:hypergraphia:

Copy/pasted from an email I sent to my mother:

"

I'm "home", in Redmond, sleeping on an air mattress in my brother's room. I have never lived here, in this apartment, and it shows. My presence has been erased. I spent as much of last night online as I could, staving off the almost-forgotten feeling of overwhelming homesickness.

I miss my bed and my food and my friends.

Arashi is familiar. I watch old episodes of their TV shows on youtube because it still SOUNDS like home, that way.

This entire blog is very emo. I seem to only remember it's here when I have things I don't want to say anywhere else. How strange.

僕はちょっと差べしよ。清元君は素敵でも、僕を見てない。その命は本当にかなしくってさべしくてひどいだから。。。もう終わった。

疲れたよ。

いいんですか。もういい。

”優しさは何時だって差べしさを連れてる。”

僕はすごく疲れた。

Today at rehersal, no one noticed I was so broken. In fact, no one even knew I was upset until Libbi asked me how my day went, and I said, "I feel like shit, actually."

I realize that I hide myself, shield myself from the people around me. I have an image to upkeep. I have a mask that's very easy to define.

• Perpetually cheerful
• Friendly and outgoing
• Funny
• Loud
• Energetic
• Enthusiastic

But how many of these things are true? I'm certainly not cheerful. I have Major Depression and OCD. I fight with them every day of my goddamn life. I'm friendly and outgoing to a point, that point being that I fear allowing people close enough to really see me. It's a very shallow level of friendliness. Funny? My humor is dark and bitter and ironic. The things that make me laugh are the things that hurt at the same time. Loud is true, but only until you realize that it's because when I'm quiet and observant (natural state), no one even knows I'm there. Energy is a state of mind, proven by how I am continuously tired, bone-weary. Enthusiastic? Effort, everyone judges by effort. It's okay to do fuck all, so long as you made an effort. So I pretend to make an effort. They can't fault me then.

I went to bed as the sun rose this morning. Yesterday, I guess. I hate the sun. I hate it. At least in the dark, you can't see what's going to kill you. At least there's the illusion of safety. The sun hides nothing, nothing. You run around in fear of everything and everyone because you can see them, seeing you. In the dark, you don't know until you feel the knife against your throat.

It's so much more fulfilling that way, I think.

I drabbled on the chalkboard in the green room, which was a mistake, because then they wanted to know who did it. I admitted, because I wrote it and didn't want someone thinking it was a quotation. Libbi says she wants to put it on her myspace. Joy.

Love and hate are two points on either end of a long grey continum. They are polar to each other, and yet, they are not opposites. It's easy enough to bring the ends of the line together, and then they are the same point anyhow.

Mine. My words. The cast doesn't think I can be deep; they don't understand that I simply don't do shallow.

Some were born with a pen in their hand; I was born with a pen. Or at the very least, a keyboard.

I have written since I could match the shapes on the paper with the sounds on my tongue. Stories and characters, plots and morals, pacing and climax and the heartbeat of fiction are all as natural to me as breathing. I may not be able to name them, but I enact them like a mantra, a prayer. Words have lives all of their own; they can lie or cheat or grow or die or dance with joy just as we can. They hold power, great power. And while one person might not be enough to make a difference, one word can.

I have no need for your commandments or holy laws. The truth in words, the lines behind the lines, are far more real to me than anything an unknown power might implore me to consider, remember. I don't remember the 12 apostles, if I ever knew them, but I recall with vicious clarity the way my mother praised my brother whilst ignoring me. I remember how she only ever wrote what I needed to hear, and how somehow that made them all the more precious. I remember my father's voice as we sat across the table from each other and he explained how I hold my own kind of power that no one can take from me. I recall how my little brother swore for years he would someday marry me, before he understood that that wasn't something I wanted to hear.

I write because speech is too easily ignored. I write because it's harder to silence who you are. I write because I can no more stop myself than I can cease to breathe.

Stop either, and I will die.