imp-journals

[imp-journals]

entry 11: "inexistence"

February 24th, 2025 This is an entry prompted by my therapist.

Grand smiles, warm hugs, soft carpets and plush couches with glistening eyes and lightened words. The perfect scene born from nothing. Hardships dismissed and boxed in dark closets, forgotten without any reason. It’s hollow and a mere touch away from being broken. It’s perfect. So why doesn’t it exist?

Its fragility is a testament to its inexistence, its perfection a fever dream. Effort would make it real, but it isn’t so. The sharpened glass splinters are preferable over the aggressively gaping hole. At least you can treat an injury, but what do you treat when the problem isn’t there? Broken glass exists and can be mended, but a lack of effort is not a tangible injury. Stitches and bandages cannot land on the edges of the hole, cannot sew the sinew together.

If perfection was in hand, so too would rage. What is the point of pain if it does naught but continue endlessly? If there were an end point in view prior to perfection, I’d be steps closer to accepting it.

But there isn’t an end point.

There’s a lack of effort. A hole.

An inexistence of reason for continued pain.

[imp-journals]

entry 10: "black ice"

December 17th, 2024

Mawing, gaping, the shadow that never leaves long enough to be mourned. The black oil shade that constricts without compassion nor discerning whom its ire falls upon next. Sometimes being forgotten is the lesser evil when the alternative is to not exist at all. They care sweetly and smile with warmth, until they don’t. Afraid of where the impossible lines may lie, and gasping for air when they’re incidentally crossed. Lines crossed, communication delayed and decayed. One after another, forming an isolating pattern of tearing absences.

And then you’re building the bricks of your walls up again, forming your defense from anger. From hurt. Guilt. Shame. Insecurity. Anxiety. Pain.

From feelings. Apathy becomes you, and you become apathy. It’s a comfortable bone chilling cold, one you wear like a second skin. Arrows of sorrow chip and fall as they fail to find a weak point. Swords of frustration scrape and squeal as they slide and drift from the choking protection. Fire dies before even touching your ice, having no hopes of melting you. The ice is black, a void resembling your own self-made purgatory. Everyone around you is present, save for yourself, but you’re finally functioning again.

Slowly, you let the colors bleed back into sight. You let them eat away at the edges, testing the bounds and patience you’re regrowing. You hesitantly and cautiously give them inches at a time, watching with a scornful eye to guard your safety nets preciously. Desperately. You need this to work, as the black ice is evaporating you from within your walls. So, you do. You let inches become feet, until they have enough room to breathe and relax. They can’t move just yet, but they’re not struggling to exist anymore.

You get better. You can breathe again.

Until you can’t.

He’s gone again, and it suddenly comes crashing back. Everything loses its light immediately, and you’re once again in a pool of black. It’s already frosting and freezing around the edges, and the water pricks at you as you watch the ice closing in around you. It advances and creeps forward, as if sporting a gleeful and sadistic grin. “He left,” it coos softly, regaining your exhausted loyalty and desperation. “He abandoned you, just like before. But I’m still here. I always am, and will be for as long as you.”

Progress regresses before the point of where it all started, of when it began. This time, a crater is left where you had lain in the heart of your castle. The stone you had once believed to be indestructible and safe now is scattered in the cold, lifeless rubble. The ice is frozen, cementing your vulnerabilities having been extorted.

Apathy becomes you, so you drown in nothing once more.

[imp-journals]

entry 9: "sounds"

December 10th, 2024

Twisted, turned, revolving and spinning while my heart rams faster with each breath. Curious about the words being said, surprised by the sounds, caught off guard by the realizations. One after another in rapid succession, no longer impeded by the haze. Thoughts churning, choppy yet clear as crystal. Guilted over hearing, torn up over the decision to stop. It’s made and unmade several times, giving in to temptations before resolving willpower to quiet everything with music. Wanting, wishing, yearning to tell you, but not knowing why. To be honest? To inform you? To confide in you? To seek solace? Comfort?

Reasons unknown, yet still everpresent. Reasons yet providing anxiety. Anxiety preventing sleep, only increasing in the yearning, but for a much more uncontrollable reason. Guilt over wanting, self-shamed over listening and indulging in sounds not meant for me. I know your feelings, and they’re not for me. I was content with this for years, until we met in person again after nearly a decade separated by screens. Old wants rekindled, requiring retaming. Reboxing. Reburying. I was so good at compartmentalizing and hiding difficult feelings before you. Before the haze. Both disallow me from hiding, from boxing and burying. It’s uncomfortable to face my feelings when I’ve grown accustomed to cutting them off and isolating them to be stored away.

How do I face this, I wonder? Though by accident, I heard you. I heard sounds unmeant for my ears. Sounds that can’t be unheard. Sounds that ring and echo within my mind, no end in sight. Writing has slowed my heart to its typical pace, however I am still encapsulated by this… situation. I heard you, and I shouldn’t have. I have guilt and self-administered shame. I can’t tell if I should or not, nor if I should tell. Either way, those are the feelings I face.

[imp-journals]

entry 8: "shadows"

November 9th, 2024

Hiding, masking, cloaking, covering, always keeping parts tucked away. Never letting the light reflect them, never letting mirrors embody them. Sometimes they surface when surrounded by lonely walls, only to shift their shadows to other parts soon hidden. The whole picture never truly complete, always fractured and fragmented. I doubt even I know the full mural of pain.

Memories of empty rooms and echoed sobs lurk, presenting as reminders of vulnerability. I hear the glass squeal and shriek as the bulletproof window cracks over time. I’ll mend it with laughs and hugs, though it never fully lasts. Each crack acts as a groove, a guide for the next wave of pain to extort and reawaken. Always left red and angry, never alone long enough for my mind to scar over and forget.

Pockets of joy cushion those hidden parts, blurring them past the bounds of remembrance. If only they stayed away. The pain creeps and stalks, an unwanted old friend waiting for you with open arms. It knows you’ll return again, it’s simply a matter of when “next time” is. Honeyed words covering subtle poisons buzz quietly in your ear, hovering over truthfully sweet sentiments said by real friends. Enough to cause doubt. Enough to make those wide arms seem more inviting. Enough to dip into denial, to trick yourself into believing that shadow isn’t so bad. It always is. It’s a rose’s thorn, so obvious in the pain it causes, yet you forgive it in favor of seeing its beauty.

Some nights I sigh in relief, almost appreciating its presence. Its dependability can sometimes be a tentative comfort.

[imp-journals]

entry 7: "the why"

November 7th, 2024

Blinding feeling, burning, freeing, kneeling for understanding. Getting from A to B, knowing how but not why. Sometimes why but not how. Most times neither. Wondering if the why matters when the how gets it done. Realizing that of course the why matters, but not knowing how to know. A torrential river to cross with no boat in sight, only oars.

Sometimes knowing what to ask but not to whom. Sometimes having many people to ask, then blanking on the questions. What do I need to know? What do I want to know? What should I know?

Who am I without anyone to define me? I look through others’ eyes, mirrors laying upon mirrors reflecting fractions and distortions with mostly truths. I know who I am in their world. I know that part of me. But when I gather the parts and stitch them together, I come up with holes and stretched seams. Parts of me missing within myself needing oars.

I wish my mind had a megaphone to reach itself with. I know how I cope, but why is that the how I’ve chosen? I know how I write stories, but what is the why behind it? I know how they’re connected. Why eludes me.

I tell my best friend and coauthor frequently that I think in vibes, and she knows this better than most. She knows firsthand, presenting me with conclusions she’d thought I’d planned out when in reality, it’s the first time I’d ever really thought about it like that. Rather than planning a scene with words, I’ll play it out in my head like an emotional star map. The words flow freely, carrying my world with ease as I guide with my keys and smoothly present intense and colorful lives in the pages. Heartbroken tears and haughty belting laughter brings me pride, having provoked such reactions. I seek to create feeling through worlds of realistic fantasy, posing similarities and lives to fall into. I weave the parts of people with the mirrors of characters. When desperation and turmoil strike the character, it’s reflected in them. That brings me satisfaction, relief, completion.

Why? Perhaps to give insights to others I wish for myself. Perhaps because I cope with apathy, by electing to not feel anything at all when the pain is all I can feel in the moment. Eliciting strong emotions through my artful writing makes me feel pride. Makes me feel satisfied. Makes me feel accomplished. Makes me feel. And I know part of the why, more and more.

[imp-journals]

entry 6: "troubles"

October 18th, 2024

Twisting, turning, tearing at my insides while I plaster a wide grin on my face. I bare none of my worries plainly, my troubles fading under scrutiny. Only while in the light, though. Nasty little things, troubles. Coming out when it’s nearly the least opportune time, usually without warning or even cause. Sometimes all the cause they need is simply to exist, to remind you that you’re not alone. They’ll keep you sweating on cold nights, hyperventilating in open rooms. They’ll keep you company while refuting and disregarding your words begging otherwise.

The smile I act out works against me, too. Its purpose is to dissuade others from worrying too much about me, yet it seems to go too far. One turns to two, then a few until it’s many. Many complimenting me on how well I’m handling myself considering all that I’m going through. Many outright telling me they couldn’t even tell I was anxious at all.

Scratching, scathing, burning in my throat, my troubles clawing to break free. To make me break down. Some of the many assigning blame for my troubles on the season, as if that would be the cause for all of my issues. They’re well meaning, but there are too many stories and fables detailing why well meaning people are often more dangerous than malintents. In their honeyed words laced with attempted reassurances, they end up holding my head down while I drown.

Ticking, clicking, clock counting seconds I’m terrified to waste. When you’ve picked out your own urn, time becomes a dichotomy of nothing and everything. What had owned your attention quickly loses importance, and things overlooked suddenly are granted second and third chances. Glances turned into longing stares, thoughts stepping deeper and deeper into a fathomless ocean. There’s a certain peace in lifely terror. A peace in letting go. Not of everything. Not yet.

Friends scared and concerned, unable to help because even you’re unsure of what they can do. They do their best, but you know they yet feel inadequate. They hesitate to accept anything you offer, worried they take advantage of you. You want nothing more than to give what you can, while you’re still able to. While you’re still here. You understand their concerns and truly you relate, despite how much you wish things were different.

As I write, I find I’m distancing myself from my feelings once more by instead writing in second person. I suppose if I separate myself from my jumbling words, maybe I won’t find them as pertinent. If only, if only.

A friend recently marveled at how wonderful it would be if a doctor one day found a cure for whatever cruel illness haunts me. It was beautifully bittersweet, having him hope for me in such a way. I envied him for it, yet I still couldn’t escape that eternal voice wondering when his hope would die as mine had. Even now, it wonders which will die first; his hope, or my life. It’s a morbid curiosity, one I’d rather not entertain, even if only for the sake of my friends.

I’ll be making a call in the morning, asking how much time nine hours is worth waiting for. How much money it’s worth doling out to fan or smother the weak embers of reborn hope. Less reborn, more undead. It creeps in the back of my mind, lurking with an aggravatingly light step. It should be dead. Then again, so should I. Perhaps it’s borrowed that trait from me.

[imp-journals]

entry 5: "hopes"

October 8th, 2024

Booming, banging, clattering, a physicality in my chest that will not be ignored. Sickness unnamed, possibly meant to be named after me. It’s claimed me five times so far, yet I live out of spite. Symptoms mirroring and echoing that of known syndromes, diagnoses handed over to shut me up. Medicines tried and failed, but shamed by doctors for not using them anymore. Doctors giving up instead of the patient. Rather, they gave up first. They shake their heads when I self-treat, discounting it while pawning me off onto the next specialist, then the next. Tests ordered, completed, redone. Too many needles, my veins shying away from the outside. They’re giving up too, tired of being tapped without an end in sight. All replicating each other, none daring to try anything new. The status quo only benefits those detached from the situation.

This is one hope I’ve managed to quash- the hope of recovering, of getting better from this shapeless illness. I’ve learned and relearned how to live with it, how to placate it in the hopes of not troubling others. The hope of getting better died in me over a year ago when I’d had my second and third deaths. Not metaphorically, I have died five times so far due to this condition. Unknown, yet uncomfortably familiar with me. I’ve fainted more times than there are stars in the sky, all without answers. Perhaps that’s one of the reasons I like the stars; they’re simple, beautiful, and they don’t take anything from you. They simply exist.

Hope is a cruel thing, as it often provides unfounded optimism. It’s a melancholic funeral to lose hope, but I think with a clearer head without it. Worse than the pain of hope is to lose it yet find it still sparking in others. To pity or support is a question I find I ask myself when confronted with friends’ hope in my recovery. If I’ve lost hope in my own recovery, how do they keep their hope alive? How does it not scald them to hold? Will the time come for me to soothe their burns? I hope not, ironically. There are few hopes I still hold onto with the stubbornness of an old married couple, and one such hope is that of my friends’ peace of mind.

[imp-journals]

entry 4: "reluctant reliance"

October 7th, 2024

Listless, living lazily in wait. It feels so fast with them, but not rushed. Never rushed. It’s only been a few days, but texting them isn’t the same as sitting in the large muttering room, or on the outskirts of the peaceful fountain. Typing on keyboards isn’t the same as hearing 2 and 3 completing each other’s thoughts aloud, trading facts of ships with grins and joy. Tapping on screens isn’t the same as 1 and I sharing mirthful glances, enjoying as we watch the other two recount historical battles, sharing namesakes and interests alike. They’re a wonderful group. We’re a wonderful group.

It’s often hard remembering to include myself. I find it difficult to let myself rely on others, but they make it less of a task. They’re nearly as stubborn as I am, and even now that fact brings a smile to my face. 1 is making an effort to learn sign language, to communicate when I can’t voice myself in overwhelming times. 2 is a solid rock, providing calm comfort through soft words. 3 checks on me, gently prodding until he manages to make me smile or even laugh. 3 opens his arms and squeezes tightly when I need deep pressure to quell my nerves. 1 watches, caring and closely noting minute changes in my mannerisms. 2 distracts me, sewing time-worn tales of old wars to let me slip away from my troubles. They make it easier for me to accept their help, one shuffling step at a time.

While one stress after another dog piles on top of me and seeps in like an infection, I’m learning to rely on them for small things. It’s a process, but they’re patient. They’re stubborn. I am too, but I’m finding reason to curb that tendency, that instinct. I’m grateful for them.

And though it’s only been a few days behind screens, I miss them. I’ll see them in a day or two, of that I have no doubt, but I miss them all the same.

[imp-journals]

entry 3: "hunger"

October 7th, 2024

Sacrifice is noble, until it isn’t. But where’s the line? I eat away at myself to feed others, uncaring for the hunger pangs in my heart. I don’t take from myself out of malice or lack of self-care, rather I enjoy seeing others having fuller plates. Hunger is an unfortunate consequence of giving, but one that I’ll gladly accept. Despite this, I rarely accept from their plates. I can’t bear the thought of being the reason for their missing pieces, yet I’ll take from myself so easily.

At least I’m used to hunger. It’s not so bad once it stops hurting. When it becomes so deep and all-consuming, the pain quiets down as if taking pity. It gives you a break, but does not disappear altogether. It lingers like a parasitic shadow, watching and waiting to come again.

Hunger is an old friend to me, one that I greet with a tight lipped smile and dulled eyes. I’ll weather the hunger if it means my friends never have to. I’ll withstand more than I’m meant to with a grin on my face, not a single complaint. I know they can barely stand the hunger, so I take it instead. The one thing I will take from them.

[imp-journals]

entry 2: "forgotten"

October 7th, 2024

Twisting, turning, winding through old alleys with new shoes. Same path, same person. Just a new day, a new reason. Feeling forgotten, left out, gently laid on the wayside yet left all the same. Watching cars I know pass by, waving. Occasionally I’ll get a smile or even a greeting, but left all the same. I love laughing and looking out of those car windows, though it feels less often. I wonder if the feeling lies bittersweetly, or if I’m slowly becoming… less. Less wanted, less seen, less needed. I like being needed. It makes the hope bleed away for a while, and I belong. I have a reason for being, rather than floating along or lagging behind. Or being forgotten. The forgetting hurts worse than the hope. I can live with the hope, I can cope. Being forgotten is hard to contend with, it steals from you slowly. Too slow to notice, but once you do it finishes in an instant. Too fast to fight. If it’s even worth fighting. If they forget, is there a reason to fight? I wonder if that melancholic voice is born from lies again, or if it’s an unwanted truth.

No matter how bright the stars twinkle and shine at night, all I see are beautiful browns. They haven’t forgotten, at least.

[imp-journals]

entry 1: "I’d give every star in the sky..."

context: I decided I would give journaling a try since I've been incredibly stressed lately, and I figured why not make a public journal. I write stories as a hobby and I enjoy sharing my writing, which I suppose has carried over to this. anyways, if people happen to read this blog and relate, you're welcome to stick around.

October 6th, 2024 (posting on the 7th but it was written yesterday)

Supportive, caring you. Always on my mind, my brain and heart warring over you. I know you said you’re not interested, yet my heart still hopes. Your eyes make me feel energized yet calm, electrified yet comfortable. Beautiful browns, soothing, searching for comfort. We’re mirrored in pain, comforting yet unable to comfort fully. We know each other through ourselves, but there’s so much more to uncover. Your perfect ramblings of wars and ships keep me captivated and enraptured, holding onto your every word. I still hope, but I know not to. I respect your refusal, but I still hope. I wish I didn’t. I want to move past it and focus on our friendship… every time I lean on you gives me another inch of hope. I don’t want the hope. It hurts. I enjoy you, and I want that to be enough. But I hope. I want. I wish I didn’t. I wondered what your curly hair would feel like if I ran my fingers through it… I found out, that night under the stars. As jarringly beautiful as the sky is, I couldn’t bring my mind away from how soft your hair felt. How perfect it was to smooth my hands through it, over it. To just feel you beneath my hand. Your comforting presence, close and warm. I wish I didn’t hope. Your eyes, they flit back and forth, searching for something in my own when I answer you. I wonder if you find it. I wonder what runs through your mind, and I wonder what determination you make when you accept my answers. It’s that look on your face, in your eyes that takes my breath away. I wish I didn’t hope. That look makes me think the hope is based in truth, when I know you respectfully refused. You took me out away from the others, that other night. You know how much the stars mean to me, the fascination and wonder I hold for them. You know I can’t help but look up at night and gaze at them in stupor. You took me away from our friends, away from the lights. Into the dark. You couldn’t see them, but I could. You knew. As I looked up in awe, I saw you look at me for seconds unending. I wonder what you were thinking. I hoped. I imagined you would kiss me under those gorgeous stars, away from our friends. I hoped. I wish I didn’t. We laid in my hammock the night I felt your hair, our friend long gone to bed. We stayed up late, as usual, but this time alone. We talked, we laughed, we laid in silence gazing upon the stars. I explained why I could see more stars than you… the only downside to your beautiful browns. You don’t see them as well, yet you give me wonderful moments to see what you cannot. I try to show you, but it doesn’t matter much to you. You want me to see them. I think you enjoy the serenity on my face as I lay, thousands of stars all waiting for my gaze. More than that, I enjoy your eyes on me when you think I don’t notice. I wish I didn’t hope. In that hammock as we spoke, I gave answers that caused your eyes to search mine. I imagined you’d kiss me in that hammock under the stars. I knew not to hope, it hurts too much when I do. I appreciate you without the words to voice it, which is why I wish I didn’t hope. It’s not fair to you, you’ve already politely refused. You’ve answered, and I don’t question it. It’s not my place to. Yet I hope, wishing I didn’t. I’d give every star in the sky to see you as just a friend.