back to my fairytale that used to be real. But then the nights come when she dies again and I wake up to my face smothered in tears and my heart crashing into my chest, and the sound of my voice screaming her name.

Anna. She was seventeen when she died. And every time I’ve been discharged from a hospital, I go right back to my old ways, just to think about her a tad less, but I’ve always ended up back here—or some other facility—where they make me think about her all day long. And I’m too ashamed to talk about her. I hate hospitals. I just want to get out of here and be numb. Still, even when I’m numb I can’t stop thinking about her. I can’t stop thinking about the day she died. I can’t stop hating myself. I can’t stop wishing I could go back and save her. God, I wish I could go back and save her.

That morning, mom woke us up and gave each of us breakfast in bed: a cup of tea, three apple slices, and a tablespoon of peanut butter. The way we looked at our plates you would think our mother was making us eat a live fish. “Come on, eat,” she said, “You’ll need your strength today.” I held my breath as she waved the peanut butter under my nose, careful not to somehow inhale any calories. Anna looked at the two plates and smiled. “Thanks mom,” she said and had her apple slices and tea. I was surprised to see her eat the peanut butter too. Any other day I would have stopped her, and she would take a deep breath—exhaling her hunger and inhaling her self-control—but that day she looked so pale and thin. We both knew she needed it. And she needed it more than I did. “I’m not hungry,” I said. My mom begged me to have a glass of milk at least. I took the tea out of her hand and took a sip.
“I’m not thirsty anymore”
“Kristen please, just a glass of milk?”
“Mom we’re gonna be late.” I paused to look at her. She looked so sad, so I finally gave in. “Fine. One glass of milk.”
I drank the glass of chocolate milk. Then I threw up in the shower. Everything was so easy then.

When I got out of the shower Anna pulled me aside and casually asked if I got rid of the chocolate milk. “How did you know?” I asked. She laughed at me—the way she did the time I was in tears, asking her if I was going to die from the chickenpox. “Just relax,” she always said. She knew everything at the right time. Now that I’m older than she ever was, those two words say everything. She always knew what to say; she knew too much for seventeen.

I was putting my hair back for the eighth time in a row when I heard Anna yell, “Krissy let’s go! We’re gonna be late!” I figured it would waste time to yell back, so I promised silently to myself that I would only redo my hair once more—no matter what. I was so weak; I nearly collapsed running down the stairs and to the car. “Krissy what took you so long? You know I have a solo.” I remained silent, thinking to myself how much time I wasted with the chocolate milk. Then she laughed. “Your hair is a mess. How many times did you do it, like seven?”
“Nine,” I said.
“Nine? I haven’t done my hair that many times since the eighth grade.
Remember? That time Brad came?”
I laughed. “Oh yeah. I can’t believe you ever liked him.” I took my hair out to try again. Then I scolded myself for breaking my promise.
“Krissy, I was joking. Your hair is fine. What are you freaking out about?”
I smiled and said, “Nothing. I hate chocolate milk.”
“Don’t we all,” she said.
She turned up the music to drown out the silence. She hated loud music in the morning, but she just wanted me to relax.

I was much more relaxed once we got to the studio and started to dance. But after two hours of dancing on pure adrenaline, I could feel my body breaking down. Right before the sixth re-run of her solo, Anna looked at me, and her eyes asked me if I was okay. I took a moment to look around the room, full of girls just like me—pale and thin and afraid. Then I closed my eyes to breathe. It was the only break I allowed myself to take. It was the break my sister never took; my selfishness saved my life.

We were so hungry on the way home, so we took our weekly trip to reward ourselves with a feast at McDonald’s, only to throw it back minutes later. We got back in the car, and she started looking for her car keys. Then she paused to look out the window. There was nothing there but the McDonald’s that I desperately wanted to get away from, before we did it again. “You know,” she said, “Danielle died from this shit last year.”
“What? Driving cars?”
“No, all that stuff we learned in school about girls like us. It killed her.”
“No,” I said, “she was in that car accident. Remember?”
“She was the only one that died. I’m telling you this shit killed her. I know she was still doing it after she stopped dancing. And what happens when we stop dancing? Normal girls don’t do this stuff.”
“We’re better than them, Anna. We’re pure.”
“Yeah,” she said, “Pure.”
I couldn’t tell if she was mocking me or not until I heard her laugh. “I guess I’d rather die pure than a fat cow,” she said.

When we got home that night, I was so gone I could barely take off my shoes. But Anna just kept going as if she didn’t feel a thing. We told our parents we ate dinner already. Mom was skeptical, but Dad told her to leave us alone; we had a big show the next day. They left us alone to do our bedtime routine. I stepped on the scale to find that I had lost a pound since the day before. Anna still weighed ninety-three. At that moment, her world ended. Her hard work didn’t matter anymore. Everything she had ever done burned to dust because she taught me everything I knew, and I did better than her. “Well I guess you don’t need me anymore!” she yelled. Fights like these were rare. Normally we fought about which one of us Mom likes better, or who’s smarter, but never about this. “Don’t you have anything to say? You never do! You never think about anyone but yourself! I can’t believe this shit!”
“Anna, calm down.”
“Fuck you Krissy! I don’t want to see your stupid face anymore!”
“Are you kidding me? How was I supposed to know this would happen?”
“You should have stopped me at breakfast Krissy!”
“You needed it!”
“Yeah, you were sabotaging me. You’re a fucking backstabber.”
“Whatever. I can’t deal with you right now. I have a show tomorrow.”
“All you ever think about is dance!”
“That’s all I am!” I was so frustrated and hurt and confused. All I could do was keep pulling my hair and yell, “Just go to bed!”
We didn’t sleep in my bed that night, like we did before every show. Anna stomped to her room, the maddest I had ever seen her, and I was horrified.

My anger and hunger pains left me staring at my clock all night. And then came the sound that still haunts me daily. The sound that still has the power to instantaneously control my every move when it rings in my nightmares, daydreams, and journal entries. The sound the hospital makes at mealtime. It was the sound of weight gain. It was the sound of bad news.

Mom knew we had a fight, but she was utterly clueless, so she left us alone. Years later, she told me she was getting her nightly “two-A.M. snack” when she decided to check on us. She came to Anna’s room first. She crept through the door—careful as not to wake anyone—and walked over to her bed. She stood there, smiling at her sleeping daughter. She pushed her hair back, and bent down to kiss her forehead. In an instant, her skin turned into dry-ice, and she nervously pulled away. She tried to wake her. “Anna,” she whispered, “Anna do you need an extra blanket? Anna…” Anna didn’t respond. She didn’t move, she didn’t speak, and she didn’t breathe. My mom, getting more worried, took her pulse everywhere she could find, but there was nothing but the chill of her skin. And then came that sound. My mom let out the most neurotic scream I’ve ever heard in my life.

That night I learned what fear sounds like when it’s blended with guilt, and sorrow, and love, and anger and trauma. I jumped up from my bed—expecting orders to kill another mouse—and ran to Anna’s room, where I found my dead sister on her bed, and my mother desperately longing to trade with her. I’ve never asked to be told the story, so I don’t know exactly what happened the rest of that night or the next day. All I remember is the sound ringing in my head. The sound kept me from reality. But it was so real.

My sister died of a heart attack when she was seventeen. My sister who never took breaks, or told herself to relax, or believed she was ever good enough. My sister who had the power to freeze time after her death; four years later I’m nineteen, and I still worship her seventeen-year-old self. My sister whom I want so much more than I want to be thin. My sister never graduated high school. My sister was beyond high school in too many ways.

We were supposed to live our lives together. We were supposed to travel the world as dancers; we were supposed to live in a fairytale. Now I live in hospital beds, and therapy sessions, and groups--with the same sick girls from dance class. I don’t tell anyone about her. I know it’s my fault. I should have tried harder. I should have told her to relax more. She’s gone forever. I just want to disappear. I don’t want anyone to love me. I want to tell someone, but I know I never will. Instead I’ll just finish the remainder of my life tainted by guilt.