I’m destroying myself for him.

Right now I feel I’m destroying myself for him... I’m writing love letters to him... and as they go on and on...  I am more and more convinced that I don’t love him or that he doesn’t love me... I’m falling out of love... and I will go back to being doomed...

I should be telling him how much I love him, how much I want him, how much I wish he will be happy. How much I don’t want to hurt him, how much I wish I was his confident, how much I wish I did not make a video of everything we discuss.

He needs someone that would make him smile, not exasperate him, he needs someone who he can make love to every so often... someone that can invite him over his apartment all the time. Who can drive him to school.... ok maybe he doesn’t need to... maybe he just deserves to. Someone who can spoil him. If I was him... that’s what I would aim for, he deserves it... and he can get it...

I’m doing it his way, I’m going to have random sex today, for the very first time in my life, I just called someone for sex... someone I don’t really have feelings for. Just someone for sex... get it over with. Just not be passionate, not be in love... don’t make a video out of it. Why do I wish the prince the will call me and say... no Xag, don’t do it... or better yet... here: take this advice...?

Alone now

Ok, I’m alone now, me with me and me……….

……….… I feel if my blog was a real space… it would be like a cathedral a huge empty cathedral with scattered paper on the floor… and now it’s deserted… I feel I could hear my echoes…….

ECHO!!!

………………………… (Echo!!)

……………………………………………….. (Echo!)

………………………………………………………………… (…echo…)

I’ve been bleeding through my nose all afternoon… he asked me what do you need… what can I do?, should I cut myself?, should I get wet?… 

(1 day late)

Right now... I just feel like making lists.

Right now... I just feel like making lists... lists about things I have to do... things that I want... things that I need...

For example....

I need courage to change my life

I need hope to stay alive

I need to buy a lot of antidepressants so I can commit suicide

I need to lose weight

I need to find someone to exercise with

I need someone to help me do... YouTube vids.... or at least someone who will lend their shower to record that stupid vid

I need wisdom to handle my relationships better

I need knowledge to pass my school tests

I need to find a way of getting out of this country... out of my home...

I need someone who would give me wedgies everyday

I need a lot of underwear for the mentioned above...

I need god to let roaches become extinct... they are disgusting

I need... I need a car... or learn how to drive... or someone to drive me around... or someone to teach me how to...

Most of all... I need my dreams... I miss them...

I have to... ask the prince about his life... I don’t want to question him... I hate interrogatories...

I have to stop thinking about my past

I have to do the literature essay

I have to study for Virtual Communications test

I have to organize my priorities

I have to re-design my site

I have to stop writing such a depressive journal

I have to read all of my economy copies and the damn book

I have to stop being so careless and unorganized

I have to learn how to use flash properly

I have to stop thinking how I could have made my past better

I have to stop daydreaming about being younger

I have to remember to be thankful for my crappy life

I have to be a better person than I am...

I want... not to want anything... but just be happy... and enjoy my shortcomings and my virtues...

I’m considering suicide

I’m considering suicide, not as an escape, not as an adventure, not even as a relief, just as an option like going to class tomorrow or choosing to take the bus or a cab. I’m actually surprised at this now I recall it, other times I had seen it as grand finale, this time was just an option it wasn’t dramatic, it was just something I could do.

People are still shocked when they realize how deeply I loathe myself. I guess they don’t understand it... if it’s hard living with someone you hate; it’s even harder to live being someone you hate.

I keep wishing people would someway analyze me and somehow fix me.... but that isn’t going to happen. 

There is a word in Spanish, I have not yet managed to translate to English: "pudor". It refers to a virtue. The virtue of protecting ones intimacy, spiritual, emotional and physical, and sharing it only with those who are close to us... keeping information about ourselves secret, sometimes through shame, but not always because it’s shameful but because its sacred.

Therefore, someone who shares too much, like me here, lacks this virtue, meaning he does not value the person he/she is. Exposing without any restraints who we are to anyone who passes by with no kind of protection or care… is definitely someone who does not treasure anything inside him worth protecting or saving.

It’s been over 5 years and I still can’t re-read whatever I write in this stupid journal. Because I hate every single word of it... I can’t stand any of these thoughts or feelings...  this is why grammar and syntax suck and that’s why typos blossom...

The truth is I know all this, I’ve analyzed myself in and out all my life... sometimes I feel that there’s actually two "versions of me struggling (if not more) and I find myself asking "what are you going to do?", "why do you hate me so much?"

 Sometimes I’m close to believe I can actually slip... and lose my mind... so I don’t allow myself to answer any of those questions... nor think of who is it that’s really asking them.

(11 days late)

There is so much inside me bursting to get out

There is so much inside me bursting to get out. 

I've been not feeling well, I've been sick, I've been lying and lied to... don't know what to do, everything seems like this huge endless lie... but it isn't... or is it?... I've always considered myself a great liar... who in turn would make me also a great actor or, better yet, a great story teller.

Perhaps that’s why my life feels like a lie, I have this image of myself that is far from being any real sense... am I novelist' am I a writer?... it’s been months since I wrote anything for my novel.... there hasn't been a day I don't think about it, I think about it constantly, endlessly every detail, the whole plot, sometimes I think so much about it overwhelms me.

There is this contest... I could try to do something... however I know I won’t make it. I wake up with the thought that I have to straighten my hair if I want to feel good today... how empty is that? 

Then I spend the next 30 minutes looking at the guy in the mirror, who depending on the day, at random, is the most disgusting being on the planet or maybe not, so I stop, my hair half done, I look myself in the eyes and then I see it... the future, my future, I know how things will go, I know how everything will pan out, not in detail, but the overall plot.

I just keep thinking... Someone living my life should be happy…

(5 days late)

Writing a suicide letter is much more difficult than it sounds ...

 "Writing a suicide letter is much more difficult than it sounds ... I know this because I have written many."

FINAL from José Luis Montesinos. Director on Vimeo.

Christmas is a stupid holiday

Christmas is a stupid holiday, not as stupid as New Year’s but stupid enough.

First we must admit it’s all about the money and the presents, like one broke girl said.

“The holidays are totally about money! It’s about spending money to buy things to stuff into the giant black sucking hole in the center of each of us that reminds us life is hard and then we die.” 

It’s not about love, joy to the world, or the celebration of the birth of Christ... It’s a huge commercial complot to exploit us and taker our money.

But who am I kidding… this is not why I hate Christmas...

I hate Christmas, because it’s supposed to be perfect and never is. This time of year comes, and it’s in our subconscious that this should be a time for happiness and sharing with our families. But it’s never like that…

I personally don’t love my extended family, with whom I have been forced to share this dreadful holiday. Why you wonder? It’s a nice family… a good looking, a wealthy family, a kind family… I don’t fit. I just don’t. 

The people closer to me is the people I’m more distant emotionally, no one in my family knows me, and the only person I depended in making Christmas better is across the ocean having the time of her life. 

As I sat alone in the middle of the crowd drinking Colombiana I realized how alone and pathetic I was:

First the only person I was expecting to hear a merry Christmas from was a 60 year old in England.

Second, that the only person I could ask in a date was not very good looking 15 year old ameinian boy I met online… and knowing that if I ever meet him, he’ll be so disappointed; I’m much uglier than what you see on webcam.

Everyone else is gone… just gone… And to think this promised to be such a great Christmas season. 

(29 days late)

Liar

Liar

You are a liar, a fake phony false human being... if you can call yourself human. Deception disappointment, in everything you do and say, nothing is real, nothing is true, nothing is authentic.

Liar. Masks all over yourself, makeup... actor, pretender, wannabe...

The truth is I can’t do it, the truth is, and I’m incapable. The truth is I sabotage myself constantly, which part of me is real?

(14 days late)

To my mother

To my mother

I have life, I have gaps, I have what I want,

I have scars, deep wounds, immense pain,

I have my nostalgia, my questions, my affections.

You left to punish us all,

to mark your territory with the weight of your final absence,

to kill us too.

I died in you

you killed me

you evicted my life with your death,

imposed, impossible, final.

Every day every night,

every day every night,

your memory is never alone

there is always you and your death,

your hand stretched out in the empty space

so purple, so cold,

your mouth ajar,

the sound of your dead chest.

You didn't leave me alone

you just left me without you and with your death,

violent, simple, provoked.

"Only optimists commit suicide," they say.

I believe

What did you think was going to happen?

What were you going to find?

Didn't mother tell you that there is no beyond?

You condemned yourself too,

you took off,

You killed me, you evicted him, you killed them, we got lost,

You turned off your light very early.

With your last act,

sublime act of selfishness,

you gave me full hands.

Who would believe it mother?

Who would believe that you could give birth to me twice?

I hold on to the facts

your body, dead and decomposed is in a grave,

your soul does not exist.

Who do I talk to when I talk to you?

You are memory.

I have my affections, my questions, my nostalgia,

immense pains, deep wounds,

scars,

what I wish,

empty,

life.

I have life.

Maria G

I just want to sit down and cry

I just want to sit down and cry, cry my eyes out, I want just to let myself fall on the floor and cry.

Help me.

I’m scarred by experiences and people, a scar so deep and visible I can’t forget it.

I’m so beaten I no longer wish death... because even that seem impossible for me, I’m giving up on everything and everyone around me, but specially I’m giving up on me. – 

Why do I write this?-

(3 days late)

Inexpressibly Melancholic

The desire to rid himself of depression—and the loneliness, the despair, and the fears that were part of it—was the most powerful force that motivated Vincent to become an artist and incited the intense energy that was so vital to this end. His pictures became his companions, his mistresses, and his children. "The work is an absolute necessity for me," he wrote. "I can't put it off, I don't care for anything but the work; that is to say, the pleasure in something else ceases at once, and I become melancholic when I can't go on with my work."  He observed at another time that hard work was the way to avoid "that melancholic staring into the abyss."  "I feel inexpressibly melancholic without my work to distract me, as you will understand, and I must work and work with facility. I must forget myself in my work, otherwise it will crush me."  

-  Vincent Van Gogh (Found on: Stranger on the earth; a psychological biography of Vincent van Gogh by Lubin, Albert J - Page 22. )

No laughs or tears, just emptiness growing, taking over.

I should accept who I am and leave the worrying behind; accept I am like anything or everyone else. Just go with the flow. I wanted to be different, go against the flow, make a difference, and just be special. Bisexuality is the halfway.

The person I used to be, no longer exists. I’ve become one of them… another boring despicable muggle. I am just like any other person, I am evolving backwards.

Now, I hate philosophy, I’m constantly coursing and speaking shit. I’ve become either an atheist or worse: a blind believer. I no longer believe in anything or acre about living or dying. People I thought I once knew no longer exist.

When I get home, I’ll take a fully clothed shower and spend some time in front of the mirror fully soaked and try to find myself.

No laughs or tears, just emptiness growing, taking over.

I’m tired of me being bisexual, ugly, depressive, neurotic, ugly, sick, and numb

I’m tired of me being bisexual, ugly, depressive, neurotic, ugly, sick, and numb, rejected…. Now it seems all I need is love, from a boyfriend, from a girlfriend, from a true friend, from a loving pet, from a Tamagotchi, from a plant, from me. Could my life be anymore pathetic, guys my age doing really great stuff, and I am barely passing through high school. It’s not fair. 

But, why is not fair? It’s my fault after all. 

I met this boy. He is form my school bus, and has this strange cuteness, he is not my style, but he’s got a fine body and lovely arms, big eyes, and speaks in such a beautiful way… I had a crush on him. Today I talked to him… and… he is a jerk or at least that what I saw… I am disappointed. Maybe it was my fault… what “maybe”? It was my fault, I didn’t act as I am, and provoked the wrong behavior on him, and I was the jerk

Goodbye my friend, goodbye

Goodbye my friend, goodbye

Farewell, my good friend, farewell.
In my heart, forever, you’ll stay.
May the fated parting foretell
That again we’ll meet up someday.
Let no words, no handshakes ensue,
No saddened brows in remorse, –
To die, in this life, is not new,
And living’s no newer, of course.

Sergei Yesenin, aged 30, committed suicide by hanging himself in his hotel room. His last poem, was mailed to a friend the day before, and according to him, was finished using his own blood as he had ran out of ink.

During our school's cultural week, we had tons and tons of free time. Sounds like a lot of fun, but it really was disappointing. Just having that kind of time without having to work or study, really opened my eyes. It was so boring!!! I guess I just realized how stupid and empty they are. They just stressed me, their stupid routines, their cake face, their lack of maturity.

I realized that life is more than school and stupid jokes. Now I see, they have absolutely no compassion or interest for anything else. They are sadist; they love blood and see other people injured. And if that’s not enough then they'll make it more bloody and cruel up to a maximum point. To hear them talk like that gave me nausea. Then the same comments come again, and again, and again, and again.

How can people forget about pain? About feelings? Is just not right. Today we were on recess and I was reading when they kicked me in the eye with a ball. It really hurt, but no one noticed what had happened, so I don’t know why I needed to get attention or somebody to get worried, so I covered my eye like if blood had come out and ran. When I got to the bathroom I saw myself in the mirror, there I was, and a looser that no one cared about. I even got some red paint form my locker and tried to make like if blood had really come out. Then I realized how pathetic it was and washed it off. I came two of them asked how I was and what had happened. They didn’t laugh, but they didn’t cared either. Just like "if he dies, Ok, if he doesn’t, its Ok I guess”.

But the truth is I can't stand people who laughs about an afghan woman who gets killed on a football stadium like my "friends" do. Sorry. 

1 day late