|—||Antoine de Saint-Exupéry (via et-l)|
I wrote a long post today about my happy, warm over comings of the nightmare of suicidal thoughts. That I’ve been eating alone at tables often. Observing, contemplating, admiring the beautiful and odd strangers nearby. And there’s something about my habitual sharing, or over sharing depending on how you see it. And if you’re still with me, thank you. I live and breathe communal openness. the spilling of one’s clotted blood, open green eyes encouraging an audible voice. A prime example of the bumpy, terrifying roller coaster adventure of being a 23 year old with a canceled marriage, no kids, quite a bit of sex, not enough root beer floats and plenty drunken glittery escapades under my belt. A quite ordinary woman that struggled with bulimia, on going bruises in my late teens due to non-coherent panic attacks I very fortunately have pushed out of my memory. I’ve done quite a bit of driving. 93,000 miles since May 2009 to be exact. All in search of solidifying my existence as a tall, floral obsessed girl named Kasey Lee. A vegan that while intoxicated ate bacon last night and cried about it. I’m a mess, a lot. But I get by. Too many dreams of the freedom in death, massacred limped ripped to shreds in a roaring lion’s dark den. My mom says I’m oh so special. A hippie at heart, eccentric, beautiful, her best-friend. She’s the most important person in this life for me. When I told her I was bulimic I was fourteen. She told me to, “go to bed.” I cried a lot, for obvious reasons. And it wasn’t until just now that I see the resonance. ‘I’m depressed.’ go to bed. ‘I’m ugly.’ go to bed. ‘I hate myself.’ go to bed. and it all makes perfect, undeniable sense now. “go to bed.” because tomorrow is a refreshing new start. And deep sleep is better than anything else in the world. And as I grow older, “no longer impressionable” I see that there’s an incredible amount of birds in the sky, a fluttering of happiness in my thick marrow, that getting drunk and making out with a stranger is important, and you should definitely do exactly whatever the fuck you want, and take back your joy. Be a riot. Make noise. Pay attention the stirring affections life brings. Fight to define lovely.
& in case you were wondering, the last picture holds the opening for my book. A book I accepted I must write. For as freely spoken as I am, I’m terrified of transcribing my stories of eyes closed too tired, and falling in love. I’d cut my own head off if my hands weren’t too busy taking scissors to the threads that so ruthlessly keep trying to define me as mere puppet bones.
my cell phone broke yesterday, randomly, but timely. I felt so lost, momentarily. so out of tune. I literally did not know what time it was. I make shifted an old netbook to work, to reconcile that distant. thankfully, this computer sucks. it randomly inserts words where i am not typing and I have to go slow. I don’t know how to go slow. I miss this. The words coming forth so quickly, so honest. I’d write it all out if I could. that I fucking love you still, but i’m terrified. That I like someone new, but i’m terrified. Is this darkness? absolute fear to live? reliance on another human wasn’t in my five year plan.
Kind of strange that I love my kitty Indie more than I love my kitty Elton. Love is solid word though, maybe prefer or like? Indie is my first, she’s older, and she’s a torti calico bitch. She rarely likes to cuddle and she plays well with Elton and the laser pointer. Elton let’s me flip him over and rub his belly and pretend he’s in a gymnastics meet, and I don’t know, maybe I like a challenge. And maybe I’m full of shit because I think now that I’m typing this out I love them both just as much. Elton is watching me type curled up next to me right now while Indie is looking like her name curled up on the puke green vintage chair across the room.
Also, my ex boyfriend vacuumed my car while I was napping because I was sick. What is my life becoming?