my story - dedicated to nick kelly.

Help. That's what people seem to want to give you when you tell them a sad story, your sad story. But sometimes you don't want help. You simply want someone else to hear your story.

My uncle was molested in the first grade. By his principal. Skeletons in the closet.

And now he's dead.

I think everyone has a back story. They have to have one. I guess it's whether or not you're real, if you've toyed with life and it's bitten you back. Sometimes I think people haven't experienced the pain I have but maybe I'm just being selfish.

Sometimes you just want physical pain, because your emotion is long gone. Or maybe it was never there to start.

The best stories told are the true ones.

Pain. Sometimes people turn it into hatred. Hatred on others. Hatred on themselves. It all depends on strength of character. Sometimes they don't even know the pain is there, all the worse.

I have this very vivid memory. I’m 8 years old standing in the hallway of a hospital. There is a nurses station of some sort with all these life monitors. The kind with the green line that goes up and down. Sharp lines, piercing the screen. And I’m there, watching, captivated. And the monitors, a few of them, the lines are barely moving, some of them stop completely. And I'm just standing there, standing, feeling like, I dunno, powerless. People are dying and I’m standing there, just a kid.

Maybe I do more good than I think. Maybe I don't. I often wonder if other people are worth the time. Then again, I'm usually so lonely I bother with them anyway. If you can get a person to laugh, it kind of disarms them. Then you get to see they are as fragile as you. Maybe.

I seem surer of things than I am. Some people think I'm smart. It's possible but I don't see it because of all the other people out there smarter than me.

My grandmother used to press her ring finger into the base of my spine to get me to stand up straight. I was always hunched over, muddling over the idea of making a mistake. Apparently, mistakes aren't allowed. Without mistakes, how does one learn?



I sat in the corner of my graduation party, listening to my family talk about things that didn't concern me. The wine list. The work load. The mundaneness of adulthood. And I glowered at the the grim prospects of their definition of my future. I was 18, successful at unsuccess. Art school bound. Not a teacher. Or engineer. Or speech pathologist. Or veterinarian. I listened to the drone of their combined voices. Finally they addressed me, the supposed star of this disarray.
Apparently, they decided I, the one that refused to be what they wanted anyways, have a defined pattern.

Something about how all teenagers, because they know so many, hate and disrespect their parents once college starts. "You think you're so smart and know everything. You're parents are going to look like geniuses once they stop paying for you to go to college." I, the destined to be failure with goals and a dream, was apparently going to fuck it up for myself. This is after getting into college for something they didn't want me to pursue. I like the logic here.

I found out recently that i have the inability to show emotion and very badly developed emotions in general, due to the neglect from my childhood which had left me with the attachment disorder and is why im in trauma therapy.

Help. That's what people seem to want to give you when you tell them a sad story, your sad story. But sometimes you don't want help. You simply want someone else to hear your story.

My uncle was molested in the first grade. By his principal. Skeletons in the closet.

And now he's dead.

I think everyone has a backstory. They have too. I guess it's whether or not you're real, if you've toyed with life and it's bitten you back. Sometimes I think people haven't experienced the pain I have. Maybe I'm just being selfish.

Sometimes you just want physical pain, beaucse your emotion is long gone. Or maybe it was never there to start.

The best stories told are the true ones.

Pain. Sometimes people turn it into hatred. Hatred on others. Hatred on themselves. It all depends on strength of character. Sometimes they don't even know the pain is there, all the worse.

I have this very vivid memory. I’m 8 years old standing in the hallway of a hospital. There is a nurses station of some sort with all these life monitors. The kind with the green line that goes up and down. Sharp lines, piercing the screen. And I’m there, watching, captivated. And the monitors, a few of them, the lines are barely moving, some of them stop completely. And I'm just standing there, standing, feeling like, I dunno, powerless. People are dying and I’m standing there, just a kid.

So much for nanowrimo. What do I have to show for my time? Three incomplete still lives and the ability to spend a lot of time doing nothing.

Disinhibited reactive attachment disorder is quite a long title.

affect versus effect.

This is my hate anthem. Hear my roar.

It's about obsessing over the definition of beauty.
It's about worshiping what we can never be. Hollywood.
It's about brand names, spending money to feel validated.
It's about what you have, not the company you keep.
It's about being a hypocrite, wanting to stay ignorant, to hide from accountability.
It's about the white picket fence, the 2.3 children, the tire swing in the backyard.
It's called the American Dream because you have to be asleep to believe it.

It's about losing who you are to be someone else.
It's about not knowing who you are.
It's about needing others to feign self confidence.
It's about money.

b.s
m.s
ph.d

bull shit
more shit
pile it high and deep

a day late and a dollar shirt. nanowrimo has begun. things to do in support.

senior year/ my future ahead of me and a book to try and write in a month. crap. well here I am, trying ot write a book and get my art done. if i do this, i am my own here. devoid of proper grammer and capitialization.
and now, the story begins.

It's been six years now.
I have a aqua sweater. it looks good against the wood paneling in my basement. I'd rather sit against the wall than the chair.
The world has ended in a sense, at least the old world. The new community has formed. All of us, the anarchists and the dreaemrs, we have united. We formed a new place, trying to get rid of the things in us that destroyed the world.
we are the surviiors.
we are the ones destined to make the world what it was b3efgore we came
I am in the aritsts pueblo.
the mechanics base is 6 miles away.
We are all doing what we do best, our talent. and we fix the world in the process.
I do art, like I said. and I'm a medic, and a healer.
It's a lot to do.
I wouldn't change it for anything.
So you want to know how we operate, what we do. Well, it goes something like this.
there is no religion, you can marry who you want, and we all all communist. I know it's a lot to wrap your head around. Sorry. Even i have a hard time here and there. So, we all live together. and we go around with these random mystical powers that people have. you know what, let me stop myself. this is too confusing for even me right now. i had a late night.
oh, pardon me, i forgot to introduce myself. i'm Mia. The art freak. I live in a huge house with 13 other people.
It;s pretty amazing. Life is'nt perfect here. This morning I managed to dump a bag of my favorite trail mix all over the floor. Karma sucks. People were cool about it though. If I were a kid, I would have gotten called a klutz or something.
I had a weird family. My grandmother would ram her ring finger in the base of my spine to get me to stand up straight.
But anyways, that was the past I can;t change. It did leave me seclusive and bitter. The past effects us in ways we might not realize. I try to be self aware. Well, I;m here in the artists house, with the yoga and tranquility and hippies and musicians. We have a lot of pets. Lizards and dogs and such. I know I sound like I'm a pit head. i'm not. I'm just okay with life right now. People don;t hurt me here and it's something I'm not used to yet.
I sound so emo right now. I guess it;s me healing. I hope its me healing. it;s gotta be the worst thing in toe world to be nowhere, to just simply exist. yeck.
Well, here I am, Mia the girl who;s not as confident as she seems. Not that doesn;t men I;m a fake. i don;t think itdoes. i think it just makes me human.

so there;s this guy i like. i don;t know if he even sees me. i'm so screwed up from past relationships i don;t know how to get his attention. His name is Josh, he lives in the mechanics base. he wakes up and thorws clothes on. I admire that, I wish I could be that carefree. Girls care a lot about how they look so boys will notice them, but boys don;t seem to care at all about how they look sometimes. So why do the girls try so hard?
I don't know where I'm getting at with all this. I just think up random things. DId you ever notice that from July to November it spell out Jason? Or did you ever stop and wonder where homeless people get the cardboard and sharpies for their signs. and if they are outside so much, how come the signs stay in so good of condition.
I complain too much to. Complain to Josh. Everytime I see people i like I complian. I don;t get it. Saw him earlier, walking around, enjoying the air, I like that about him. He doesn't survive, he lives.
I think he's smart. He doesn't. he thinks I'm smart, I don't think i am.
Sometimes I;m lonely after the day ends. When I'm in my room listening to people laughing downstairs.They wouldn;t care if I joined them but something is hold me back.