Guzzled sangria on an empty stomach. I feel amazing and fucking awful. Eating my emergency walnuts to stop the stomach pain. But how nice to fear a little less.

Things to ask my therapist:

Why do I keep doing things that tweak my back?

Why can't I clear the table, shower, or go outside? What's stopping me?

Why do I not communicate, and then feel bad no one wants to reach out to me? Why won't I ask for help?

Why do people describe sex as "fun"? It's delightful and involved, but necessary. It's a need, not a desire. "Fun" is a roller coaster or a game of tag or an inky pen flowing smoothly, or a comedian, or Uno. Sex is filling. It turns into a body-leaving experience. It is not "fun." It's where my body feels the bliss that is usually reserved for my mind. And the mind drifts away.

 New Year's Eve. The fireworks are starting early, and I'm good with that. Lily is scrunched against my legs. It was overcast and holidayish earlier. Rewatched episodes of my Guilty Pleasure for the 12th time? T went somewhere; K is in her room. Feel very all alone. These weird evening sorrows (so like my childhood thoughts)--what to say about them? They are a source of comfort to me. Would company help me anyway?

 State of flux, on the cusp, going thru some personal rite of passage. Half a century alive in human form. In a human's body. My body. That's a milestone. Same age as hip hop. Comical, that.

But, right?!? Need to decide on my Path. Is it cats or violet and periwinkel oil pastels or is it X or is it chauvin--a letter to him in prison--or is it Food or is it collage or is it pharmacy or is it library or is it Shoah or is it film or plays or is it Memoirs (although all I can report are impressions and not many external to my Psyche) or is it to sit and ponder in the Darkness or is it to witness dawn's approach or is it to love and admire art on Pinterest or is it to portray people with paint or pencil or chalk or oil pastels?

 I would very much like a cappuccino right now. In a thick white cappuccino mug.

 I've been reading Rollof Thunder Hear My Cry, and last night that Echo and the Bunnymen song, so that may have dredged my emotions. 

It's crazy how 1986-1989 seemed like decades to me. Three crazy fuckin' years. Puberty will mess with your mind. Hell, 1988 to 1989 was a blitzkrieg. In the world, but also personally. 

 It's winter, just after Christmas. I feel I am headed into it. It's still impending.

The dark wilderness

 Sex hunger

Food hunger

Sad song hunger

Crush hunger

Sleep hunger

Water hunger

Flying hunger

I am aware of E. at all times.

Calmite.

 Okay, so another song too much for my little soul. Goddamn it, I forgot what darkness has been in me since 6th grade. Thought it didn't show up till 8th grade. Jesus. I was an alto in choir and we'd show up for practice before school started. Sometimes it would still be dark out. I did like choir. Still have my little gold pin somewhere. Was it hormones that dented my mind? Dad left the military and came back home to stay. My eldest brother went off to college. Mom, my younger sister, and other brother still lived with us at home, so why do I remember being alone? That's when sad music possessed me. It was exquisite? The longing, so piercing. I get tears now just thinking of how the pining for that town in Oregon took my breath away. Gave me goosebumps. Not even my crushes could make me feel quite the same way. And that night camping with the Girl Scouts when, in my tent, I realized I wouldn't find anyone who would look at the stars the way I do. In the beautiful charcoal-navy sky.