I'm flying. (Literally.)

For two and a half hours of attempted sleep, sitting upright in the aisle seat on a plane to Chicago, I've finally given up on the idea. Its senseless to vacantly stare at random objects and space out. Every now and then, you'll lose your guard, your head tilts, eyes high five and your jaw falls open like a trap door. We've all been there. 20 seconds of sleep... And? DONE! That's the best you get. I'm so spent but I'd rather be tired than morose.

Everything has been really surreal so far. I feel like I'm kind of on autopilot through scenes in a boring movie of a character I somewhat identify with. I don't feel like I'm here at all. Yet, I think about my familiarities in Stuttgart and I can just picture them getting so small. They are further and further away from me. Almost as if they are fading into darkness and disappearing forever, being swallowed by the great nothing.

I kept speaking German in Düsseldorf, even when after they saw my USA passport, they continued in English. It bummed me out a lot when everybody was around me was speaking they're twangy English and weren't associated with the barracks. It bummed me out they put ice in my 'club soda' and... I am starting to get annoyed, perhaps it is the lack of sleep or the fact that I never wanted to leave to begin with anyway, not really...

Maybe I am just bummed because I am a Bobby Bummer, or perhaps? Maybe it's writer's block, lack of creativity, sleep... or whatever. I don't think anybody enjoys being stoic, it's like signing up for a coma... or what I imagine a coma to be like anyhow.

It's cold in Chicago. These dudes at customs welcomed me back to America and I wanted to flip them off. We'll see how everything goes. I ended up sleeping after all. For four hours in fetal position, only to be startled awake into a heart attack every now and then for no reason. Maybe I'll get a hot dog and hang out with Neil Gaiman, in my head.

I have this talent...

for writing love letters, and convincing the reader that it is addressed to that they're definite. I think what's even more unsettling is I have the sheer ability to convince myself they are true. It's one of the set backs of being a borderline. Sometimes I can't differentiate between probable truths or indecipherable idealizations. My brain can't make the distinction, maybe because I've been plagued by this disorder unknowingly for so long. My mind thinks in absolutes and even when warned, men seem to slime their way inside and I start to question myself.

David, my therapist, forewarned me in our last meeting, that even though I've made incredible progress... setbacks can be anticipated. I'm in a major transitional period of my life, although a regression isn't inevitable, it's likely... and to just know myself and try to base my decisions off how much I know about my disorder and my past. I treaded my feelings lightly the past few weeks, and have carried a big stick. But lately, my thoughts are too much and have infiltrated my dreams and have now, been making me physically ill. I'm dreaming of sharks again, and being cut up, and beaten and surviving these terrible obstacles.

I'm distancing from people who mean the most to me and distracting myself with ideals and dreams. I'm brushing people off, biting my tongue and have been in a daze for weeks. I don't even talk to MY David so much anymore, which bums me out. But if I talk, I have to be honest... and I'm not ready to talk honesty because I don't know what's what.

All I know is this, people disappoint me... and bore me and are complete idiots but are somehow content with their lives.