Anyway, this probably won't be incredibly long, but at least it's something new for you to read. I know the frustration of checking a weblog and having nothing new to read. There are days when I check my email only to find an annoying ad from Brookstone and nothing else...and then i check my regular weblogs and they have nothing new...and it is an incredibly lonely and sad feeling.

It's kind of like being at home alone and needing to make a connection, so you call a few friends and none are home, and then you call people you haven't talked to in a while, and they aren't home either, and then desperately you call anyone in the world you can think of who might possibly pick up the phone and fill the lonliness for a minute or two....only to find that not one of those people will pick up their phone.

So, i write at this moment because I don't want you to feel the disappointment of looking up darbydinatale.com only to find that there is nothing new here. That has happened to you before, I know. But not this time, my friend.

Does it matter that I am really not saying much of value at this point? Does it matter that I am just typing, typing, typing the first thing that comes into my head? Have you ever just written a stream of consciousness? That's what I do sometimes when a million thoughts are swirling in my head so quickly and madly that I can't think one clear thought on it's own, and I just write without the extra pressure of trying to make sense. I just write the first thing that comes to my head. It's probably hard to read, but here goes...

Frustration today, frustration and just the plain, dark road and the long shadows in the late afternoon somehow bring a sense of comfort and a sense of longing and sadness, and the clear air feels like the autumn and that makes me sad, too, cause I just want to be free from all of the things that chain me like a prisoner inside this mind of mine. Therapy today and it gets harder and more difficult as we descend deep down inside to the part that is screaming and crying and won't let anyone near, not even the now-me. This part doesn't trust anyone at all and i'm not sure what to do about that. Life is too painful to trust and it only leaves you hurt and vulnerable and wanting and begging and pleading for the things you need that you cannot give to yourself or get for yourself. Powerless. powerless. All i can say is that powerlessness is a driving force somewhere deep down, cause at one point I figured out what it meant to have a little power, and I told myself I would learn how to not let them hurt me anymore. And when will they finally not hurt me anymore? When I have something they want. And what do they want from me?

I could see it in their eyes. They were captivated, completely captivated and stunned and all of a sudden, I saw their weakness. i didn't understand it at the time, couldn't understand, but i determined right then and there that I would do whatever it takes to be that desired object that caused that momentary lapse in power. I would figure out how to make them want me like that. Like they wanted her. Because that is the only way to keep them from despising me...and hurting me...and laughing at my terror.

constant terror constand torment everytime I step out the door, everytime I turn the handle, there they are. There they are, waiting for me, waiting, like wild dogs wait for their prey, smelling the fear. Eventually I would have to come out and there they would be. And I didn't know the world could be any different, any different, can the world be any different? I still don't believe so. i don't believe that there aren't those who lie in wait for the moment when you least expect it to destroy you, to mock you as you suffer, to plan out how they will torment you. LIttle girl, little girl a small little girl, I remember the concrete I remember those cracks in the white concrete and it became so familiar that I could cling to that as some kind of friend. The only thing constant. There would always be the cracks in the concrete. There would always be the bits of grass and the clover that grew out and the sound of the cars driving by and the hot humid days when the bugs would make sounds but I didn't know it was bugs, it was just the soundtrack to the nightmare. To the waiting, to the knowing that soon, that soon, that all too soon there they would be and they would be there for me.

Well here you go, it is Monday, and that means that I have been in therapy. And it is also 1am and I let my guard down at night. And I am writing these things because it is a piece of my past, and a place where I am stuck. And even though you have no idea what I'm talking about and it may make no sense to you, at least you have something new to read. And i may just erase this tomorrow morning, so if you get to read this post, you have logged on during a privileged moment.