You Are Invited

To anyone and everyone who is interested....

I will be continuing my blogging (and hopefully beginning a writing career) at the following webpage...

My Gram of Soma

I hope to see you all there.

Love,
Me.

Ignore This

This blog and I have had our ups and downs. And honestly I had forgotten the reason behind it's existence. It's right there in the name. My soma.

I need this blog to air out my thoughts; allow them to float in the breeze and find their own shape.

Soon I will be posting a link on this page to a new blog spot. As with many things, it is better to start new and fresh. Maybe I will follow through with my desire to pour myself onto the page.

I don't think I can still be Lenina. While I am still that girl, blindly finding herself and her way in life, learning lessons she didn't even know she was learning, I am so much more. Perhaps a new name is in order.

I love you. I don't know why I cut myself off from you.

Gay is Evolution

My childhood friend and reincarnation buddy (we have managed to find each other in almost every life cycle), started his own page of catharsis.  Reading it gives me much joy, and he is so very talented in all that he does.

Unfortunately, he has moved far away to the shore, so I miss him each day.  But reading his words gives me comfort.  Check it out.  He can comfort you, too.

Gay is Evolution

Today is also his birthday.  As my mother and grandmother would say, "Love on him."

Getting Back Into It

Moved in to new house November 12th. Check

Wedding date set, December 4th. Check

Graduation date set, December 18th.  Check

Then guess what, kiddies?  I am going to be so free and open.  And of course, searching for a job.  Hopefully in the civil engineering world, but I am open to my minor career fields as well.  Especially writing.  I would love to turn that little hobby into my way of bringing home the bacon.

And as you read above, a house was purchased and we moved in last Friday.  Today is the official anniversary of being in our house one week.  You feel different when you sign those closing papers.  Personally, I kept expecting someone to jump out of the shadows, grab the papers, and scamper off saying, "Just kidding!  You can't get a house!"

But we did.  Mainly due to Patrick's job and income.  I contribute roughly $100 a week to our household income.  But come on, I am in school and I am graduating in December. 

I feel a lot better from that last post, although I still have my moments dealing with myself.  As of now, I am attempting to power through.

But in the world of a bipolar, you have no idea what tomorrow will bring.

Just Get It Over With

You know how I feel right now?

Empty.

I don't know why.  I just got off work, I have to be there again in 7 hours.  I should be sleeping.  But instead, my mind is turning in on itself, thinking thoughts I don't want to be thinking.  Feeling things I shouldn't be feeling.

In my dreams lately, the color dreams, I am being chased.  Chased by a monster, a monster that bears down upon me, no matter how fast I run.  In the dream, I keep creating these safe places.  Such as, while attempting to hide in a house (that I know in real life) from this monster, I created this secret compartment, an underground safety room.  I closed myself off, and promptly woke up.

Why do I always feel like I need to protect myself?  Why am I always running?  Why do I try to please every fucking person around me, then forget that I have needs and wants, too?  Why do I put everyone before myself?

Why am I still fucking awake, typing on the computer, asking myself a million freaking questions?
There's another question right now.

I just want to make everyone happy.  I want to make him happy.  I try so hard.

Sometimes I fall short.  Just forgive me for the wrongs I do.

Mad World

The dream is in black and white.  It's always in black and white.

I am a young boy, 13 or 14, and I am beyond thin.  I am emaciated, frail, as are the other living skeletons around me.  Determining anyone's age is impossible as they all look like 100 year old men.  I probably look the same way.

We stand in a line, men in uniforms with guns herding us to a field outside of the barbed wire fences.  Once in the field, terror grips my chest as we are all handed a shovel and commanded to dig.

Tears are burning down my face, and I know I am going to die.  They do not ask people to dig holes and then take them back to camp.  Smoke from the oven pours into the sky, blackening and polluting the air.  All I want is to kiss my mother and have her hold me one last time.  I am a little boy.  I do not want to die.

In all too short a time, the holes are completed.  They scream at us to get on our knees, and I comply, crying and praying and begging for salvation.  There is none to come.  I am the 4th person down, and they stand behind the first man, striking him in the back of the neck with the blade of the shovel.  He falls in his shallow grave.  I close my eyes and wait.  There is an eternity before the next blow hits.

The second strike and then the body drops.

The third strike. 

My turn.  

In the dream, I feel the pain on my neck, and my body becomes paralyzed as I hit the bottom of my hole.  Everything begins to blur, the dirt hindering my breath, until there is just black.

And then I wake up.

I don't know my name, the boy's name.  Maybe if I knew that I would have something to go off of, prove to myself that it isn't real.  

It isn't the only black and white dream I have, not the only recurring one.  It's just the one that haunts me the most.

Hmmm...

I really don't know what happened with that last post...

I was very tired last night, my computer had died on me, and I didn't feel like getting out of bed to plug in the power cord.  But I could not sleep for the life of me.

So I pulled out my phone, and typed this deep, meaningful, poetic verse about longing for dreams washing over me and the night engulfing.

Or allowing the night to bring the dreams...

I honestly can't remember now, and I erased the message from my phone.

But, just so you know...  It was the greatest piece of literature I have ever wrote.  And this, is the tribute.
Nice one, Tenacious D.

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Tight Monies

This month is going to be a little tight for us.
Really tight.
I have tuition due for my last semester of college, along with rent, bills, and a court cost we won't go into detail about.  The amount is hefty, and I am a little afraid of not getting everything paid.

This is the first time since I have moved out on my own (except when my ex cleaned out the bank account) that I have been tight on money.  We have a plan of not going out much, not driving much, and living off of rice and beans for awhile until we can build back a financial safety net.

I am also considering other ways to make money... not all of them illegal.  They include, but are not limited to:

-Stripping
-Prostitution (not my favorite)
-Winning the lottery jackpot
-Selling organs
-Selling plasma
-Signing up for experiments at research facilities

Some are more feasible than others.  Such as the lottery.  That will definitely happen, right?  RIGHT?  Yes, agree with me and make me feel a little better.

On the bright side, with all the sitting around and staying in I will be doing, I will have an abundant time to write and become reacquainted with my dear blog here.

Have a lazy Sunday afternoon, everyone.

Love,
Lenina

Chance

I suffer from bulimia and body dismorphic disorder.  I'm sure I have made that clear over many blog entries on this site.  Cures exist, as we are told, but nothing has ever worked for me, up to date.  Therapy, food journals, drawings, hypnotism... I think at one point I was a doctoral student's thesis paper.  Nothing gives me the result I want.  Which is to sit down at a plate of food and not feel guilt.  To finish a plate of food and not immediately purge my body of its contents.

So when a friend of mine told me about a new program she was following, I was skeptical.  I had gotten to the point where I felt nothing would ever be different, and I would just be dealing with this forever.  I have gained weight from the worst times, I look healthy.  I feel overweight and disgusting.  But I can make myself eat.  I can't always keep it down, but I do my best.  I was ready to deal with it.

But this new program, well, its different from everything else I have ever tried.  There are daily lessons, a regiment of food intake, and an internal support system.  Oh, and it centers all of it around God, and healing yourself for His glory.

It has been a LONG time since I have been overly religious.  I was raised Baptist.  And that's how I phrase that to people on purpose.  I was raised Baptist.  I don't consider myself to be anymore.  I was jaded by the "Christians" I was raised around in church.  I haven't felt the need to practice an organized religion, but I do miss the fellowship.

And so I thought this was a good idea.  Not only might I find a cure and healing, but I could maybe find that fellowship I missed from the past.

Tonight was the first night I went to a group meeting.  Within the lesson, we discussed how God gives people second chances.  Even third, fourth, or 60th chances.  He wants us to serve a purpose, and we don't always follow the first time.

So now I am thinking, do I even deserve a second chance?  Or I suppose it would be more like the 60th category for me by now.  What warrants forgiveness?

Just a ponderous thought for the evening.

See Through

I'm staring at your picture right now.  Looking into your eyes, looking at your goofy smile and the way you cock your head to the side while you laugh.  How I admired you.  How funny I thought you were, how witty, how clever.  And also, how kind.
I'm trying to see through it all.  I'm trying to see a clue to what you really were.  What you really are.  How could I have missed something so blatantly obvious?  How could I see you each week and not know the evil that waited under the surface.
You laugh at me from the picture.  You fooled me, hurt me, humiliated me, and you know it.  You're proud about it.  And I hate you for that.

I hate you for a lot of things.

So many things and so much hate in fact, that my heart refuses to hold it.

I am forced to let go.  Forced to forgive you.  Forced to look past your wicked smile, your sharp teeth prepared to tear into innocent flesh, your eyes of smoke and mirrors.

And I see a sad, sad, sad little boy.

I cry for you.  I cry for you, and what you did to me.  You could have possibly taken away my future, everything I hold dear.  I could lose it all, just by the choice you made.  But I cry for you.

I'm staring at your picture right now.  And I no longer see rage, fear, sadness.

I just see a picture.
It's just a picture.

Back To Basics

This blog used to be an outlet for me.  A place to rant and rave and let out the anger that builds inside me at times.  A place to find solace through writing and steer myself back on course.

I keep getting further and further away from peace, it seems.  Soma.  My gram of soma is a call back to Huxley's novel "A Brave New World."  Soma was the pill they would ingest to negate feelings of guilt and anxiety.  Instead of learning to deal with pain, they chose to ignore it.

I choose to ignore a lot of things I don't want to deal with.  Things that happened in my past, things happening in my present.  And the more I attempt to ignore, the more the anger and sadness and mistrust fills my mind.

I am trying to remind myself of the beginning of this blog.  The blog I began in 2004 that is no more, lost to the oblivion of the internet.  That same Lenina, Amanda, has to be there.

Doesn't she?

I'm Bipolar

Ha.  Me likey.

Tears Follow Me

My brother's birthday was this week.  The little booger turned 21, and is freaking excited he can finally go into bars and drink legally.  In fact, he is coming to stay with me tonight, and we're going to hit up some hot spots in Nashvegas.

On Monday night, we had a little family party for him, complete with cheesecake for his birthday dessert.  He doesn't really care for actual cake.  But cheesecake, he could eat an entire one all by himself.  We also had him a bunch of presents.  I of course got him a bottle of vodka, his favorite liquor.

Grandma came that night, also.  And when he unwrapped the present she gave him, we all began to cry.  Inside was a simple wooden jewelry box containing an old beat up belt buckle and a pipe.

We are not a complete family anymore.  Papa passed away in 2008 after a short illness that took his mind from us first.  We are close knit.  We love each other dearly, and we all live less than a mile away from each other.  When Papa died, we were all heartbroken, and although its been over two years now, there are still moments when we are all together that we reminisce and begin to cry.

The jewelry box was his.  The pipe was the one he had forever, but only smoked once.  The belt buckle was the one he wore to church every Sunday, and nowhere else.  When Matt (brother dear) opened the box, Papa's smell of Old Spice filled the room, and it felt like he was there in the room with us.

My brother is around 6' 4", and weighs around 280 pounds.  To see tears dripping down his face is not a common occurrence.  Which made all the rest of us cry even harder.  And when he said "Thank you" to grandma, it was so heartfelt.

Although it was a moment of sadness and happiness in remembering the dearest man on earth to me, next to my daddy and Patrick, it is a memory I will always cherish.  My family is one full of love for each other.  We may mess up and make mistakes, but we will always be there for each other.

Happy birthday, kiddo.  Love you.

Not Pregnant

I get the weirdest looks from people all the time for one of my favorite sandwiches.  It is not your "normal" sandwich, although the person who gets to judge what is normal in this life does not always coincide with my own thoughts on normalcy.
The sandwich in question (which I am happily munching on right now) is pickle, lettuce, and pretzel with a drizzle of dijon mustard.

See, I told you.  I see the looks out there.  Except for you, making the yummy face.  You get ten points.

It is a strange concoction, I will admit.  But to me, the tangy and crunchy makes my taste buds happy.  Adding cucumber is also a refreshing treat, but alas, no cucumbers in my kitchen today.

Weird sandwiches has been passed down to me, though.  My dad's favorite sandwich was peanut butter and mayonnaise.  When mom was too busy or had to go in to work early, dad would be in charge of making our breakfasts.  And more likely than not, he would be slathering up the bread with PB and Mayo to put on our plates, and a huge glass of ice cold milk to wash it down.
It's actually really tasty.  Don't knock it until you've tried it.

Another good one is peanut butter and jelly with sour cream and onion chips in the middle.

When you think about it, I'm sure everyone has some weird food concoction that they think is just mouth watering, but everyone else warily stares it down.  As if it will jump off their friend's plate and try to scurry down their throat, gags aplenty.

So what is yours?  I'm all ears.

Throw Me That Apron

I am renting a house right now.  I don't know if I ever told any of you about that, yet.  November 2009, we (Patrick and I) found this little place in a tiny dead-end neighborhood in Nashville, TN.  We rented it, found a room mate, and are spending the beginnings of "us" in this 2 bedroom, 1 bath.

It is only the 2nd actual place I have considered my home since I left my parents' house in 2003.  I had a one bedroom apartment briefly in Knoxville that felt like home to me.  But that lasted a year before I wanted to move elsewhere.  I've considered myself a nomad up until last year, and this boy finally settled me.  So now I play house, and little housewife, and domesticize myself to death.

I've only had apartments or condos until now, so I have never been completely familiar with the general upkeep of a house.  I mean, my father was a plumber/electrician and I had a brother, so I never had to fix a sink, toilet, blown fuse, or mow.  But now I am learning to do all of those things and more.

Not to mention housework.  And you know what?  I love every damn minute of it.  All I want to do when I have to go to my job is stay at home and make sure all the laundry is done, the living room is clean, the bed is made, the toilet and shower are clean, and that the kitchen is filled with some sort of wholesome food.

I realize some of you feminism loving females out there are sneering your nose right now.  Trust me, I am still all for feminism.  I am not selling out.  Or maybe I am.  A part of feminism is choice, and I choose to love doing these things.  He does not force me to do them, or require it of me.  In fact, if I had a penny for every time he says,"I just want you to be happy.  You do whatever you want with your life, and I'll be right there beside you." then neither of us would ever have to work a day in our lives again.  

Right now, my feet are stained green with the juice of fresh cut grass, and the blisters are forming on my thumbs.  And I am aching inside to write down the stories rolling in my head.

But I am content.  I am happy.  And I will attempt once again to fall asleep tonight.

Good night, all.

Catharsis

I remember when a day passing between my writing fits was uncommon.

It has been literally months now since I have penned anything of substance.  Ideas roll about in my head, but for some reason I just do not allow them to escape.  I know part of the problem is fear.  But that is a topic for another day.

My emotions are having an adverse reaction to my writing celibacy.  And I am fairly certain that my beloved would lock me in our bedroom with a pencil and a pad of paper if he thought it would help.

Perhaps that's what I need.  I keep putting every other action item on my multiple "To-Do" lists above the simple act of writing.  Or, as I take it, catharsis.

Even now, 2 AM, I sit here, unable to fall asleep, my mind tumbling.  Reading didn't bring about the heavy eyelids as it normally does, so my only thought was to pull my lap top covertly under the covers so the light doesn't wake my snoring dear.

I hate when the cursor blinks at me repeatedly over and over, like someone stomping their foot impatiently waiting for you to do or say something.  To make up your mind.  Keep blinking, little black line.  You only spur me to keep my fingers flying across this keyboard.

God.  I have started talking to my computer.  I need to get my butt down to writing so they don't commit me this early in life.

Of course, it did work well for Sylvia Plath.  Except for the suicide.  I'll try to steer clear of that.

Weird Side Effect

I was listening to the television in the background (Who Wants To Be a Millionaire) as I was cleaning the house. A drug commercial came on, as they seem to be prevalently mid-day, and I heard the weirdest possible side effect ever.

BURPING.

This drug, for whatever reason, causes chronic and severe burping in certain cases. Hmmm...

It sounds like something Bart Simpson would put in someone's drink.

June 1, 2007

I always drink the milk left in the bowl after I eat my cereal. Not because I like the taste.In fact, at times my stomach turns at the thought of the weakly flavored milk pooled at the bottom of my bowl. But I must drink it. It's more of a compulsion than anything else.

It's like the kiss goodbye at the end of a relationship. A hint of the flavor, but nothing like the real thing that once existed. The aftertaste stains your mouth and leaves you searching for something, anything to drink down and disguise the sensation. A gallon of water to cover the sickly sweetness. But you need that to end the experience completely.

You have to have closure in everything you do.

Otherwise, at the end of your life, you are a frayed piece of string, nothing tied off or complete.