I wanna know.

I have gone into my cave.

More abruptly than I planned, but I'm at my wits end right now and can't take any more stimulation. I'm sure there will be some unhappy with this and I've got to figure out a better way to do this in future so I don't alienate everyone, like he feared I would. Not sure how long it'll last. Last night I took the last Buspie a friend gave me and it made my brain feel like a glass door smeared with oil-nothing stuck, which was wonderful. I go to the MD today to get my own script, but I am worried that that he won't give it to me. Doctors never want to give you what you want. Still, it's not as if I want Oxy or Loratab. I just want my brain to stop sounding like Mardi Gras 24/7. Why can't an MD find this reasonable?

I saw your name recently. Not your name exactly, but close enough to make my breath catch. You are still everywhere. In addresses, on TV, in books, on driver's licenses, in the air, just inside of my finger tips, but I refuse to write your name, because it might work an alchemy, and I don't need or want that. You're not the virus, but you're a cell waiting, stewing in its own malignancy, and I move carefully before I knock you loose and you infect everything else. Maybe Buspies will wipe you clean. Something will, one day. For now I just have to wait you out, like the flu, endure you like a prison sentence. If you're thinking I'm nuts or obsessed or psycho or whatever words dudes come up with to explain the psyche of the female mind, don't think I want this. I want you where you are, far away from me, and if there was a treatment to wipe you out, à la Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, I'd do it in a New York minute.

Currently reading Chocolat (Joanne Harris) and Disgrace (J. M. Coetzee) and trying to get into more Anthony Doerr but sometimes his writing makes my head feel like its got a whole dictionary crammed into it and I can't take it anymore. I wouldn't mind watching Chocolat and Johnny's Depp's fine sexy ass. I wonder if I still have it. I've been on a Dirty Dancing kick lately and I can't get the soundtrack out of my freaking head. My attention span won't let me watch more than half a movie lately, but it's worth a shot.

Everything is so sticky and humid and I wish some cooler air would come back; last night I didn't even use any covers and all of the floors and counters in the apartment were slick.

The Buspie seems to be doing its job, I don't feel crazed or frantic or impulsive. If he doesn't give me the script I don't know what I'll do. Probably not come out of my cave until Disney.

I am afraid to talk to people. I am afraid of their words, but above all, their needs. Even the needs that do not take so much to satisfy, I am afraid of them. Deep down I know not all people want something from you, but the human condition is to want. Attention, time, love. I feel like a robbed bank-if I had something to give, I would, but the safes are all empty, the drawers are bereft. I don't much like myself for it. I know that the mature thing to do would be to talk to someone about it, but I'm so tired of talking. I want to hide until the storm passes, until my battery recharges. I know it's selfish

but you cannot pour from an empty cup.

-Rae