Sometimes I feel like a living breathing train wreck, but sometimes I feel like I'm just a giant poser. I supposedly have all these problems with my brain, but then I see so many other people struggling a lot more with their shit, and it makes me feel terrible. I feel like I'm making excuses for being a bad person.
Today I made myself a bag of popcorn and was doing just fine. But then my brother came bumbling in and just dug his hand into the bag, touched every piece, and took a fistful. I mean, that's his thing, he acts obnoxious but it's not like his goal is to honestly bother people. He just wants to annoy you a little. Trademark brother personality. No, trademark sibling personality. But it really did bother me. I couldn't eat any more popcorn. I just put it in the fridge when I was sure he was done with it.
My compulsions have always been weird. They're sporadic, and they are triggered by weird things. Some people I'm completely fine around, but others can unintentionally drive me nuts in less than a minute. And it makes me feel awful because some of these things that I have to do to counter whatever somebody else just did, they aren't very flattering or polite or discreet. Another thing, they change. It seems like they take shifts. One day I can't touch doors, another I have to tap the sink faucet about forty times. The one thing that's been consistent though, is that whenever my AP Euro teacher passes around something for us to look at (he travels a lot so he enjoys sharing his souvenirs), I can not touch it. Under absolutely no circumstance can I touch it ever. It doesn't matter what it is or where it came from, I just can't do it.
Help.
I seriously cannot wait until I can take care of myself, and then I can go and get cat scans and be psychologically analysed to my heart's content.
Affichage des articles dont le libellé est sick. Afficher tous les articles
Affichage des articles dont le libellé est sick. Afficher tous les articles
dimanche 23 novembre 2014
jeudi 23 octobre 2014
The Luckiest Little Girl
I am an extraordinarily lucky youth. It's to the point where I feel like I'm either a cocky ingrate, knowing that if I don't want to do an assignment, I won't have to face the reprecussions the next day through some strange turn of events; or I'm being tossed a bone by some higher power that wants to make up for dealing me such a lousy hand in regards to my living situation. But it's absolutely nuts.
Today I walked into my AP Biology class and sat down in my seat. I looked to my left at the weekly chart of assignments on the chalkboard, and my heart dropped as I saw that we had a Latin prefix and suffix quiz planned. However, before I could finish scanning over my classmate's study sheet we were all shuffled into the lab to spend the class period making up an experiment that our teacher had botched yesterday. But alas, she botched the preparations again and now our quiz is pushed to Monday. I hadn't given any thought whatsoever to that quiz and I cannot believe everything worked out the way it did. Now I have all the time in the world to worry about it, after I give adequate thought to the AP European History test I have tomorrow and the quiz I have in Analysis.
I can't help but think that these things are all happening because I'm meant to succeed. I've got to be saved up for something great. That gives me hope. The depression is back 100% and this possibility of grandeur keeps me motivated to do some things... I'm trying really hard, ok? I am. It's absolutely amazing that I've made it this far with my reputation for losing it at some point during the school year. I am incredibly unstable. Completely reliable in a professional setting, but coming apart at the seams just below the surface 24/7. I always make it through the year with a cumulative GPA of 3.5 or higher, and that can only be attributed to sheer luck. Something is looking out for me, and you know what? I am so grateful.
Now for a word to those who aren't so lucky: please, don't give up on anything. My luck only makes my acheivements seem sporadic and something that I didn't work for. But your perseverance magnifies everything you do, and makes you a stronger and more admirable person.
Sometimes the guilt drives me nuts. I don't deserve the extra help, but I'm so dependent upon it. I still need it.
mercredi 22 octobre 2014
The Inebriation Placebo
You can never really tell that you've hit rock bottom until it happens full force. You go through a hard time, you think the world is over, you keep existing and you recuperate and either get past it, continuing on with your life, or you get used to it. Pretty soon you're back in your usual moods and your behavior is consistent with what it was before. But when you really do hit rock bottom, it just kind of drops you off of a cliff, and when you splatter all over the rocky land below you look around and go, "Oh, this is what it's like."
It's like getting drunk for the first time. You just wander around, trying to tell if you're buzzed or if it's some kind of placebo effect. Then you go home and go to sleep and in the morning your head is pounding, and you know right at that moment what it feels like to be inebriated. That was it the previous night. That's what it feels like when you realize that everything you've built up around you has crumbled. You're surrounded by the debris of your life, and there's nothing that you can use to fix anything. You have to wait. You have to wait for the grass to grow and new saplings to find some way to cling to the ashen soil and bury their roots deep in the ground. The things that come back are things you had before, but they were too strong to be swept away, or they were hidden in some safe place, only to be revealed in times of hardship. They are familiar but they have changed. They bask in their newfound resilience, but only if you can find the motivation to stop pussy-footing around your problems and face them.
It's like getting drunk for the first time. You just wander around, trying to tell if you're buzzed or if it's some kind of placebo effect. Then you go home and go to sleep and in the morning your head is pounding, and you know right at that moment what it feels like to be inebriated. That was it the previous night. That's what it feels like when you realize that everything you've built up around you has crumbled. You're surrounded by the debris of your life, and there's nothing that you can use to fix anything. You have to wait. You have to wait for the grass to grow and new saplings to find some way to cling to the ashen soil and bury their roots deep in the ground. The things that come back are things you had before, but they were too strong to be swept away, or they were hidden in some safe place, only to be revealed in times of hardship. They are familiar but they have changed. They bask in their newfound resilience, but only if you can find the motivation to stop pussy-footing around your problems and face them.
lundi 20 octobre 2014
Journal Insincerity
Permit me to bitch for a bit, please. I don't usually complain, at least not straight to people. Over a blog or in a journal is different, though, because it's not as though you're expecting a sympathetic friend to give an understanding nod, even if they're secretly tired of your bullshit. Yeah, real people see this, but it's not like I'm making you sit and read it; if you're interested you keep scrolling, if not, you can just keep clicking through other blogs. Of course I know that everything you put on the internet is there forever for the whole world to see, but really, I'm not going to post anything harsh about someone with their actual name and such. Hm, I guess the real point of this project must be revealed: as stated earlier somewhere on here, I love to write, and one of my goals is to land an agent by the end of my high school career. The only way I'm going to do that is if I put together a bitching portfolio. I have a wattpad (groans with embarrassment but has to admit acutally enjoying the site) and I have some other stuff, but I figured that wouldn't be enough, and so I came up with the idea to start another blog.
You gasp!
"Another?! Where is this glorious first blog?!" you ask in excitement.
There is no fucking way I am sharing that with you. I ended up deleting it because I realized my mother had access to it, and while she hadn't known she had access to it, or even that it existed, I couldn't run the risk. It was super personal about my struggles with bulimia. It was really sad and when I look back on it I ache for that girl who felt so alone. I am a completely different person than I was when I was her age, and it just makes the hurt so much more pronounced. That girl still exists somewhere, and I feel like I just hid her away and have decided to ignore her for the sake of my well being and the well being of those around me. But she didn't have to be pushed away. And the fact that she's still there to me scares me a little because who knows she won't try to come back? The fact that she is so different but still very much a part of me scares me a great deal. I need therapy. That girl needs to become happy and morph into my personality or some hippy shit.
Anyway, back to the topic at hand:
My final point is that even though this is for work purposes, this is still the one and only Teen Angst Blog. I knew I wanted to do a blog, and I thought about what I could do. Could I still cover the topic of bulimia? Yeah, it's super relevant today and would probably draw a bigger crowd from the get go, but the thing is, I don't think I need this blog to be famous to be impressive. Yeah, I could cover bulimia, but I'm in recovery and I don't think I could do it justice at this point. I had that relapse last week that was on-and-off for about a month, but I don't think that counts (of course it does from a doctor-patient-y standpoint or whatever but not storywise) because altogether I'm doing pretty well right now. In regards to the eating disorder. I'm making good progress, and I feel that the most tumultuous period of my life concerning my mental state, where I could have given the best insights and captured some hearts, is ultimately over. Which isn't a bad thing at all. It just means that I have to find a new topic to write about and new things to document.
So I thought about it and thought about it and eventually came up with this. Being a teenager sucks, and when you grow up a 90s stereotype in the age of dubstep and internet porn, why wouldn't you want to write everything down. That being said, I do keep a journal, but that's more for really, really personal matters. I mean, I'm pretty much an open book, but like I said, once you put something on the internet it's there and anybody can see it. I don't need anyone prying into my purest thoughts and opinions. This is more for general stuff. And it's to hopefully help some people out there who feel the same way I do about certain things, and who may have some similar problems or something. The motive behind this may be to get an agent, but the real goal is to provoke and hopefully inspire.
You gasp!
"Another?! Where is this glorious first blog?!" you ask in excitement.
There is no fucking way I am sharing that with you. I ended up deleting it because I realized my mother had access to it, and while she hadn't known she had access to it, or even that it existed, I couldn't run the risk. It was super personal about my struggles with bulimia. It was really sad and when I look back on it I ache for that girl who felt so alone. I am a completely different person than I was when I was her age, and it just makes the hurt so much more pronounced. That girl still exists somewhere, and I feel like I just hid her away and have decided to ignore her for the sake of my well being and the well being of those around me. But she didn't have to be pushed away. And the fact that she's still there to me scares me a little because who knows she won't try to come back? The fact that she is so different but still very much a part of me scares me a great deal. I need therapy. That girl needs to become happy and morph into my personality or some hippy shit.
Anyway, back to the topic at hand:
My final point is that even though this is for work purposes, this is still the one and only Teen Angst Blog. I knew I wanted to do a blog, and I thought about what I could do. Could I still cover the topic of bulimia? Yeah, it's super relevant today and would probably draw a bigger crowd from the get go, but the thing is, I don't think I need this blog to be famous to be impressive. Yeah, I could cover bulimia, but I'm in recovery and I don't think I could do it justice at this point. I had that relapse last week that was on-and-off for about a month, but I don't think that counts (of course it does from a doctor-patient-y standpoint or whatever but not storywise) because altogether I'm doing pretty well right now. In regards to the eating disorder. I'm making good progress, and I feel that the most tumultuous period of my life concerning my mental state, where I could have given the best insights and captured some hearts, is ultimately over. Which isn't a bad thing at all. It just means that I have to find a new topic to write about and new things to document.
So I thought about it and thought about it and eventually came up with this. Being a teenager sucks, and when you grow up a 90s stereotype in the age of dubstep and internet porn, why wouldn't you want to write everything down. That being said, I do keep a journal, but that's more for really, really personal matters. I mean, I'm pretty much an open book, but like I said, once you put something on the internet it's there and anybody can see it. I don't need anyone prying into my purest thoughts and opinions. This is more for general stuff. And it's to hopefully help some people out there who feel the same way I do about certain things, and who may have some similar problems or something. The motive behind this may be to get an agent, but the real goal is to provoke and hopefully inspire.
dimanche 19 octobre 2014
Reverent Clairvoyance
Gerard Way came to Philly this weekend and I got to go to the show. He is pretty much my idol; I really look up to that baby-faced 37-year-old. But the thing is, I was more excited in the hours leading up to the show than I was when I was in that beloved pit being shoved around and waving my arms and grabbing the shirts of strangers so that I didn't fall down. (That wasn't sarcasm in the word "beloved" used in the prior sentence. I really do like that violent and powerful exhibition of anger and affection.)
Instead of being filled with that starstruck ecstasy that I was expecting when he took the stage, maybe about twenty minutes in I felt kind of disgusted. Not with Mr. Way, of course. He was absolutely radiant with his orange hair and super sweaty alienation suit. I was disgusted with myself. When I listen to his music, or anybody's music for that matter, I genuinely enjoy it. His music especially fills me with the most intense urge to create and write and bring something important into this world. Since the moment I first heard it, it's made me feel that way. But in that crowd it wasn't about the music for me, and I don't think I was the only one. When I was there in the crowd I was consumed by the need for any little fleck of his attention, so I could go home and say he made eye contact with me or that he pointed to me singing the lyrics or brought me onstage or something. I felt a very high level of disappointment in myself; I mentally threw myself under the bus. But a very strange change came over me.
I stopped smiling so much unless he was looking in my direction (because I didn't want him to think I wasn't enjoying the show or something). I didn't move so much. I didn't sing so much. As much as I could, I just watched him. I wanted to see if I could glimpse that something special, and I wanted to really send some mental rays of respect his way, because that guy is a true performer.
It was in that crowd that I really realized what I wanted to be, and what I wanted to do. I want to spend the rest of my life creating. I want to glance at some chick and catch her waves of reverence and clarify her dreams. There was always that nagging feeling of doubt I felt gnawing at my stomach whenever I told somebody that I want to be a musician when I grow up, it was a doubt that asked, "Can you really see yourself doing that forever? Is that really what you want? Will that really make you happy?" I got my answer on Friday night. I want what he has more than anything else in the world. I want to make music and provoke people and bring them hope and make them think beyond themselves.
Before I sign off I want to add one more thing: Mr. Way said something onstage that I will never forget. He made a pretty compelling little speech about the women's rights movement, which was really inspiring, but it's what he said about control that really made an impression on me. I can't quite recite it vebatim, but it was along the lines of this, "It's all about control; people who want it, people who take it, and people who give it away, and don't ever give control away for free." That stuck with me, and it will stick with me for a long time.
Instead of being filled with that starstruck ecstasy that I was expecting when he took the stage, maybe about twenty minutes in I felt kind of disgusted. Not with Mr. Way, of course. He was absolutely radiant with his orange hair and super sweaty alienation suit. I was disgusted with myself. When I listen to his music, or anybody's music for that matter, I genuinely enjoy it. His music especially fills me with the most intense urge to create and write and bring something important into this world. Since the moment I first heard it, it's made me feel that way. But in that crowd it wasn't about the music for me, and I don't think I was the only one. When I was there in the crowd I was consumed by the need for any little fleck of his attention, so I could go home and say he made eye contact with me or that he pointed to me singing the lyrics or brought me onstage or something. I felt a very high level of disappointment in myself; I mentally threw myself under the bus. But a very strange change came over me.
I stopped smiling so much unless he was looking in my direction (because I didn't want him to think I wasn't enjoying the show or something). I didn't move so much. I didn't sing so much. As much as I could, I just watched him. I wanted to see if I could glimpse that something special, and I wanted to really send some mental rays of respect his way, because that guy is a true performer.
It was in that crowd that I really realized what I wanted to be, and what I wanted to do. I want to spend the rest of my life creating. I want to glance at some chick and catch her waves of reverence and clarify her dreams. There was always that nagging feeling of doubt I felt gnawing at my stomach whenever I told somebody that I want to be a musician when I grow up, it was a doubt that asked, "Can you really see yourself doing that forever? Is that really what you want? Will that really make you happy?" I got my answer on Friday night. I want what he has more than anything else in the world. I want to make music and provoke people and bring them hope and make them think beyond themselves.
Before I sign off I want to add one more thing: Mr. Way said something onstage that I will never forget. He made a pretty compelling little speech about the women's rights movement, which was really inspiring, but it's what he said about control that really made an impression on me. I can't quite recite it vebatim, but it was along the lines of this, "It's all about control; people who want it, people who take it, and people who give it away, and don't ever give control away for free." That stuck with me, and it will stick with me for a long time.
lundi 13 octobre 2014
The Shower Has a Pulse
Our water pressure is fucked. I don't understand it, I'm not a plumber. But instinct and the fact that my mother has resorted to calling a plumber has me convinced that it is totally fucked. My brother called his senior citizen friend over to check it out.
It's the weirdest thing, I swear. The water literally courses through the pipes like some sort of heart is pumping it to each sink, toilet, and shower. And it causes a power surge that runs throughout the entire house. We're supposed to get it fixed soon, since the senior citizen friend gave us an estimate on how much money it would take.
Ugh, I really don't feel like writing today. I promised myself I'd write every day, though, so here it is. It doesn't have to be a novel...
I got so sick this morning, you would not believe. I was woken up by the worst pain in my abdominal region. I've gotten this before, and I think it's some sort of allergic reaction prompted by some kind of season certain restaurants use on their chicken. Well, I ended up pulling myself out of bed at 5:30 and since the upstairs hall bathroom was out of toilet paper and baby wipes, I made my way to the powder room. We don't need to go into great detail about this, but it came out both ends. I stayed home from school today and accomplished literally nothing in spite of how far behind I am in my three A.P. classes.
So, I'm going to wrap it up now... I'm tired. I just want to finish my episode of "American Dad" and, like, three more pages of my bio packet and maybe a couple chapters of Huck Finn. I'm supposed to be on chapter twenty but let's be real for a sec: I'm on chapter eight.
It's the weirdest thing, I swear. The water literally courses through the pipes like some sort of heart is pumping it to each sink, toilet, and shower. And it causes a power surge that runs throughout the entire house. We're supposed to get it fixed soon, since the senior citizen friend gave us an estimate on how much money it would take.
Ugh, I really don't feel like writing today. I promised myself I'd write every day, though, so here it is. It doesn't have to be a novel...
I got so sick this morning, you would not believe. I was woken up by the worst pain in my abdominal region. I've gotten this before, and I think it's some sort of allergic reaction prompted by some kind of season certain restaurants use on their chicken. Well, I ended up pulling myself out of bed at 5:30 and since the upstairs hall bathroom was out of toilet paper and baby wipes, I made my way to the powder room. We don't need to go into great detail about this, but it came out both ends. I stayed home from school today and accomplished literally nothing in spite of how far behind I am in my three A.P. classes.
So, I'm going to wrap it up now... I'm tired. I just want to finish my episode of "American Dad" and, like, three more pages of my bio packet and maybe a couple chapters of Huck Finn. I'm supposed to be on chapter twenty but let's be real for a sec: I'm on chapter eight.
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