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10/10/2002 entry: "I'm back"

This is all bringing me back to the past. It's almost a nice feeling, as most recollections and perceptions of all things done and gone are. Especially when I'm sitting here listening to Veruca Salt.

I remember freshman year, at the beginning of winter I think. I was really depressed. You didn't know how to help, or I was just too stubborn. I left my computer and sat on my bed right by the window, opened it a bit. And I listened to this very Veruca Salt CD, and my Hole CD. And I cried and cried. And spoke emotional words that weren't true, but that felt true. About being "stuck in my ways". I don't know, maybe I am and don't know it. But I've changed since then.

I'm almost wistful for that time. Maybe because at least then.. well, then things weren't now.

I'm craving cold winter air, listening to this CD. I want to be back in that bed, crying and singing,

"Twice bitten, twice baked.
Twice led down the same mistake.
Try me on a Saturday, try me, try me.

Fine fool for a holiday
Slow sun in a Spanish way.
One heart for one week of May...
Why me? Why me?"

I was so afraid. Maybe that's why I want to be back there. Because in all my fear, there is some kind of comfort I suppose. The comfort of deja vu, of remembering. Of feeling the same things I've felt before.

I remember being miserable. I remember pining for you; hoping for reciprocation, and yet condemning myself to a solitary life at the same time. I was so lonely here. I thought I had made a huge mistake by being independent and going off on my own. Where no one I knew was.

When I was a senior in high school, I was slightly bolder. Mostly from being sick of the same sick, neglectful faces I saw every day. Being sick of being abandoned. I wanted to abandon everyone else. Yes, I chose a college where none of those faces were going, just to spite them. I believed I would be great at college, and news would get back to them, and they would wish they had been nicer to me. That's pretty horrible, I guess. But, if you knew what some of them put me through...

But I digress. In high school I was bolder, and then when I got here I was not as bold. I was afraid. I was alone. By my birthday, I still felt like things weren't going the way I expected at college. I slept during most of my birthday, I think. Slept out of depression and emotional exhaustion. And then,... suddenly, things were different. You made them different. You made me different.

I guess I always knew my heart would be (truly) broken some day. Sure, some people had dented it. But I always was fine soon after. After all, I am the type that gets their heart broken. So innocent and naive, trying to please and yet unaware of how selfish I am being. I write everything down as if it's the first time anyone has ever felt what I'm feeling. I write prose and poems and songs about everything in my head. I'm one of those characters that says what other people are feeling. And they go, "Yeah, that's it."

I never knew I could hurt this deep, and yet I always knew I would someday. People are such amazing creatures. So many mind games, even just with themselves. Going around in circles.

I'm afraid I will never change.
It's okay, I am not ashamed.
I can say that my bed is made.
You can,
Bend me, shape me
Anyway you can.
Bend me, shape me
Anyway you want me.

I think if I were outside right now, listening to this, I would be so immersed in the past that I wouldn't even notice what was going on around me. Just close my eyes and drift backwards. It sounds wonderful right about now. I wish I could remember what kind of perfume I used to wear back then. That would just about knock me out cold. Scents always do that to me. I smell certain things and I just have these incredibly vivid memories stapled to them. It's incredible... depending on the memory I suppose.

But the good ones... the good ones are so... so.. wonderful and perfect and mind-altering. I almost feel the phrase, "Better than sex" is appropriate here, though I don't know if I'd go so far as to say that. But, it's almost there. It could be better. I think it depends on the sex you're having. And since that's what it depends on, I guess I could say, "Better than sex". Considering my incredible lack of it.

That was a hard sentence to put together. I'm still such a little girl. I'm 20 years old and squeamish about saying certain things in my journal. Incredible.

I wish I could go back to freshman year's winter. Or, near winter. Stay in my bed just like I was for a couple days, maybe a week. Listening to mood-appropriate music. Feeling the chill of winter blowing on me and my quilt, though I'm mostly stuck under it, face wet with tears. Or stained with tears long gone. Not that it's a wonderful way to feel, but the environment feels appropriate to me. I want to go back there.

I think I'm too tired to be doing this. I'm going to drop off in the computer lab. Time for bed.