11:31am
Good morning!!
The queen of oversharing is back, testing her limits on this fine morning of May 19th, 2026, Tuesday.
I watched a movie, on Sunday night, called Kramer vs. Kramer. I had thought about watching it when I was younger, perhaps 14, and decided not to because I didn't want to watch something without a happy ending. As I am getting older, though, I am realizing that some endings can be happy because the story was happy, and the ending doesn't necessarily destroy what happened before; hence, it is indirectly, a happy ending.
I am clawing free of a phone addiction (I had somewhat decreased this addiction over lent, but alas, when I rely on myself, all bad things come crawling back, because life always starts to drown me. Oh Peter, Peter . . .)
I snapped a guitar string last night. The same one I always do. The reason I have a little bag of just that string sitting for replacement.
Two things that represent trauma symbolically:
1. Burns. Have you ever noticed that when you burn yourself, and the scar feels heat (usually the newer it is), it makes you flinch? It hurts because you remember the evil pain. I think that when we say we are "scarred", it is usually more of sarcastic trauma, or one you suffered as a child and aren't as afraid of anymore (like something you saw on the internet), but I think "scarred", and as a sidenote, I think scar tissue should become more of a term that we use for emotional and mental wounds, such as Anthony Kedis was perhaps trying to do with the song 'Scar Tissue', but I think we should be using scarred as a term for true trauma. Not "true", that was a bad choice of words. All trauma is true if it is indeed trauma, and no trauma should be discredited, but what I am trying to say without getting in the way of myself is that we should be using "scarred" as a choice for current trauma, instead of past trauma. I don't know if this is making any sense, and everything, especially language sometimes, is very layered. Anyway . . .
The second one is
2. Snapped guitar strings. I was just talking about this, and I bring it up again because it happened just last night and my thoughts after it happened are, obviously, fresh in my memory. When you snap a guitar string it's not that the string is scary, or that the noise is particularly shrill (unless you snap the smallest one? I don't remember if I have done that or not). It's just so Loud. It's not bone shattering, it just resounds through your body like an unanticipated gong. It's not "oh no I woke everyone up with that noise", because most likely, it being a rather dull noise, no one heard it but you. It is more of an "I just woke up every piece inside my own body with that noise". And after it happens, you're more or less shook. I think the first times it happens you are more afraid and trembling, but the next couple of times you are shook but calm. It is always a small earthquake when you snap a guitar string and the remembrance of such a feeling and such a noise is very similar to mental or emotional trauma. But even that is not simply my point. I will reach my point in a moment. After snapping said string . . . ACTUALLY I don't remember my point. Maybe that simply was my point. I don't know anymore. I should pick up the guitar to see if I can remember.
Well, my rambling about trauma is more or less finished for now, (I don't think I will ever stop talking about it though), and I am sitting on my bed. I have not changed out of my pajamas because I am cleaning my room, and while that technically has nothing to do with cleaning my room, it's just because they're easier to move around in.
I saw a video of a man on Instagram rating the 8 books he's read this year (jealousy ensued because I am foolish), and they were
1. The count of monte cristo
2. The brothers Karamazov
3. war and peace
4. lonesome dove
5. rebecca
6. stoner
7. the hobbit
8. fellowship of the ring
And the way he felt about the count of monte cristo is how I feel about David Copperfield. It is "my whole heart".
I am rambling on about nothing because I need to empty myself like a garbage can. I love talking, I love writing, I love rambling, but the thing about writing and why is infinitely better than talking is because it doesn't drain me like talking does. Talking has an emotional weight that it carries with it that deters me from talking. In fact it is very hard for me to talk. As a child my whole family knows that I would talk just to talk. But now I am a mute. Not really, but people say hi, they say good morning, they make a witty comment, and all I can do is make them uncomfortable or disinterested by smiling, nodding, laughing - I cannot open my mouth. Nothing comes out. I talk to people and I almost always say too much. And maybe they're not thinking as unkindly as I feel like they are - when people are talking to me, I am not thinking unkind things, but I am not voicing my opinions either and for that I feel just as much in the wrong as if I was thinking or saying bad things. It is so hard for me to talk, so I have almost 1,000 poems, and I have many diaries, and I have prose piling up in my binders. It is so hard to talk, and it is so hard to sing, but my head can sing, my head can dance, and say everything I want to. But it is so hard to open the mouth, to move the body, to actually become real in front of people. I am not real. I am not real like everyone else is real. We are all real, but I feel locked outside of an invisible bubble - it is shocking for me to try to fit in and not even fit in but to act like a human in front of others who were born 'normal'. I don't want to be normal or surface level, I just want to exist and not feel utterly humiliated. There is no winning: the price we pay for difference and uniqueness and to be interesting, is to feel different. to know the difference inside and out and have it rushing over your body and bones and muscles and thoughts and words and smiles and reactions and the songs in your head like painful water, calm and slow, constant and steady, rushing and shoving ligaments of the heart where they ought not to be - but they have no other place. It often comes out in tears.
But today I get to clean my room, and go to work, and enjoy life, and it doesn't really matter if I am destroyed inside 50% of the time, or whatever - I am mostly disappointed in myself for letting my phone addiction take hold and exist. Oh how I long for a landline. At least a flip phone? I wish I didn't have to have apps to be connected, it makes me feel so angry. I would rather be disconnected at this point. What would it change?
Anyways, my sister signed a lease, so I will go ahead and cosign - 5 more days til I move myself outta here!!! :D
