Written words Vs. Spoken words

  It seems like whenever people argue the tension escalates quickly and before you know it, words are being said that aren't truly meant and you are left with a mess of a situation.  Why is it that written words are so comforting?  I think we put more time and thought into the written form, therefore choosing words more carefully, and what the consequences may be after they are written...

 I've always kept journals; even since I was really little.  Going through those pages always some how manage to make me feel timeless when I am lost in written words of the past.  For the most part, I keep them in the storage boxes underneath my bed.  I like knowing they are secure there... sometimes certain journals bring me back to good times and others bring me back to not so good times, but that is life I suppose. Ups & Downs.



 My throat is on fire... I need some creamy soup... and a nap.

Insomnia.... despite anti-histamines....?

  The last week or so I have been taking Benadrayl at night to see if it will help me sleep/along with it helping my seasonal allergies which happen to be going crazy with everything blooming.  I still lay awake in bed, despite the drugs drowsy effects sedating my eyes.  Even once I get to sleep I have intense bizarre endless dreams that make me more tired once I'm awake, recalling the crazy surreal world my mind somehow conjured up. 

 I used to have such vivid dreams I would actually fight sleeping- I was affraid to let it take me to a dark place I could never get myself out of.  I'd wake up drenched in sweat feeling like Alice in Wonderland having just returned from an acid trip dream world. 

 I played guitar tonight for the first time in a long time for a friend.  I was nervous since I hadn't sang in what feels like forever, especially in front of anyone.  When I played one of the songs I wrote and he had tears in his eyes totally shocked I'd written it.  I didn't realize how much I missed the way the smooth neck of the guitar felt as I dug the thick metalic chords into the tips of my fingers, and belted for the first time in months.  It felt fantastic.  My fingers are still sore from playing; re-establishing the faded calluses embeded in my left hand. 

Anti-histamines...take me to Wonderland...perhaps let me stay a while.  I'm so very sleepy.

normalcy...who is normal anyway?

 Lately I have been remembering the past; first jobs, first crushes, first loves.  I have been thinking about the person I am now, in the present, because of those past encounters.  However, rembering the past with the good, I remember the bad.  I remember all the first doctor appointments and tears shed in tiny rooms, naked in gowns, exposed not only physically but emotionally... at fourteen... sixteen.... eighteen...?  But that's life.  At least, that's mine.

I have been on the phone crying to the nurses explaining how miserable I am.  "I can't keep anything down... not even water."
"Okay, well how long has this been going on?" she asked, cutting me off.
"It's my life..."
"- I need to know more than something other than it's 'your life.'... a couple days... a week?"
"Three years."
"...Three years..."
"Yes...three years..."

I said in between tears of frusteration and exhaustion.

I hope maybe I can get some IV fluids to keep me from passing out without having to take a trip to the ER or hospital.  I hate being there.  I'd rather be in my own bed if possible... but who knows what will happen though. 

I wish I didn't have to battle this endless cycle.  I wish I was a normal twenty three year old...but I suppose no one is normal.