Hello, Darkness.

The insomnia is back. Admitting this occurs with any kind of regularity probably only ensures it will linger, but whaddya do? I can't be in denial about the fact that I suffer from insomnia. Last night I finally got a decent night's sleep but the four nights prior to that were miserable. On Monday night, I slept for about 1.5 hours. Sunday night, about 2.5, and so on. I accumulated approximately six hours sleep in four nights, about 26 hrs short of my ideal. That kind of sleep deficit is not easily abolished, and if things continue at the present rate, it's not likely to happen any time soon.

Which...only lends itself to greater apprehension on my part. Fearing I won't be able to sleep, and then worse, actively trying to fall asleep, doesn't exactly assist in a flawless transfer from the waking world to darkness.

That's all I want: Darkness. I want my mind to somehow extinguish itself, to give me some much needed respite from...myself. However, it makes perfect sense that I can't sleep with the kind of activity going on between my ears. It feels like some kind pinball machine on speed, but one in which the pinballs break apart into smaller pinballs each time they touch something. That's what happens, see. The thoughts will bounce around in my head, and then other random anecdotes will be born from those. They, too, bounce around for a bit, but because there are so many, travelling so quickly, I can't possibly keep up or attend to all of them; many eventually fall by the wayside. Into the blackness that exists until another quarter is inserted.

This is how I feel every day. Some days, miraculously enough, I can tone things down, but much of the time, attempts are futile. This is especially prevalent in the times when I am in the (relative) quiet of my apartment, or driving, or any time I'm not devoting my attention to solely external forces.

Lying in my bed, the moments before I drift from consciousness, can sometimes feel like the sweetest of my waking life. I exhaust myself - mentally and emotionally - without intending to, and Darkness is often my only escape. Except, of course, those nights when It is elusive.

I thought I had outgrown the childhood fear of darkness, but I am quickly learning that it has only taken on a different meaning. I am not scared of darkness itself, rather, its getting away me. I'm scared of what it can do to upset my rhythm. The way its elusiveness then perpetuates emotional instability.

The perplexing and somewhat uncomfortable topics have been plaguing me, but the fugitive Darkness has led me to feel as though I'm fast approaching an emotional breakdown. That's what chronic lack of sleep can do. It can make one feel as though there is little left to cling to.

With a few exceptions, I can deal with the cognitive pinball. I've had to learn how to. But THIS shit is too much. I'm becoming desperate; I don't want to feel physically zombie-like. It's one of the most uncomfortable sensations, especially when my mind continues to prove that it can't be gotten down. Do you think it gives two shits that my body is sputtering pathetically along? It doesn't. And that, somehow, makes it all worse.

I'm wishing more than anything that I had two switches on the wall near my bed; one, of course, to turn out the lights, the second, to turn off the pinball machine. Or at least, force it to slow enough to allow all the balls to drop into that temporary Darkness.

Shine A Light On The Obviously-Single Girl

I have been lusting after this brushed nickel wall-mounted light for about eight months. It's designed to be mounted over one's bed, and it has two separate halogen reading lights, housed in simple nickel heads, on adjustable swingarms. Sooo sexy.

I finally broke down and bought it. I went in to the lighting store yesterday after work, and made sure to look around to verify that there was not a better light to be had. I happened upon a similarly styled light, although it was a single not a double. The head was partially transparent, and it was a bit more industrial-looking. It, too, was hot - and a little less expensive.

I thought on it for a bit because, really, do I need two lights? I am, after all, single, and rarely do I ever have someone in bed next to me, let alone reading next to me. And, as I always sleep on the same side of the bed, I imagined one light would be sufficient. Nevertheless, I liked the styling of the double better - it was slightly sexier - and it was only twenty dollars more. Either one would be a splurge, so what's twenty bucks? And, I know I'll want to keep it for a good length of time...

This is how I justified it to myself, you see.

So, having decided between the two, but before I hand over the card, I approach a service clerk to ask an important question. I say, "I'm interested in that wall-mount over there (I point). I noticed that there is a small hole on the underside of the unit. Does that mean that it can be used as a plug in or does it have to be hard-wired?" She tells me that, yes, it can be plugged in, and I am relieved because I don't want to deal with the hassle of the alternative. I tell her I'd like to buy it.

She looked at me - rather intensely - for a few moments, and then stated, "We also have a single if you want me to show you that."

O-U-C-H.

I cannot think of any other reason that she would suggest selling me a lesser expensive unit after I had already consented to the double, unless of course she assumed I'm a singleton and couldn't possibly have use for two lights. Maybe she thought I should spend that extra twenty on some fuck-me-red lipstick.

Ok, so maybe it's some wishful thinking on my part to think that I might someday have use for both! Or, maybe, I just happen to have some quirk regarding symmetry and balance, and therefore could not sleep at night if I had to look up and see a light dangling over one side of my bed with nothing to balance it on the other! Maaaybe, it's both. SHE doesn't know. I certainly do, but having some stranger I've known for all of thirty seconds point it out to me is not the most refreshing thing to happen to me in recent memory.

Seriously.

I take my merchandise, drive home while trying to think happy thoughts, settle down, and promptly grab my box cutter. Just as I am leaning down to cut, I take notice of the label on the end cap of the box. Next to model name it says: "Save Your Marriage."

You've got to be kidding me.

I thought for a second about using the box cutter on my pale little wrists, instead of the fucking box. But, then I realized the blade would not be sufficient enough to have the desired effect; I'd still be left to deal with "this" AND have scars on my wrists for all to see. Then I REALLY wouldn't ever have use for both lights. Call me crazy, but I don't think they'd exactly scream "level-headed-and-emotionally-stable-woman." I mean, jeez, it's hard enough to get men to think that about you without having signs of attempted suicide scrawled on your extremities.

And Now: Deep Thoughts by Jack Handy

There's a popular theory among sociologists regarding the perpetuation of some social problems. It's called the "labeling theory," and it holds that deviant behavior is the result of individuals being defined and labeled as deviants. Essentially, it is a form of self-fulfilling prophecy.

Rather than concentrating on the situational influences that affect one's behavior, we generally make assumptions and form beliefs about an individual based on their visible behavior(s). For example, if I were in a department store and I saw a woman berating a service clerk, I might assume that the woman had a bad temper simply because she was yelling. It's possible that she does, but I don't know the factors that influenced her behavior in that instance. Instead, she becomes a "mean woman" or a "loose cannon." Consequently, if I were around her enough or somehow came to know her personally, I might treat her as such, and she'd likely become that which I already believed her to be.

I wonder if this theory comes in to play for me, personally. I am told fairly often that I am "weird." And it's generally by people whose opinions I value, or whom I know on some personal level. Most of the time, it doesn't bother me - I think I'm weird too. But I think I'm weird in a good way. Sometimes though - and especially recently - I assume by a person's tone that their labeling of me as "weird" is not a particularly good thing.

As much as I value my individuality, and as fiercely as I strive to maintain some level of uniqueness, I am increasingly afraid of it. Sometimes, I use my idiosyncrasies as reasons to alienate myself from others. I have this ability to hide the very core of who I am, without realizing it until I'm removed from the situation. I've begun to feel a tinge of embarassment when I let my guard down - and this is just not me (or the person I want to be). It's unacceptable.

I always feel an intense need to be comfortable in a given situation and around particular people. As a rule, I avoid both if I feel my ability to act naturally is threatened. But lately, I have felt ill at ease around many people I ought not to, I've felt uncomfortable and almost blacklisted amongst those who are supposed to be my friends. Am I, as a result of what I think these people expect from me, becoming "weird?" Have their averse reactions become so deeply imbedded in my psyche that they have compelled me to change my behavior, and therefore, develop a different personality? Because, it's not always our personalities that dictate our behaviors, but our behaviors that dictate our personalities.

There's probably no way to know with certainty, but the thought scares the shit out of me in a way few things can.

Confessions of a Jaded Bookworm

Today, I'm feeling especially random, so I'm just gonna go with it.

After a few recent trips to the library, I am beginning to wonder if libraries operate according to specific business plans. Perhaps I am naive but I have always been under the impression that libraries, like parks and other government-regulated or city-owned establishments, are media through which citizens can experience a greater quality of life. Mass appreciation/enjoyment is the name of the game. They're not in existence, like essentially everything else, to make money. Are they? The reason I ponder this, is because I have visited the library three times in the last two weeks, have searched for a total of 14 different books, and do you know how many of them have been available for use? ZERO. Mind you, I am not looking for titles that are hot-off-the-press, or rare, hard-to-find ones either. Most of the books have been in print for, at minimum, three years. Several of the titles I have searched for on each of my visits, just to see if they may have been returned. Nope.

The library has a computer system that allows one to look at all copies of a particular title, which location they are housed in, if they are checked out, being repaired, or if patrons have placed it on hold. A few of the books I want are somewhat popular titles and so the library owns several copies. All were checked out and many of the copies had waiting lists three or four people deep. As I stated before, these are not new titles; if the lines are this long and the books have been out for five years, what kind of waiting period was to be expected when new? You'd think some person has the job of monitoring the flow of books, how many times a particular title turns over, and then orchestrates the buys accordingly. I can't help but think that the library ought to buy more copies of these books. Call me crazy.

Or, are they trying to create demand? If so, what would be the purpose? The only way the library makes money is through late fees, right? And, if for some reason they're trying to create demand, it ain't workin' so hot; the only thing it's doing is pissing me off and making me want to go out and buy the damn books. And how will that help them? It's one less book I'm checking out from them, at the very least. If I get REALLY pissed off, I may not want to check out books from their library ever again, and then how many books will sit on their shelves and gather dust? A lifetime of books not being read by me...and I read like a mother fucker!

It's just impossible to comprehend the damage they're going to inflict upon themselves.

I just wanted to read some books, damnit. Instead, I've been forced to make threats that I'll feel obligated to follow through with now that I've put them in print.

Damn those cheap ass, scheming, library-owning bastards.

I like to break a mental sweat, too...

On Saturday night, I read the dictionary.

Well, not the book in its entirety, but I tackled a rather sizeable portion.

And no, I am not shitting you.

What's more, I actually skipped out on a friend's party so I could do it. It's not as though I had some elaborate plan to stay home and read the dictionary per se, it just kinda...happened.

[Isn't that just the greatest of excuses, by the way? "I didn't MEAN to have three glasses of wine and let that gorgeous man seduce me, IT JUST HAPPENED."]

Anywho, normally one uses the dictionary for a very specific purpose (most of which should go without saying) and I found myself in that situation when it all began. I had spent much of the afternoon at one of my favorite book/record stores, I read several album reviews and came across two words that I had never before seen. Being the complete neurotic that I am, I scribbled them onto a receipt that I'd found in my purse, with the intention of looking them up that evening.

In addition, I've been keeping a list of random words - good, hearty words - that I like or have some relevance to me, and I have planned to incorporate them into a project I'm working on. When I got home I saw the list lying there on my kitchen counter; it was looking a little sparse, so I determined that a little multi-tasking was in order. I could look up the definitions of my two newly discovered words as well as look for a few new ones to add to the list. Hoorah!

What should have taken ten minutes turned into three hours. I came across words that reminded me of other words whose definitions somewhat eluded me, so one thing led to another, and....uh...yeah. I actually became - dare I use this word to descibe READING THE FUCKING DICTIONARY - engrossed. Instead of jumping around from word to word, I reached a point that I was just reading the pages.

Next thing I knew, it was 11 p.m. and upon realizing that I had spent a good part of my Saturday night in hot pursuit of intriguing strings of letters, a cloud of despair descended upon me. I felt strangely like Cinderella. She, who spent an unexpectedly blissful evening at the ball among society's finest, only to return home in a shitty old pumpkin, dressed not in a glamorous gown, but rags. I, in turn, spent my evening dancing merrily among many of the English language's finest, oblivious to the world around me. But, alas! At the stroke of 11:00, I was transplanted to my former reality, feeling quite pathetic, left only to ponder the nuances of my behavior.

Something is very, very wrong with me for two reasons. First, I just likened RTFD (Reading The Fucking Dictionary) to dancing gaily with Prince Charming whilst dressed in the finest Vera Wang. Even I cannot believe myself sometimes. Second, now that I think about it, I rather like this feeling of uniqueness. Granted, it's not considered any kind of literary feat but, I mean, how many people can actually say they've "read the dictionary?"

Oh brother, where art thou?

I've come to a somewhat disturbing realization: I don't know my family. I mean, I know to what family I belong, but aside from my younger sister, I don't know its members in the ways that are truly important. This is especially saddening because I am one of those people that desires to know people as thoroughly as possible. I prefer to keep a smallish circle of friends and have the opportunity to know them really well, as opposed to having many friends with whom my relationship is largely cursory.

So, I usually make a genuine effort to understand those in my inner circle, and yet, those at the very heart of it I have (somehow) missed. I don't think it's for lack of wanting, however. We've never really been big talkers, my family. That, number one, makes things somewhat difficult. There's also the fact that I didn't realize the importance of getting to know my siblings on a one-on-one basis until after I left home. So, here I am 1500 miles away trying to make a life for myself, and they are all in their respective corners of the world attempting to do the same. Life has a funny way of getting in the way.

Even though I lack a solid grasp of the inner workings of my family members, they are all of paramount importance to me. I would do nearly anything for them and on the rare occasions that I see them, my heart is full despite the (general) reality that our conversations aren't.

Why is this all of this so? How can I profess such love for this family that is, on the whole, an enigma? How can I work so hard to build a life and then leave them out of it? This logic of mine is completely askew.

I wonder if any of them feel the way I do, if they too long for more but don't understand how to go about obtaining "it."

The pathetic thing is - since we're such big talkers and all - I probably won't ever ask.

Ahh, sisterly love! What murderous behavior it can encourage!

I told my bigger little sister about this charming little journal I've been keeping. I told her how I wrote of our S.W.A.T. experiences, and she was rather disappointed to learn that I had shared THAT, but not her other (more frightening, for reasons you'll soon understand) near death experience:

Yeah, this one time, I tried to kill her.

Well, maybe KILLING was not my ultimate goal - I really can't remember - but I sure choked the shit out of her.

Growing up, we had one of those small (I think they're called "training") trampolines in our family room. You know, the ones that sit about a foot off the ground and are designed to accomodate one person. Since we were small children two of us could actually fit, albeit not well, so our mother made a rule which stated that only one child was permitted to jump at any given time.

One day, I was jumping on said trampoline, when Danielle came over and formed the waiting line. Apparently, I was not tying things up as quickly as she would have liked, so she she decided that a little torment was in order. She started jumping up onto the tramp, each jump ending with a nice little shove and some kind words from yours truly. Following each shove, which resulted in her landing back on the ground - where she belonged - she'd come back for more.

As you might imagine, this shit was pissing me off. I can't be sure how old I was, I think about six (which would put her at four), but this was waaaay back when I was still taller and heavier than she. So, I decided to put my size to use. The next time Danielle flung her scrawny behind onto MY TRAMPOLINE, I pinned her down on top of it, straddled her, and began choking her. Both hands were placed firmly around her delicate little neck.

It ought to go without saying that she didn't enjoy this.

I don't know how long it lasted, but it seemed like I was engaging in this murderous behavior for a good while. Her body was convulsing beneath me and I remember finally realizing - due to the pleading look in her eyes - that I was seriously hurting her. But I kept on, I was overcome with rage. Finally, our mother took notice of what was occuring, started yelling, and yanked me off of Danielle.

I'm pretty sure that, once the color returned to her face and oxygen was restored to her lungs, she began crying.

Later that day, in the privacy of my bedroom, I began to comprehend just how badly I had hurt and petrified her, and when I realized the finality I was foolishly headed toward, I cried too.