From A Journal of Artifice, Entry 4

(I know I've been submitting a lot of these journal entries and probably boring the people who read them to tears... This time I packed many days in the entry, as I am attempting to get to the darker parts of the diary.)

February 6, 1995

A day of extreme emotional sickness. I do not sleep the night before. Mother tells me to drive the Cadillac to school since I have absentmindedly locked all keys in my car, yet I am so tired and horrified by my thoughts that I drive to a parking lot and sleep for three hours in the seat. I pick up my prescription of Paxil ordered by Mother (she is worried about me), order a Coke and take two of the little pills, and arrive home and sleep. I have been awake for maybe two hours, yet I ache to sleep again.

At the sight of any remotely attractive male, I experience suicidal urges.

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February 7, 1995

I am somewhat happier today, have taken my pills. It appears I am finding myself and my own opinions again, away from the poisonous, black empathy of these prior days. I am practically utterly detached from people. I wish the masses well, hope the best for them, but I cannot stand to be in their world for but a short time.

I have purchased another volume of Anais’ diary, a volume of the years ‘39 to ‘44, I believe. I continue to read about my darling Philip Carey, enthralled in his lost, obsessive, painful world, a world which I know and remember well.

I really seem to have no friends, no acquaintances. I am still indifferent to Peggy; the thought of spending intimate time with her does not appeal to me, though I could meet her at Denny’s if she asked, where I could get away from home and read and write over coffee and cigarettes. But I do not believe she will call on me. She is too absorbed in the excitement and activity of the newspaper and also becoming close with Katharine, a girl who has more in common with her than I truly ever will. Yet I wish Peggy happiness. She is a very kind, good-natured, and sensible person. I simply wish for more from a beau.

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February 8, 1995

It feels as if I have had a long vacation from school upon returning. It is a cold day, crisp leaves, crisp air. A clean feeling. I think of Dr. Bunch, Bush, all of my hates, angers, dreams.

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February 9, 1995

I am inspired by Mrs. Allison, my piano instructor. I believe her first name is Joan or June. A short, thin woman, well into her fifties or sixties but with face and eyes of pure vitality, intellect, passion, understanding, humor. She looks and seems terribly young to me. She has the sympathy I long for in a mentor, the warmth that Ms. Drath never did, even though she tenderly gave me gilt-edged books to read, Pushkin and D.H. Lawrence. Nina had such an assuming air about her, an impending strictness, almost a one-sidedness towards feeling and emotion. Yet Mrs. Allison has a life within her that has seen many things, possibly loneliness, alienation. She used to be a concert pianist but she cannot play anymore due to the arthritis in her hands. I ask if she misses it. Her answer sounds as if she is choking on tears, and I am instantly endeared to her. She is as colorful and full as her little office with its vast array of composers’ pictures and busts. Her clean, plain face with its charming wrinkles, her long, thin, fine brown hair, her bohemian-ness and introversion remind me of Edna St. Vincent Millay. I want us to become closer, I want her to think me talented and adore me.

I am gradually becoming “healthier” - I walk on the treadmill to part of a movie each night, usually a foreign film. I am practicing two hours a day. I get all of my homework done. Yet I still smoke insanely, and the greatest vice of all, think too much. I am even wearing conservative clothes (!) - toning down my practice of “haute couture.”