8:34 PM; Glen Ellyn bed
I want to toss this book away. Such terrible reminders/memories of the first mania. I ache for Allie. I hate that voice—that familiar stranger. I hate what came after. The second mania occurred early this year, this time featuring a hammer and a hospitalization that resulted in a cross-country escapade from LA to San Antonio and back, then to Seattle and back. Then to residential in Illinois.
The chickens. (The essay.) The hot tubs and motels and strange friends and police. The sex with men and the money spent. The horror after coming to with medication. The nightmares.
I have been unpacking all my things in the garage. Also painful. My progress mentally so fragile. I’m forever grateful that Allie is still in my life lovingly. What a saint.
The word “saint” triggers me after reading these entries about god and faith and all that crap. I wish there were appropriate words for Allie.
Everything is covered in dust, including my journals. All my art supplies, so lightly used. All my silly things from my art tent back home—the home that barely existed. Allie’s home that was so beautiful and safe. It makes me want to cry whenever I see it and Espy and Wigs in the background of our Zooms.
Allie just texted. We’re gonna watch Sex Ed soon. We also watch Great British Baking Show together still. I’m so grateful and pained.
The one true distraction is my new friend Jordan. The relief is so stark that Ive formulated a crush on them already. A crush with nowhere to go. They are with a man from St. James—the year behind me. Small world. I’m constantly insecure about our friendship. Insecure about everything. Life is my worst fears all at once. Yet I’m so lucky, as I’ve always been. News of Palestine never ceases.
My room is now even more crowded than before. The full bookshelf. The walls covered with art. I’ve stacked wine boxes to hold more books and art. “Art.” I feel shamed by Marcel Alcala, my Smithsonian contemporary who is now a famous artist in LA. LA—my dream lost. My stomach churns for it. Every minute I miss it. Every chill. Every twinge.
I see Shelly, a good witch, on Instagram all the time with her million followers. Crazy we sat naked in the hot tub in Ojai—those memories also painful just as much as the more recent mania. I curse the mushrooms. The weed I loved so much. Now I’m forced to be sober in every way. Even sugar I limit because I’ve gained so much weight. I had to donate so much of my favorite clothes. The good memories. Allie.
I try to remind myself that I wasn’t sure about Allie at the beginning. Am I with anyone? Only the avoidant do I feel certain about. Allie—so secure, so kind, so patient. Now precious to a degree I never thought possible. What I wouldn’t give.
More developments: poor memory, unsure spelling, terrible recall. I don’t trust my mind at all, and every time I do, I’m punished/betrayed by it.
Time to go.