no really, I do see dead people. [09 May 2006|04:38pm]
[ mood | content ]
[ music | Bright Eyes - Down In A Rabbit Hole ]

After grandma and I were sitting down to eat, I tried to open my mouth and talk about something very difficult with grandma. I wanted to talk to her about a dream I had. I opened my mouth and said "I had a very cruel dream today". And she went on a rant about how I slept all day -- I don't think she heard a single word I tried to say. After that I nearly yelled at her that she had totally missed the point, that I wanted talk about something. Asked me what it was. I told her I wasn't in the mood to talk about it now that she had done that. It was difficult enough the first time. So I ended that conversation and ate my dinner before coming back to my computer to write about it.

This morning, when my body was just beginning to relax after not having to wake up for my early ass classes, I had a dream. Most of the light from the outside of my room is filtered out with cardboard and blankets on the windows, but there is still enough to let me know it's day time when I crack my eyes open. In the dream I was waking up with a little sun, just as it was right then outside of the dream. I heard my grandpa bustling about like he usually did when he wasn't being really respectful of me sleeping in. I could hear him opening and closing doors in the house, doing his thing. I woke up to crack my eyes open, still in the dream. He was wearing his red short-sleeved shirt, tattered khaki pants, leaning in the door to tell me it was time to get up. I haven't cried, or nearly cried. Just more of "... well, that was a bit to realistic for my sanity".

I don't know what to think about it.

I find my whole vocabulary changing about how I speak of the house. Grandma hasn't adjusted well. No one has, I am the only one who is careful about using past-tense to phrase my sentences. I also find myself sometimes being crass about his death. I one time cracked the joke "Well, I could see thestrals now" since I was in the room when he died. My grandma has been trying to find uses for some his clothes. She came in last night wearing some of his new sleeping shorts she bought for while he was in the hospital. "Do you want some shorts to sleep in?" She asks. I wrinkled my nose and nearly said "I am not wearing the underwear of a dead man". I keep wanting to refer to my grandpa as 'the dead man'. I wonder if it's me being disrespectful, or my way of just acknowledging it. I've always called my grandfather names like "Old man" and "Bald man" and "Stinky man", to the point that calling him the "Dead man" doesn't seem so bad in my mind. In fact, when I mentally call him that, I can almost hear him one-breath snort of laughter at it. He'd probably call himself that as well.

That's another strange thing... I've begun to understand more and more why entire religions are dedicated to the worshiping and respect of their ancestors. Sometimes I stop and stand in an empty room and say something to my grandfather, mentally of course. Maybe it's a comment like "I want this semester ooooovvveeeerrr" or "Old fart, should I get mostly khaki shorts for camp or a mix of jean and khaki?" I feel a response that I don't think comes from me. The kind that leaves me walking away feeling like I had heard him from a deaf-person's perspective tell me "Get all khakis. That way if you have to wear them dirty, no one knows" or "Just study and stop complaining".

It's difficult to talk about his absence with people. I am not afraid I'll break down and cry. It's become quite clear to me that I'll probably almost never cry over his absence, probably just get teary eyed over it. I'm being snarky about his death, that would be his way and it's my way.

I even hear my grandfather complaining about me blasting Bright Eyes, complaining how Oberst can't sing. So I'd turn on my QAF soundtracks (which he hated more than anything just to annoy his memory.

The best thing is, that after I finished writing this entry, I felt really at peace.
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life's absent warnings [23 Mar 2006|08:01am]
[ mood | gloomy ]

For the first time in, oh I believe two years, I am utterly and completely depressed. To the point that when I stop and think about dying, I am not scared. The last time that happened I was nearly put in the nutter house.

I really need to get a shrink. Bad. But I don't have an idea on how to begin looking for one because my healt insurance is so damn picky. But, I know that if I don't, bad things will happen, likely.

As of right now, I am holding on by a thread. It has been drowned in water, not tears, and is dumb from the deep freeze I have placed it on. It's all in a hope that it will hold together for a little while longer. I keep telling myself just get through this semester, but it is a lie I have to say inside because after this semester I have a summer session.

Why? One person asked, regarding my depression. I had no reply, as I am rather clueless for the cause. That would be because I have none. This is the nature of depression, it doesn't search for a reason only catalysts to let it rise to the surface, otherwise it is generally pushed down in a vain attempt to suffocate and drown it.

Little things are bothering me, I could name quite a few. My grandparents are one, the loss of some friendships I once held dear, and the pettiness of my joy. Everything warm seems few and far between, but there is still just enough scattering along my life that I haven't completely lost it. At least, that is what I think.

Depression is a hollow sort of helplessness, especially when when it sits there waiting for the final step be taken that would plunge everything into darkness. I've been tittering, but it has always been like this.

Common place for many with bipolar, I almost taken my happiness and sadness for granted, and I assume everyone else does the same.

There really should be a mile of warning signs on our way out of the mother's womb, all saying something along the line of Warning! Life SUCKS, turn back around NOW!. It was all a trickery, and still we do it.

Before I was born, when the highlights of my life were given, was I told that this was all going to suck? For some reason I must have weights the dangers and decided to come anyway, though I am not sure why.

Hopefully I'll find my reason, again, soon... sometime.
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My Prerogative [16 Dec 2005|03:51pm]
[ mood | peaceful ]
[ music | Enya - Lothlórien ]

For years I kept a weblog, just like so many others. I remember the general history of my weblogging. I initially kept a journal called Positronic Matrix on Filiaulcopt.com when it was the domain I had; I named it after the brain of Data from Star Trek because while in High School the majority of the people I knew called me Data. Eventually I moved onto Digital-Witch.org for a short while. I progressed from one weblog to another, for a while having spasmodic.org and vanity.nu. Then I moved onto log.elrond.nu as Lothlorien, which became Elysium when I turned elrond.nu into illuminati.nu.

Then, things changed. I no longer felt safe or secure. You see, I have childish stalkers and harassers, who clearly don't like me, but they still visit me. For the life of me I don't understand why they keep it up. I don't visit the people I don't like, I don't link to them, and I don't talk to them. They think it's their duty to the rest of the world to try and make me a better person by their standards, much of which the faults are ones they make up for their purpose of nothing more than being spiteful. For years I stayed on my main livejournal, [info]usyagi, which I had turned into a friends-only one. It's still friends-only because I like the security and freedom to write my own opinion without immature harassers bothering me.

Now to the point: I am not the only one who feels this way. Perhaps this is similar to how celebrities feel, on a much smaller scale. Paparazzi, rabid fans, critics, always ragging on a person who merely wants to enjoy the same freedoms everyone else. When a person is no longer allowed to be flawed something is wrong.

I've heard several times that a politician, for example the President, must live up to a higher morality than the rest of us. Personally, if our leaders are not human enough to be as normal and as flawed as I am, I don't think they are leading the majority.

A lot of things in life bug me, almost to the point of my temper being lost. I usually don't keep my mouth shut. For example, if I see someone shipping a relationship in a story I don't like, I'll say something usually. They can ignore me, like I'd likely do to someone who bugs me about my ships. Freedom of opinion is clearly not as coveted as people claim it to be.

The point is, I have decided to keep a weblog again. I don't want to host it on my website, as I am really lazy, and I know others are because we have all become accustomed to reading journals on our friends page. SEAWATER will be my public journal, with all my thoughts I want to share with others than those just on my main journal, [info]usyagi.

For those who are my friends or just want to read me, add me, or bookmark me. You are welcome. You can contact me whenever you like to leave me some feed back, it doesn't matter to me.

For those who don't like me: Find entertainment elsewhere. You are just wasting your time and you will not be changing my behaviour.
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