Learning to Read and Write

I believe that the unmoderated and instinctive behavior of children is the clearest window into someone's personality. Innocent and unashamed to be true to themselves, we can learn so much about ourselves just by analyzing our childhoods. For example, when my preschool class finished up our year, the teachers had us make these big paper folders to hold all the work we did and take home. They were already made for us, but we were able to decorate them with markers to our liking. I remember decorating mine with a random sort of print -- various letters (some of which were backwards) and numbers (only a few, since I didn't know how to write them all) in different colors. My friend was drawing fireworks, I think, and there were quite a few who'd just taken to scribbling different colors to cover the folder. "Um... I think you're doing it wrong," she said to me. I don't remember what I said in reply, since I still liked how it looked. I settled on adding some squiggles mixed in with the characters and was quite pleased with the result.

better write more...

Not feeling well today. Mentally, physically, emotionally -- you name it, it's down here with me. I'll likely end up not going to my Grant Writing course and perhaps my Rhetoric one if this headache keeps up. In the latter, however, we're discussing the first few chapters of one of our texts, "Writing & Healing," so I'm a little reluctant to not go.

Kittens and Bouncy Balls

While typing my morning pages (750 words) today, I kept getting distracted. My cat, Higgins, kept crying for some reason and I couldn't focus. It occurred to me at the end of my pages that he might have the right idea -- why keep quiet when you need something desperately? I heard him drop his bouncy ball, so he must have just wanted to play, but the concept is still relevant -- why suffer in silence when people who love and care for you are there and available? I certainly wouldn't meow at the top of my lungs and circle around a computer chair, but I need to do something other than pretend everything is okay when they clearly are not.

Glitch

Brit got me addicted to this new game called Glitch. You should totally play with us.

(750 stats)

Dr. Blyss

Started seeing a new chiropractor today -- one a lot closer to my apartment. It's actually only a couple blocks away and my daddy's insurance covers part of the bill. I had wanted a female chiropractor for a while as well, so Dr. Blyss was an easy choice. I'm sore, but it's a good kind of sore -- the after-the-gym sort of ache.

(750 stats)

Obsession, Stone Sour Style

Okay, so, I have a new favorite song. It's called "Through Glass" by the band Stone Sour and I'm absolutely obsessed with it. I heard it on Sirius in the car one day, not really paying attention to what was playing until my little ears picked up a a particular pair of lyrics:

" no one ever tells you that forever feels like home / sitting all alone inside your head. "

It just clicked -- how the hell do they know exactly how life feels like for me? I pretty much fell in love right then and there. I don't actually know what the entire song is about for sure, and in all honestly, I really could care less.

Killjoy

I've always said that I hate myself. If I were someone else, I certainly wouldn't want to be friends with me. So I often wonder why it is that I have so many great supporting me. Danny said it's probably because they feel like they benefit somehow from the relationship. I can't fathom what anyone could possibly gain from my pathetic presence.

When I was in middle school we would go on family vacations my mom would plan. As if bringing along a pre-teen weren't enough trouble, there was me, undiagnosed and therefore untreated anorexia and depression. They would laugh and try to take lots of pictures. I wouldn't have any of it. I just wasn't interested in anything; there was nothing that gave me any sort of happiness. I remember my mother lowering her camera once and glaring at me. "Killjoy," she muttered.

At the time, I'd never heard that before. It was quite obvious what it meant, though. And even if I didn't understand, she and the rest of my family proceeded to label me as such. I rolled my eyes and slammed doors and glared and shouted. But it hurt every single time. I don't just bring people down -- I kill their very happiness. And it isn't just my actions -- it's me; I'm the joy-killer. There's a murderer and there's someone who has committed a murder. Like the former, I am defined by my actions.

What am I now? What does my lack of action paint me as?

I don't know.

(750 stats)

So So Terrified

I'm still scared. I've been trying really hard to put on a brave face and do what needs to be done... but there's still a part of me that just wants to curl up in a corner alone and sob. And within that is a piece of me that keeps whispering "I can't do this anymore. It's too hard."

That part of me keeps me lying in bed awake, keeps me from getting up to quiet my starving body. It keeps me from really being able to give a shit about anything. It keeps my lips closed when I need to speak and dulls my mind when I need to listen.

Whenever I get my vitals taken, people always say that my heartrate is very fast, even at rest. Physiology says it's to compensate for low blood pressure, but I have a sneaking suspicion that it's from living my life in constant, sometimes paralyzing fear.

I know that I need to help myself. But part of me has already given up and it's difficult to give up this misery because by now I've grown accustomed to it. Its consistent presence is almost comforting, especially when I feel like I'm spinning out of control.

Fuck.

help me