6.20.25 + 9:01 PM

STOVETOP MISHAP

i really just feel out of it. i was away for a while, i stayed at my cousins again. i threw up in my mouth a lot. we made big fires in the fire pit outside. we talked about disabilty and blood and evil. there is truly something sick inside the people in this "f********m*******ly".

we baked a chai spice bundt cake, a trifle with choco pudding, flourless brownies, and whipped cream and oreos, we made sugar and chocolate chip cookies and made ice cream sandwhiches, we made banana oat chocolate chip cookies, chocolate oreo cookies, and lemon curd shortbread cookies. that's a lot of baking, but there's not much else to do. it's strange, when i look out at the top of the hill through the trees below, and watch the storm winds rock the leaves back and forth, i feel this forlorn sense of what could have been, even if living in that house is in its own way very painful. i liked making the fires. we threw paper bags and cardboard stick and pinecones that snapped like fireworks, we burned the matchbox, and my cousins called me a "little match girl". i thought it was funny, i liked lighting the matches. i made the end of my poking stick into charcoal, and drew and wrote on the bricks on the fire pit. we made smores too.

currently reading neige sinno's "Sad Tiger". i really like the book. somehow i flew through Tampa by Alyssa Nutting, but Sad Tiger wears me out until i lay there on the carpet and just stare aimlessly at the midnight light coming through the window. its very poignant, i think the translation from french is very good. whenever i try to talk or think about deeper stuff, im shallow and my hand hits the wall, like fish smacking into the glass. there's a reflection there, but nowhere else to go. i feel as though my mental faculties are locked up and inaccessible to me. i read what i write, and it's like my hand is searching in the dark and fog, cool and almost forming a shape, but there's nothing. when i want to talk about the firepits, or what i discussed, it's like everything gets shut off. i'm so frustrated. i just don't know how to fix this. maybe i've damaged myself from not sleeping, and now my memory has gone rotten.

6.5.25 + 10:32 PM

DRY SEASON

my life has devolved into frantic spraying of piss on the wall, and expecting to make a painting rivaling heaven. reading books feels like contemptuous torture, as i just begin loathe and shame myself into mental submission. therapy has gone from fine and exploratory, to rapidly deteriorating into sobbing. i got very loud in therapy, and my therapist nicely told me that i should not be too loud, as to not disturb the other patients, and also because it may trigger others in other rooms. i then burst into hysterical tears, at the disclipline, no matter how small or well meaning. it was humiliating, and my own shame and rage at my disgusting sobbing made me more mad and inconsolable. i felt as though every attempt my therapist made to calm me down was an offense, though i did not say anything about that feeling. i left the session after our time was up and screamed and cried in the car, clawing at the seatbelt and windows and feeling as though my heart and lungs were tissue paper, unfeeling, my cries were heartless, meaningless, and my soul was dead and festering ash coolness inside of nowhere.

my cousins had to put one of their cats down, one since i have known since it was a kitten, and my last stint living in their house that cat slept ontop of me, and let me rub its belly. i loved especially to brush his beautiful long fur, and scratch his big fluffy cheeks. he was only 7 years old. his brother is still alive, but i am worried for that too. i am worried for a lot of things, and afraid most of the time.

i feel- and i know- i was forsaken before i could ask for forgiveness. it's just like, organs are all ash, cool and soft, that this body has been so tugged open like seam ripping down my whole center. what real hope is there for this kind of abomination, a kind of living beyond when i was to be cleansed and strangled from this earth. in every definition of the word, i'm a zombie. psychologically, physically, both exist in a kind of half-life state of broken down continuance.

i took a bath tonight, and laid in there and enjoyed the stinging nerve death in the boiling water. i tried to paint the other day, but i had forgotten how. i just want to feel clean, and safe. i go for another week long living at my cousin's soon, so, i hope it will be theraputic.

i feel so forsaken and sick. i feel like i ruined everything with my new therapist. i didn't want to cry, but i burst into tears without my control, the feeling of being "in trouble" felt as though i had to beg for my life, like i was about to die. not in a perceptual logical way, but in an animalistic, little, terrorizing way, and i just began to cry hysterically. i am so scared she'll fire me from being her client. i feel so sick. i'm infected all over and rotting all over the place, and my skin and muscles slough off everywhere and it's so disgusting.

it feels like i'll never be pure. i can't think rationally. i'm so sick. it's all over for me it feels like. there's no angels around me at all, and everything is quiet and dark and cold, and it feels like i'm so unforgiven and disgusting. i'm so disgusted with myself.