And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees/When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas

That's a cool poem, by the way. Just so you know.

It's freezing cold in here, with the 'here' in question being my dorm room. They turned the heat off over break, and though they've turned it back on, it takes awhile to warm the place up. So until then, I'm sleeping in 3 layers of clothes under every blanket I own, and wearing gloves and sweaters. It's becoming a bit absurd, but I suppose the feeling will come back to my fingers eventually, right? Ha, that was a joke. *pause* Or not. Your choice, really.

I saw Charity for the first time since December, she's such a sweet girl, and a sincerely nice person--so it's not like I can be mean to her, even if I wanted to, which I don't. I mean, come on, she likes the same books I do, and even quotes from them. It doesn't get much better than that. Well, okay, so it probably does. But I'm not trying to be literal here, even though I generally prefer literal over symbolic, because let's face it, symbolism causes more problems than it's worth. Anything can be read into anything, and, after awhile, it becomes absolutely ridiculous. I'm an English major, I should know, I've read essays about it. For example, the stanza structure in John Keats' 'Ode to a Nightingale' reinforces the concept of debauching to numb the pain, because each stanza looks like a wine goblet. Yes, it's dumb, I'm fully aware of that. But whoever it was who wrote it, is apparently important enough to have it published in a scholarly journal somewhere.

But I digress. I mentioned Charity because she got me a beautiful--there's not really another applicable word for it--journal. It's got thick, good-quality paper with gilt edging, it's solidly-bound and has a tan leather cover imprinted with an Old-World map. I love it. It was all I could do to not 'squee' right there, but I managed it.

It's looking to be an...interesting semester. If you really want to know, drop me a line. Otherwise, it's interesting, and leave it at that.


Haply I remember/And haply may forget

I'm out in the real world again--if Taylor can possibly be considered the 'real world.' I was released earlier today. I'm not entirely sure that it's a good thing--granted, I'm not a fan of 'inpatient units,' as they're apparently called now, but I do realise that they serve a purpose. I guess I'm just not sure at this point if the purpose, in my case, is enough.

Let me rephrase: I'm better. Kind of. Enough to function, but not much more than that. Scary thing, is I was doing pretty well, too, the last few days: it's only literally since being back at Taylor that everything's come back. So maybe it's not entirely me. Maybe it's the place. I don't know anymore.

I don't want to come across as being emo (though you're probably already convinced that I'm the biggest emo-person [not sure what the appropriate phrase is for that] on the planet), so I'm not going to continue in this vein. So on to a more cheerful subject.

The Colts won yesterday. It was a good game, except for the first quarter. Nothing quite like an 18-point deficit (21-3) after the first ten minutes of play to make a person believe it's over and that, yet again, the Colts choked in the finals. But, as he is often wont to do, Manning brought the team back in the last few minutes of the fourth quarter, and won the game 38-34.

THE COLTS ARE GOING TO THE SUPERBOWL!!!!! This is terribly exciting. I'm thrilled. I even stayed up past my nuthouse bedtime (9:30. Yes, it's very, very early, I know. But they hand out the evening/bedtime meds at 9:00, and anyone who takes/has taken Ambien can tell you that staying up much past the actual consumption time is actually quite challenging, and it's not really worth fighting to stay awake. Hence, 9:30. Staying up until 10:30, which I accomplished last night, had me hallucinating and incoherent, which is NOT GOOD if you're in a bughouse hoping to get discharged the next day) to watch the whole game. Squee! Who knows? They might even win.

I think that would be nice.


More distant and more solemn/Than a fading star

So at the rate I'm improving, I'll be 'well enough' (operative word being 'enough') to be left by myself overnight sometime in March. Which is not entirely a good thing, mostly because I really don't like the idea of having to be around people incessantly for two months.
Physically recovering, though. I haven't had to use bandaids or anything of the sort for two days now; by next Sunday, the scabs will have healed over and the only traces remaining will be red marks. Sometimes I'm tempted to turn my arm into one big red mark. But that wouldn't go over terribly well.
I think, on Tuesday, I'm going to check myself into the Cornerstone facility. Again. I'm not tremendously keen on the idea, but there you have it. I'm not sure what's going on, or why, but...I don't know how much longer I can keep doing this.
I hate, hate, hate feeling like this. Why won't it just go away?


She dances like a Bomb, abroad,/And swings upon the Hours

So I had a blazing row with my parents a few days after Christmas, in which they informed me that they didn't know who I was, and they didn't know if I knew who I was, and that they wanted to find out. So I told them. Not in detail (only 3 single-spaced pages), nor in an offensive way--well, okay. Fine. So it WAS offensive, but give me some credit--it could have been far worse. I toned it down as much as possible while still being honest. It was a sterling example of me being my too-honest, bitchy self that hesitates about making people cry. I just can't take it when people cry. Yelling, fine. Screaming, not a problem. Cold silence, sure. Crying? Not so much. Especially crying females. Crying males are far easier to deal with, and since I apparently have a habit of making guys cry, I'm becoming less awkward around it. But I don't think I'll ever(and hope I'll never) become comfortable around crying women.
Had a bad week. Terrible, actually. Monday night I pretty much flipped out, and I've been sleeping in Bekah's room ever since. I'm healing nicely, and the surgical adhesive tape (or whatever it's called) hasn't ripped off too much skin. I'm actually a bit afraid to sleep alone, still; even though it's been several days. I'm not actually any better; I'm just in better control of my emotions. Read: not an emotional wreck. So now I'm (somewhat) back to my glib self. I don't know how long it'll take this time, and I don't know how much more I can take. I don't want to think about it, either; it just makes things worse.
I've started reading a lot again, but it's not fun anymore. That scares me, because reading has always been the best thing in my life. But now...I'm reading to avoid thinking. It doesn't actually improve anything, or relax me, or do any of the other things it used to.
However, on a quasi-cheerful note, I got my glasses fixed! Kind of. Sort of. Not really, but mostly. They gave me temporary frames for my old lenses, because they didn't have the frames I used before in stock. So they popped my lenses into the frames with the closest fit (they don't fit perfectly, but they'll stay in place for now) and ordered the other set of frames, and will call me when they get in. But it's nice to be able to use them again; I never thought I'd say this, but I kind of missed wearing glasses. They're such a great way to emphasize things. Plus, I want to perfect my 'Evil Librarian Who Will Sacrifice You Upon A Bloodied Altar To A Nameless Heathen God If You Talk In The Library' look, which, as everyone knows, is impossible without glasses.