This is a journal, and I'm going to write, going to write like I'm in my room, under the covers, head on pillow, pouring my heart-blood onto a page. I type faster than I write and this is going to be purely theraputic, unedited, and honest, and for myself. If you read this, you're reading my thoughts, my head, and that's all I have to say on that.

I'm scared, so scared, that I'm being programmed to fail; I look at my family, and my grandma Cathy, and she can't walk, she hobbles around with a cigarrette, and she abused my mom. I try to think about what my mom went through, as property of the adults in her life, and my dad, and all of my family and genetics swirl around inside of my body-shell, and am I fighting the impossible? Am I fighting a war I can't win? Was I predestined to fail, and can people change, because I'm crying and screaming to something to make my life worth living, God, God, God, is someone there?

Zach and I, we hold eachother, we put our hands on eachother's hearts, and he gets me, because his mom is dying, and his dad is distant, and he knows pain; he hides it and I fall victim and I've never known anyone so strong...I take on his pain sometimes, because I want to be there.

And medicines fail, you know. Tolerance. And I swallow a pill just like his mom, who is at this moment in a hospital bed with an IV in her neck, because her veins are too weak, because she is dehydrating herself to earn her son's attention, killing herself to feel his love, and we can only do so much for her, you know?

You can die for someone much easier than you can live for them; I'm finding that out.

I don't want to mirror weakness, and I'm trying to be so strong, and the bipolar makes everything worse...

I want someone to come and take my heart and make it innocent again, and to take my arms and spin me in a circle, and squeeze me tight, and tell me I'm beautiful.

I want someone to talk to me, ME, ME, and not my shell, not this body. There is more to a human than biology.

Two halves don't make a whole. Two empty people make an empty relationship, and we have to fill eachother up, and get past this.


Dear Mollie,

I can see you crying, I can see you fighting so hard. You can't fix the world. Those babies, screaming, in the hospital, with the tubes in their noses, with the needles in their skin, those souls who don't have a fighting chance, you have to let go, because you can't control the world. Mollie, I know you love, and I know you get choked up at a love song, I know you love candles and are embarrassed about your body, I know you want to heal. I know you get sad and try not to, I know you hide it well. You need to stop yelling at your boyfriend. He loves you a lot. He needs you. You need to be less insecure, because he'll always be there. If you love someone, let them go; if they leave, they were never yours, and if they come back, then it's meant to be. Mollie, I know you have issues with trust, I know you're scared to death of abandonment. I'm with you, at night, when you're screaming inside, when you're sneaking down the stairs at 2am to wake your mom up to cry, I know you're trying hard. I know. But pain is temporary. Don't push people away. Be soft, Mollie, sometimes if you put up walls, they grow, without your knowledge, and soon you can't see around them. Let people in. Mollie, be softer, be caring, and be empathetic. Get some more counseling, and it will all pay off. Mollie, you're beautiful, just scarred. Keep trying, because there are people that care, and can touch your soul, if you let them. You were little once too, and you can't hold up the world. Let go of control, and listen more.

Sincerely,

Mollie