| The End. |
[25 May 2006|07:19pm] |
I'm am standing on the top of a fence, trying to balance and decide which side to jump to: past or present. But the future is the only thing really motivating me to jump, and who knows where that is. Because to be honest, the present is horrible. The most horrible I've ever felt in my entire life.
Me and my father are depressed as hell, but atleast we're acknowledging it together. I have nightmares and dreams every night about my mother. About us being connected through IV's and being sick together, about her waking up from the coma she was in, about when I was a little girl, about the last time I ever spoke to her when she grabbed my face so hard and kept kissing it and telling me that she loved me so much it hurt.
I've been living a pretty surreal life since my mother died. It's only starting to hit me now. And "it" is reality. Everything reminds me of her; my best friend. Everything reminds me that she's gone. Everything reminds me that no one can help me out of this one. And everything reminds me that nothing will ever be the same again. The amount of grief in my heart is enough to drowned me, but the amount of love won't let me go under. And it's those days when I'm sitting in my backyard in the grass, and the wind feels like the biggest arms wrapped around me. It's then that I know I am not as lonely as I think.
I recently sat in a bar in Park Slope, drunk off free shots of whiskey and Stella Artois, speaking with Clancy about the future. "Life is great," he said. "And it's only going to get better." He's right. Look at me. As horrible as I feel the majority of the time, my future looks pretty tempting. I'm getting out and I'm growing up.
It's the days when you spend time with the best people, and you know they really mean it. Like laying in the grass by the river with Noah and making plans to drive west together in August. Or sitting with Krista on my fire escape and talking about how life is pretty terrible right now. Or driving in Micah's car with the windows down singing songs so loud that my throat hurts. Or crying for hours to Aria, and her sitting there and listening for as long as I need it. Or laughing hysterically with my family, and reading books with Jaclyn.
It's those day when you're pretty invinsible, and everything is so clear. You know exactly what you have to do, and what you need to do it. Who you want to be around for the rest of your life, and who is just dragging you down. Meeting the absolutely best new people, and thinking that they're going to be the ones who save everything. Everything is so clear and simple, and you know exactly what is going to happen next because you're going to make sure of it. And the whole entire time, my mom's going to be with me, hugging me tight with the biggest arms in the air.
Life is fucking hard, man. No one said it was going to be easy, but no one ever said it was going to be this hard. As far as I know, this is the worst it can get. Things can only go up from here. It's hard balancing on this fence, but I can't jump to one side or the other. I have to just jump straight up.
This journal will be deleted by the weekend. You can reach me at:
Cynthia Schemmer
245 Johnson Ave. Apt 1
Brooklyn, NY, 11206
or
516 680 7701
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[11 May 2006|03:33am] |
"I remember having times of being glad that it was out of my mind. being relieved for other thoughts, like spark plugs, petty things. But for the most part, I never got to talk about it enough. I turned down invitations from acquaintances but it was because they were offered as distractions, and I couldn't be around groups of people, I had no extra energy to extend. I didn't want to hear or see other people's projects or hear their problems. I didn't trust myself to get on the subway and ever get off.
I know people don't know what to do, and that is why I am telling you this. That, and really, what else can I do.
When my mom died, I felt like an alien, like a leper. I am telling you, don't shy away. Mothers die. It is an interesting subject. Ask questions and keep your opinions to yourself. I felt like I needed very little, or a lot, but simple things. To be cooked for, to talk, flowers, sympathy, some distraction, some small talk, but mostly to be held.
I wanted to tell stories. wanted to explain what it was like; tell the childhood stories that I used to hold such stake in, used to think those stories held the key to anyone truly understanding me, and I wanted true understanding, believed it was possible and good. I told the stories obsessively, not obsessively but with calculated precision. If I got the right response, I would open myself up more. I would let myself care more. But it was tricky because even I did not know what the right reaction was.
Later I decided these stories were not so important. I had grown up and had plenty of other things under my belt that had made me. But when my mother died, I wanted to tell the stories.
I wanted to be asked "what was she like?" and I was asked this question I suppose, though I couldn't say for sure. I was cooked for and held, but it was so constant, so heavy, always there.
Asked the wrong question would have been better than none. Every morning I cried, and frustrated crying because I did not know if I was still crying for her, or crying because I did not know how to get what I needed.
Now it has been four months, and the shock is finally starting to wear away, and I feel like I'm just now starting the hard part. It is like one of Caty's farmers market customers said. The customers, they seem to have known more about death and how to be supportive than anyone else did. One of them brought pictures. Another said this: It is going to be hard, hard for a really long time. Long after everyone else has forgotten all about it, it's still going to be really hard for you.
and this is true." - DORIS #18
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| you can't have your cake and eat it too. |
[10 Apr 2006|11:26pm] |
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My dad used to buy me "illegal" pogs from China that were sold in the old hobby shop on Hempstead Turnpike. They had stills from Disney movies printed on them, but they were bootlegged, I guess. I had Lion King, Beauty and the Beast, and Bambi. The Bambi pogs were my favorite. I hid them all in my underwear drawer, because my dad would say, "Disney didn't say it was okay to make these." I didn't even know how to play! We were just really into showing off our really cool pogs, except I couldn't even show off the coolest pogs I had because I was scared of being arrested. So every day I would put on my Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Saturday or Sunday underwear (I lost Friday), and I would lay the contraband on the floor and think about how they were even cooler than ever because they were such a really bad and really good secret.
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[31 Mar 2006|01:04am] |
Three recent things:
Joining the community ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/community.gif) baaaaabyanimals may be the best or worst thing I've ever done in my entire life.
I've realized that the only reason I ever had a crush on a boy with blonde hair was because I subconsciously thought I was kissing Leonardo Dicaprio in Romeo + Juliet.
The little girl I babysit stole a bag of M+M's from the grocery store, right in front of me. I saw the whole thing go down. She thought she was so smooth, and I never said a word.
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[28 Mar 2006|10:28pm] |
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| MISSION #1 |
[15 Feb 2006|12:15am] |
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Find a photograph or draw (by hand or with MS PAINT - this method preferred over photographs) someone riding on a bear's back and post it here.
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| PT. II |
[05 Feb 2006|04:24am] |
there's a monster puking in the heating system!
there's a ghost train in these woods!
remember when we hydroplaned and almost died?
hoorah! i made you a cassette tape
hoorah! please have the equiptment to listen
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| PT. I |
[03 Feb 2006|02:35am] |
there's a party outside my door
but what they don't know is
there is a party behind my door
hoorah! take it easy
hoorah! play it cool
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